The Project Gutenberg eBook of Mortal Summer

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Mortal Summer

Author: Mark Van Doren

Release date: March 10, 2021 [eBook #64783]

Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Tim Lindell, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MORTAL SUMMER ***

MORTAL SUMMER

MORTAL

SUMMER

by

Mark Van Doren

The Prairie Press

IOWA CITY

Copyright 1953 by Mark Van Doren

Printed in the United States of America

MORTAL SUMMER

I

THE CAVE they slept in, halfway down Olympus

On the eastern slope, toward Asia, whence the archangels

Even then were coming—even then

Bright Michael, and tall Gabriel, and the dark-faced

Raphael, healer of men’s wounds, were flying,

Flying toward the ship all ten would take—

The cave they slept in sparkled as their eyelids

Opened; burned as they rose and stood; hummed

And trembled as the seven, the beautiful gods

Gazed at each other, wonderful again.

The sweet sleep of centuries was over,

If only as in dream; if only a mortal

Summer woke them out of endless death.

The grey eyes of Athene, flashing slowly,

Demanded of Hermes more than he could tell.

“It was not I that roused you.” Hermes pondered,

Tightening his sandals. “All at once,

And equally, we woke. Apollo there—”

The musical man-slayer listened and frowned—

“And Ares, and foam-loving Aphrodite

Yawned at the very instant Artemis did,

With me, and swart Hephaestus.” The lame smith,

Stroking his leather apron, blinked at the others,

Worshipful of brilliance. Even in Ares,

Scowling, and more quietly in her

The huntress, whose green robe the animals knew,

He found it; and of course in Aphrodite,

Wife to him once, he found it, a relentless

Laughter filling her eyes and her gold limbs.

“It was not I,” said Hermes.

Thunder sounded,

Weakly and far away. And yet no distance

Wrapped it. It was here in the lit cavern:

Here, or nowhere. And the trembling seven

Turned to the rock that sealed a deeper room.

There Zeus, there Hera sat, the feasted prisoners

Of a still greater person, one who changed

The world while there they mourned, remembering Ida.

Some day they too would sleep, but now weak thunder

Witnessed their remnant glory; which appalled

As ever the proud seven, until Hermes

Listened and leaned, then spoke.

“It was the king

Our father. He has willed that we should wander,

Even as in a dream, and be the gods

Of strangers. Somewhere west of the ocean stream

He sends us, to a circle of small hills—

Come, for I see the place!”

That suffered thunder

Sounded again, agreeing; and they went.

Out of the cave they poured, into spring sun

Whose warmth they yet increased, for the falling light

Was less than theirs was, moving as they moved.

No soldier and no shepherd, climbing here,

Would have discovered deity. The brambles

Hid as they ever had this stony hole

Whence seven had been wakened, and where still,

Enormous in dark chains, their parents wept.

Invisible to suns, the seven gathered

Round a white rock and gazed. The sea was there,

The Aegean, and a ship without a sail

Plied southward, trailing smoke; at which Hephaestus

Squinted. Then he slapped his thigh and smiled,

And waved for six to follow as down world

He leapt.

They landed, all of them, as lightly

As a fair flock of gulls upon the prow

Of the tramp Jonathan B. Travis, bound

Tomorrow for Gibraltar, then northwest,

Northwest, both night and day, till the ocean stream

Was conquered. Not a god had ever gone there,

Not one of these high seven, in the old

Dark sail time. Now, invisible to waves,

To men and birds, they watched twelve grimy sailors

Washing their clothes on deck; and wondered still

At the two wakes behind them, foam and funnel.

But who were these arriving, these gaunt three

On giant wings that folded as they fell

And staggered, then stood upright? Even now

Michael had dropped among them, with his archangel

Brethren, bony Gabriel and lank Raphael.

From nearer Asia, lonely a long while,

They had come flying, sick of the desert silence,

Sick of the centuries through which no lord,

No king of the host, had blessed them with command.

As orphaned eagles, missing their ancient’s cry,

They had come hither, hopeful of these seven,

Hopeful of noble company, of new act.

Now on the prow they gathered, and no sailor

Saw them; but Apollo did, and Artemis—

Fingering their bows—as Hermes reared

On tiptoe, smiling welcome. Aphrodite,

Slipping to lee of Ares, feigned a fear

More beautiful than truth was; while Hephaestus,

Curious, near-sighted, fingered those wing-joints

Athene only studied where she stood.

“Whoever you are,” said Hermes, “and whatever—

Pardon this—you were, sail now as we do,

And be the gods of strangers far to west.

If only as in dream the vessel draws us,

Zeus our sire consenting. Your own sire—”

But the three stared so sadly over the waves

That Hermes paused, and beckoning to Gabriel

Whispered with him alone while dolphins played

As lambs do on dry land, and fishes scattered.

Alone to Hermes, while the dolphins heaved

Grey backs above green water, Gabriel murmured:

“Your sire. We had one too. And have Him still,

Though silent. It is listening for his thunder

That leans us. He is busy with new folk,

New, humble folk he speaks to in a low voice.

We have not learned that language—humble words,

With never death or danger in the message.

A star stood still above a stable once,

And a weak infant wept. And there He left us.”

“Our sire,” said Hermes, “—he too sleeps away

Our centuries. We have the selfsame fortune.

Sail westward with us then.” And Gabriel nodded.

The steel that sliced the water swung at length,

And in three days they nosed between the Pillars;

Past which—and the ten all shuddered—monsters once

Made chaos of the world’s end. But no fangs

Closed over the black prow, and mile on mile

Slid under them, familiar as a meadow

To the small men they watched amid the smoke.

Mile on mile, by hundreds and by thousands,

The Atlantic sloped away. Then lands and harbors,

And a deep whistle groaning.

“Now!” said Hermes,

“Now!” So nine to one they lifted wing,

Or no-wing like their leader, and went on,

High over chimneys and chill rivers, north

By west till it was there—the rounded valley,

Green with new spring, where cattle bawled in barns

And people, patient, waited for hot June.

II

Daniel was mending fence, for it was May,

And early rains had painted the drear pastures.

He walked, testing the wire, and wished again

For his old pipe. He missed it, and grew moody.

Berrien would never notice it on the shelf;

Berrien would never bring it. A good wife,

But scornful of the comforts. A good woman,

Who never guessed the outrage he had done her.

New Year’s Eve, and Dora. He remembered—

And set his jaw, missing the pipe stem there.

He pulled at a slack strand of the barbed wire,

And snagged himself—here, in the palm of his hand.

A little blood came which he wiped away.

He did miss that tobacco. And he did,

He did loathe simple Dora—warm and simple,

Who with her dark head nodding close to his,

On New Year’s Eve, had done with him this outrage.

He would forget her if he could; and old

Darius, her profane, her grizzled father.

So proud of her he was, and kept so neat

The mountain shack they lived in, he and his one

Sweet chick he swore was safe as in State’s prison.

Daniel counted the months. Was the child showing?

Darius—did he guess? And Doctor Smith—

Would she have gone to him? Daniel looked off,

Unmindful of the beautiful May morning.

Bruce Hanna, that poor boy. Was he suspicious?

He had been born for Dora, she for him;

And then last New Year’s Eve, when the sleigh bells rang

So slyly, writing ruin in cold air!

Daniel, wiping his hand again, looked back

At the wild barb that bit him.

Who was that?

For a quizzical, small stranger stood by the fence,

Feeling its rust, its toughness. He was swarthy

And lame, and had bright eyes. And in his hand

A pipe—for all the township Daniel’s own!

“Here, have you need of this? I’m on my way

Northeast awhile, repairing peoples’ ranges.

It gave itself to me, but you can have it.”

Then he was gone, unless he walked and waved—

For someone did—Daniel could not distinguish—

From the far border of the field. The small

Stranger was gone, and all that Daniel held

Was a filled pipe bowl, comforting his palm.

He must ask Berrien, he said at noon,

If a lame dwarf had come to mend the cook stove.

He must ask Berrien, who wouldn’t listen,

How a man’s pipe could vanish from its shelf.

For so it had, into his very pocket.

“Berrien!” he called. But she was busy

With her own bother.

“Daniel, a woman’s here—

Wants to stay and board all summer—wants

To rest. A theater woman. I’ve said no,

But maybe—”

Who was the gold one, listening there

And smiling? Looking over Berrien’s shoulder

And lighting the front room with little smiles?

A faded gold one, well beyond her prime,

But the true substance, glistening. Berrien frowned

And her head shook. But Daniel, fascinated,

Said he would think, would figure.

In the end

She stayed, the theater woman; and that night

Daniel had dreams of her. She came to his bed

In beauty; stood beside him and said “Dora.”

How could she know of Dora? It was a dream,

Yet how could she know so much? And how had she fathomed,

All in one day, the longing he denied?

There was no loathing. Anywhere in his heart—

That sweetened as he said it—there was no hate

For Dora, whom he thought he saw there too,

Standing beside the theater woman and weeping,

And holding her simple hands out so he could say:

“Tomorrow, little sweetheart half my years,

Tomorrow I will tell the world about us.

You must be mine to keep. I have been cruel;

I have been absent, darling, from your pain.

Tomorrow I will put my two arms round you,

And bear if I can the—pleasure.”

Then he woke,

And none but Berrien watched him in the room—

Berrien, who ever after watched him,

Night and day detesting this pale witch

Who came and went and charmed him.

So she thought,

Said Daniel, never answering her eyes.

For him there were no hours now save those dark ones

When the pair came. At midnight they would be there,

Faithful as moths; and every sunny morning,

Starting from his pillow, he would mutter:

“Tomorrow is today. Then I must go

To Dora, I must tell her.” Yet he waited

Always upon another secret midnight;

And witnessed every noon how the gold woman,

Smiling her light smile, seemed not to know

Of Dora; was no witch at all; was no one.

III

Meanwhile a little mountain house was murmurous

With his own name—evil, could he but hear it.

Darius had discovered his sweet daughter’s

Swelling, and had pressed her for the cause;

And yesterday, in terror, Dora yielded.

Now Bruce was there, with the old badger watching

How sick one word could make him. So it was spoken—

“Daniel.” And the kill was on.

A soldier,

Footing it home from Canada, stood by

With a gourd dipper, dripping as he drank.

He listened, lounging, and his bushy eyes

Burned at the accusation. When Bruce faltered—

And he did falter, for his hate of Daniel,

Less than the sore so sudden in his breast,

So hopeless, so beyond all thought of cure,

Was a weak thing at first—this brawny witness

Shone like a savior in the old one’s eyes,

The little old one, dancing in his fury

As he repeated “Daniel”; and made doubly

Sure that Dora’s corner room was bolted.

Afterwards, remembering how the knuckled

Soldier had spat curses on that name,

“Daniel,” and had spun a scheme for them—

Perfection, he declared it, of revenge—

Darius called him blessed. “You’d have failed me,

Bruce, you would have wobbled like a calf

And licked this devil’s hand, but for that sergeant.

Who sent him here, I wonder?”

“I don’t know,”

Said Bruce, his mind on Dora’s room. “Is she—”

“Yes, she’s in there. And stays there till we’ve finished.

When do we go and do it? Think of that—

Think only of that thing, my boy, that needful

Thing.” Darius nudged him, and they dropped

Their voices.

Dora, listening, heard little,

Crouched by her door. Bruce—he mustn’t do it.

Bruce—he was the only thing she wanted

In the poor world. A poor one too for Daniel;

But she shut out the thought. Bruce mustn’t do it,

Whatever it was. She beat on the thick wood

And cried to him; but only heard Darius

Coaxing him outdoors; then only silence.

“When shall it be, my boy? What dark of the moon

Does best for our good purpose—damn his bones!

Two shotguns—that’s enough—then home, then here—

That’s it, and neither knows of it next day.

We’ll even shed a hot tear, being told!

When do we do it, boy?”

But Bruce was slow:

Angry and sick, but slow. And once when Dora

Found him, deep in the woods between their cabins,

He almost lost his purpose as she held him,

Wetting his face with tears.

“Listen!” she whispered.

“I have been down to Doctor, and his new nurse

Knows—I can’t guess how—knows everything.

A beautiful, tall woman, and her friend

The teacher—she is like her. Colder, though,

With different, with grey eyes. The new nurse says—”

“What, Dora, what does she say?”

“Oh, no, I can’t—

I’ll never, never tell you.”

As she ran

He followed, farther into the still woods;

Then stopped as she did, startled. For those two—

It must be those two new ones, those tall women—

Pondered the carcass of a fawn, a spotted

Three-months fawn that dogs had torn at the throat.

It was the nurse that knelt, lifting brown eyes

In sorrow, scarcely knowing Dora there.

The other one bent down to her.

“Stand up.

They both are here. The boy, too.”

Level voiced,

The teacher touched her friend’s hair.

“Stand up, stand up.

The fawn is dead. These others—”

“Yes, I know.

I heard, I saw them. But consider death.

Consider this young death awhile, and say—

But softly—of what it is the paradigm.

Do not disdain one death, one single death;

And when we can, prevent.”

The grey eyes cooled,

Consenting. So the sorrowful one arose.

“Come here,” she said to Dora, and to Bruce

Behind her. “We were walking in the woods,

My visitor and I; we saw this sight.”

But Bruce and Dora stared at only her,

So beautiful, so tall, and at the other

Strange one by her side.

“We had been talking,

Children, of you two. No matter if Daniel

Loves you, little girl of the dark eyes—”

“He doesn’t!” Dora shuddered. “If he could,

He’d have it that I never lived on earth.

He hates it, having to remember me.

And that’s all right. I want it so. But Bruce—”

“Will be, my dear, the father of your—listen,

Listen! You start away.”

For both had broken

Breath, as if with running, and only the hands

Of the grey-eyed, the firm one, held them there.

“I mean,” and the tall beautiful one blinked,

Twitching the green selvage of her skirt,

“The foster father. He is young for that;

Yet he is to be, my child, the chosen one

Who saves you, and saves it—the life you carry.

Your husband. Nothing less. And not in dream.”

Bruce turned his head in fear that old Darius

Listened—was it he among the hemlocks,

Stepping so lightly?

But the foliage opened

For a fair, smiling face, and the broad shoulders,

Burdened with straps, of one who tramped these hills

By summer, following signs. A brilliance round him,

Caused by no sun, for none came through the branches,

Struck silence from all four; until the nurse,

Nodding as if she knew him, said: “Due north,

Pilgrim, is there. Your compass—have you lost it?

Well, north is that way”—pointing—“but stand here

In patience for some seconds; then we two

Will guide you back to town for better bearing.

Can you be patient?”

“Thank you, yes.” The giant

Smiled at her once again.

“You see, my small one,

Bruce there by your side would break and run,

Fearing his sweet fate. He even wonders

Whether some partner, deep in another plan,

Listens and chides him.”

Staring, the boy blushed.

Then, fearful, he looked up and met her eyes,

The nurse’s distant eyes, that fixed him gently.

“My friend here—she will tell you more than I can

Of the black folly born of feud. Attend her.”

But the still teacher only parted wide

Her capable cool lids, and let him see

Agreement flash between them.

“Someone’s death”—

She forced the words at last—“is cheap to buy.

A minute of man’s time, and breathing stops.

The cost is in the echo; for to cease

Makes sound. So you will hear it coming home,

The rumor of that death. My friend is right.

Marry the maiden.”

But the words came strangely,

Out of some older earth, and even she

The speaker knew their failure; for she frowned.

Bruce turned his head again, fearing the hemlock

Heard. Yet no one listened there; no fourth one

Followed this lofty fellow who in patience

Folded his arms and smiled—as if he too

Had knowledge, and agreed with the grey eyes.

As Dora did, said Bruce. And yet Darius—

He paled at the grim image, and remembered,

Suddenly, that soldier; whose disgust

If the dear purpose foundered was itself

A death, along with Dora’s yesterday.

Daniel. Who but Daniel was the father

Of a whole world’s confusion?

And his anger,

Running before him, took him from this place,

This glade where three, left thoughtful, were as figures

Molded of shadow. Dora was gone with Bruce,

Gasping and crying “Wait!”

But the three tall ones

Listened to nothing human. Hermes came.

IV

Hermes came, and hailing his three peers,

Spoke Aphrodite’s name; whose beautiful laughter

Answered as she glistened in their midst—

No woman now, but goddess. So Hephaestus

Hove into their view, and all of the others,

Manifest together. This was where,

In tulip and oak shade, they pleased to meet,

To sit sometimes and say how the world went,

Mortal and immortal.

“You of the golden

Shoulders,” Hermes said, “bring dreams to one

Who lived in peace without them.”

“Lived in hate,

In loathing of those very limbs he fondled—

Poor, poor limbs, so lonely!” And her insolent

Laughter shook the listening green leaves.

“Yet he would have forgotten, and his only

Danger been from Ares”—who was there,

Swelling his thick chest, as Hermes spoke—

“From the two minions, old and young, of Ares.

Such danger can dissolve, for it is wind

And fury; but the damage that you do,

Arrogant bright daughter of the dolphins,

Is endless as waves are, or serpent segments

The impotent keen knife divides. Have mercy,

Goddess.” And he waited. But her lips,

Unmoving, only teased him; and tormented

Artemis.

“The man was free of longing,

And the dark maid of him,” the huntress said,

“Till this one wantoned, wooing him with dreams.

Then Ares—common soldier—fanned the fire

In those you call his minions.” Hermes nodded.

“And so our plan’s perplexed before it ripens.

Athene, Michael—tell them how we stood,

Just here, and heard the boy refuse his function.”

But it was known among them even then,

And so no witness needed. Aphrodite,

Secure in beauty’s pride, tilted her head

To hear, intending mockery of the tale.

But the wise one withheld it, and majestic

Michael only folded his broad wings

As Gabriel did, as Raphael.

Yet that last one,

Mournful of face and long, had ears for Artemis,

Nurse to all things aborning, as she mused:

“The young one when he comes—in what men call

The fall of their brief year—the roofless infant—

It was for him we planned. And still we do—”

She dared the glittering goddess—“still we seek

Safe birth for the small mother, and for him

The wailing, the unwanted.”

Crooked Hephaestus,

Clearing his mild throat, remarked in modesty:

“The man works well and silently. He loves,

In solitude, the comfort of my fire.

And so in a bowl I brought it. As for her—

He will not have her near him. I was by;

I read his thoughts of this.”

“Absurd contriver!

Artisan of the bellows! Zeus’s butt!

As ever, you know nothing.” Aphrodite

Sparkled with rage, reviling him. “You saw

By daylight, and at labor in the field

One whom that very night I made my slave.

Off to your anvil, ass!”

But Hermes calmed

Their quarrel, lifting his either hand in grace.

“Without our father’s thunder we are fools

And children. Who decides when lesser gods,

When angels disagree? Authority absent,

Silence—a silver silence—that is best.”

And like a song they heard it, and they wondered,

Measuring its notes. Until Apollo,

Lord of the muses, laughed.

“You heard me humming.

All to myself I sang it—with sealed lips.”

“What did you sing?” said Hermes.

“Nothing, nothing.

My sisters round the world—a sweet wind brought me,

Sleepily, this air.”

He hummed again,

And this time closed his eyes. “Perhaps I see,”

He said, “some silver moment coming soon—

Necessity for music. But not now.”

Nor could those other nine foresee the summer.

Already, in mid June, high long days

Hovered the world, and change, like ripening fruit,

Hung ever, ever plainer. Yet no man,

No god distinguished more in this green time

Than purposes that crossed; and ever tighter.

In Daniel’s house the woman who was resting—

Daily, in scorn, Berrien spoke the word—

Still did not spare the beautiful dream body

She sent to him by dark, when Dora too

Lived by his side and loved him: standing there

In the shed radiance of one who smiled

And smiled, and burned his reticence away.

For he would go to Dora—come July,

Said Daniel, lying afterwards and listening

As night died between him and the windows,

He would go there, he would, and say it all;

He would have Dora, small in his long arms,

Forever. Yet the sweetness of this thought

Exhausted him, and hollowed his wild eyes,

So that he never went.

And had he gone,

What Dora would have seen him come and shivered?

One whom as strong a dream—if it was a dream—

Estranged. It was of having, yet not having,

Bruce for her brave husband. For he mustn’t—

He mustn’t, she said nightly, shutting away

The vision—Bruce must never let it be.

The nurse—he mustn’t listen. Yet if he did—

And then she wept.

Darius in the morning,

Seeing her tears, thought only of his purpose.

He should conceal it better. She was afraid,

Was frantic, she might go somewhere and tell.

That boy—he was so hard to keep in anger.

He faltered, and he wilted; he was a fool.

That boy, the center of confusion’s cross,

For still he hated Daniel, still with Darius

Plotted the loud death; yet loved all day,

All night the dream of lying in clear peace

Forever, in dear confidence, with Dora;

That boy was whom the strangers in this valley

Watched while the moments went; while June decayed;

While middle summer dozed; and no leaves fell.

V

A hundred people coming to the barn dance,

The barn dance at MacPherson’s, saw the full moon.

It hung there like a lantern in the low east,

Enormous and blood red, and stationary.

Daniel came, and Berrien, with that woman—

So fair, she seemed unnatural—between them.

She must have made them bring her, someone said;

And laughed.

But no one laughed when Dora came.

She was so pitiful in her loose coat,

Concealing, healing nothing. Would she dance?

If only with Bruce Hanna, would she dance?

Too late for it, some whispered; and some blamed

The silly boy. To let her show like that!

The nurse, the doctor’s nurse, and her tall friend

The teacher—no one dreamed those two, those two—

They stood by their grand selves, and no one saw

How Bruce, how Dora lived but in their glances.

Then all the strangers. When the music started,

Who but a giant—handsome, with tow hair—

Bowed to the grand ones? And to more

Beyond them? For a pair of unknown farmers,

Lanky and cave-eyed, leaned bony shoulders

Where a great upright shaded the rude floor.

From the next valley, maybe, like this lame

Pedlar; like the soldier; like that lightfoot

Traveller, the one with pointed ears,

The one with cropped hair and a twisted staff,

Who wandered in the crowd, watching and watched.

The shepherd of the strangers? Yet no word

Between them, and no look, Darius said—

Darius, who had eyes for everything;

And ears, when music started.

“One more couple!

One more couple!” Glendy the clear-caller

Shouted while harmonicas, like locusts,

Shrilled, and while Young Gus tuned his guitar.

“One more couple!”

Here they came.

“Join hands

And circle left!”

Darius heard the words

Above him, in the corner where by Glendy

And the harmonicas he tapped the floor.

His was the curious, the musicians’ corner,

Whence he could see how Dora sat and trembled,

Wondering what next—why she was here.

“The dog!” he growled, catching on Daniel’s face,

In a far corner, hunger and indifference

Fighting. Hunger—damn him—for my child,

My child, Darius said, whom he has changed;

And smothering this, the smoke of a pretence

That nothing here was wrong, nothing at all.

The soldier had come back. Darius saw him.

Red-eyed, drinking water by a droplight,

And his own conscience hurt him. Daniel lived.

If Bruce could only raise his eyes a little—

But they were hangdog, or were fixed in fear

On those two stranger women. Why in fear?

The music, though.

“Swing your corner lady!”

Darius, rocking gently on his heels,

Was lost again in that, and in the wild

Mouth organs, going mournful overhead.

“First two gents cross over!” In his thought

He crossed; he took that partner by the hand;

He swung her, swung her, swung her, you know where.

He promenaded, proudly, and he clapped

His palms, that sweated bravely. Then the swinging

Ceased. The set was over. And he sang:

“Good boy, Gus! That was calling, old man Glendy!”

They winked at him, wiping their foreheads off;

Then soon another set. And still he listened

And watched, and still he saw how Dora sat,

Trembling, and never danced.

But once the soldier,

Slouching to her side, made mockery signs

Suggesting that she stand. Darius started

In anger; then he stopped, for Bruce was up,

Explaining—yet avoiding the brute stare;

And Daniel, in his corner, clenched both fists.

Even the strangers knew, for one came over—

The one with such a neat head on his body,

And the curled stick—as if to beat away

Wild boars escaped here. That was good, was good,

Darius said; then listened as the music

Whispered again.

Whispered.

For the tune

Had altered. Where was Glendy? Who was this

Where Glendy had been standing? And what ailed,

What softened so the clamor of the mouth harps?

“One more couple!”

Who was the intruder,

Calling in so sweet, so low a voice,

Strange orders? Yet not strange; for the hot crowd,

Heedless of any difference, swirled on,

Loving its evolutions, and no head

Turned hither.

“Take your Dora by the hand—”

Darius, looking up, saw how the silver

Light of the full moon, mature at zenith,

Fell on the singer. Through one gable window

It fell, and on no head but his, the silvery

Singer. He was slender, he was strange;

And the high moon—it burned for none but him.

“Where’s Glendy, Gus?”

“Took sick.”

The loud guitar,

Hesitating, rallied and persevered;

But modified its note to a new sweetness,

A low, a far-off sweetness, as Gus looked,

Listened, and looked again at the mysterious

Caller on whose mouth the full moon smiled.

Take your Dora by the hand,

Your little Dora, grown so large.

By another she was manned,

But she is now your loving charge.

Mercy marries you, my boy,

And mercy—oh, it is unjust.

But it was born of truth and joy,

And lives with misery if it must.

Darius, and then Daniel, comprehending,

Stared at a hundred dancers who did not.

Heedless of any change, they stamped and swung,

Those hundred, as if Glendy still were here—

Old Glendy, whose thin throat still mastered them.

Yet Daniel saw how Dora, dropping her eyes,

Sat silent, deathly silent; and how Bruce,

Guardian to her, looked only down—

Looked everywhere save at the singer, singing:

Take your Dora by the hand.

There is life within her waist.

And there is woe, unless you stand

And love with bravery is graced.

So all the world will know her wed,

And all the people call it yours—

The life within her, small and red;

And wrathful, were it none but hers.

With you beside her all is well.

She will be tended in her time.

There is more that I could tell,

But Glendy now resumes the rhyme.

“Circle four!”

Darius, and then Daniel,

Dazed, regarded Glendy once again.

The moonlit one was gone, and only these

Had seen him—these and Dora, and dumb Bruce.

And all of the nine strangers. For they too

Had listened; bending their bodies, they had weighed,

Had witnessed every word as it arrived;

Had watched the boy’s confusion; then the girl’s;

Then both together, as if woe had wed

Already the poor lovers.

“Nelly Gray!”

The hundred dancers, heedless, went right on;

And only Berrien’s boarder, the gold woman

Who stood so close by Daniel—only that one

Kindled. Then she blazed, and Daniel, blushing,

Knew she had found his thought.

So I have lost her—

This was his thought—have lost her. Then my love

Must die, and no man know it. He was true,

That singer. It is not my life she carries—

Dora, who was mine for that cold minute;

Dora, whom I never can forget.

The eyes of the theater woman burned so fiercely,

Punishing his own, that Daniel shook.

How could she guess his trouble? Only in dreams

She knew it, only in dreams, when Dora came.

Only in darkness. “Now she disapproves,

She probes me.”

But the woman looked away,

Suddenly, and signalled to the soldier;

Who, nodding, went to stand before Darius.

Daniel saw him there, gesticulating,

With his feet spread, as if he meant to spring,

To throttle someone. And Darius blinked.

But music and the distance drowned their words.

And now the tall nurse, bending over Dora,

Whispered to her and Bruce; and the boy, rising,

Reached for a small hand. The singer had said

To take it, and he took it, and pulled up

The girl who still was trying to be free,

To save him.

And the music never stopped.

“Kiss her if you dare!” cried old man Glendy.

And many a dancer did. But neither Bruce

Nor Dora, arm in arm, had present ears.

They listened still to what the other singer,

Gone now as the moon was from the window,

Sang and sang again, as if his silvery

Face never had faded. Arm in arm

They walked among the dancers to the big door;

Arm in arm, sleepwalking, they went forth,

Under the slant moon, and disappeared.

VI

Some whispers, like the wake of blowing leaves

When a swift body passes west, pursued them.

But Daniel never stirred.

Nor old Darius—

Neither did he listen as the sergeant

Swore, swelling the wrath in his red eyes

Till most of him was fire. “Follow him home,

The fool. He is forgetting it—the purpose.

Tear him free. He softens in her arms

To the sick sound of ‘Father.’”

But Darius,

Lost in the same sound, was thinking softly:

“I had not dreamed of this. She will be friended,

She will not go alone. He is a good boy,

Bruce. I never coupled her with him.

It may be in the cards.” Whereat the soldier

Left him, spitting disgust.

And Daniel saw

How all of the fair strangers followed soon—

All of them, as if they were a company.

They wouldn’t be, of course. And yet they smiled

In the same grave degree, as if some secret

Bound them.

And he thought the dapper one,

Who tapped the sanded floor and twirled his stick,

His curlicue of a cane—whatever it was—

Communicated thus to the gold woman

That she too must away. But she was Daniel’s,

Berrien’s; she was not of any company,

Wandering, like this one. She had come

Alone to them, in May, and she would go—

Would go, said Daniel, taking her dream body,

Her beautiful dream body, that was his,

Was his alone.

And suddenly his sadness

Doubled. For the singer had left living

None of his sweet hope. Dora was gone,

A ghost in outer moonlight, a surrendered

Sweetness, and he stood there like a dead man,

A noble dead man, numbering his loss.

Now, multiplied, it smote him. This one too—

In fall—he would be losing this one too,

In fall. Or even here, while he stood looking,

Here, with that lithe one calling from the door.

For there he was, the last one to go through,

And Daniel thought the signal came again:

An elbow’s twitch, a twirl of his live staff,

His vine that had the strength to stand alone.

But she had arms and eyes for only Daniel,

Worshiping her now. She seemed as near,

He whispered to himself, as lamplight must,

At midnight, to poor moths. And yet no brush

Of fingers, such as Berrien might have frowned on.

Simply her brilliance chained him, simply her arms,

Her eyes, took hold of everything in him

And hurt it.

“So you let her go,” she said.

“You shadow of a man, you let her go.

Those limbs of hers, so beautiful in light,

In darkness, and the breast you could have bruised,

Crushing it with yours—and yet you would not,

For it is white, is small, and precious to you—

Derelict! Oh, shameful! What a shadow

Falls on you for lover—disobedient

Lover of that girl whom still you crave!”

Did her lips part? Was any of it spoken?

Berrien still watched the weary dancers

Like one whom nothing moved. Then whence the words?

And why? For the gold woman’s only knowledge

Was a dream knowledge, drawn to him by night

When her own body slept in her own bed.

How could she understand? And what untruth

Was working in her, making these sweet sounds?

Their honey was more false for being heard

By him, by only him. That other singer—

He had been true. And troubling. But his song

Was never to be lost now. Dora was,

Forever. And he said it must be so.

The woman, though. Her arms. And now her eyes,

Beating upon him, beautiful, imperious,

Not to be contradicted. And her lips.

Lest the unparted lips again deliver

What was so loud, so terrible—though heard

By him, by only him—he spoke of home.

Berrien—wasn’t she tired? And Berrien was.

So with no words they went.

Some dancers saw them,

Picking their way, and winked at one another;

Daniel, with that artificial woman;

Berrien, with her boarder. What a household!

None of them looked happy. Three old-fashioned

People going home. The actress, too—

An old, old timer, powdered up to kill,

And painted. You could see it—Indian summer

Everywhere. Yet once a pretty world.

They could not see how beautiful she was.

Only for Daniel was she beautiful,

And for those others, strangers here with her,

Who from the border of MacPherson’s grove,

In their own forms, were watching.

Hermes leaned

Like none but Hermes, graceful as the grass,

On a slim sapling, serpent-shaped, and said:

“She flaunts us. Aphrodite is not Ares,

She is not schooled in victory and defeat,

She is not skilful at surrender—save

The lover’s kind. See? She is bent on that.

She will not let him go, the farmer there,

While any of her poison works in him.

Ares, what if some of your new wisdom—

You could persuade her, Ares.”

But the sullen

Soldier still was sullen, though a god;

He would not lift his face as Aphrodite,

Smiling at them, catlike, kept her way

With Daniel down the road.

“Apollo’s song,”

Said Hermes, “—it was all we needed then.”

He nodded, and the bright musician bowed.

“It was a potent song. The tough old man,

The tender young, the farmer in his heart—

All four of them were changed. But now you see—”

He pointed, and they looked where Aphrodite,

Dimming with her companions down the highway,

Walked as a mortal would; though still they knew

The goddess by a smile that lingered somewhere,

Mingling as the moon did with the tops

Of trees, and scenting midnight with its malice.

Artemis, more angry than the rest,

More like the moon, declining now so clear,

So cold, beyond the body of this grove,

Remembered the dead fawn. “So with that child,”

She brooded. “If the farmer man confesses,

Nothing but grief will grow where you and I—”

She took Athene’s hand—“have wisely tilled

And planted. Never then will the boy serve,

With loving care, my cause—the cause of the world,

Of the newborn things whose nurture saves the world.

The farmer would have let the maiden go—

Sadly, yet Apollo made it sure.

Or so we said who listened. Yet that one,

That laughing one, pursues him now and sings,

And sings—oh, what low song, what tale of the flesh,

What burden that may topple his intention?

Hephaestus, our contriver, you could seal

His ears, his sleeping eyelids, if you would;

Even tonight you could.”

Hephaestus, pacing

Oddly the smooth floor, rested his leg,

The shortened leg Zeus long ago had crippled.

“The farmer—he works well, and loves the fire

I gave him. Let him be.”

But none of them saw

His meaning, if he had one. He was lame

And foolish, and he muttered as he walked,

And turned and walked again, counting the steps

Between two oaks that limited his way.

The great angels watched him with their wings

Folded. Standing deeper in the shade,

They waited with the others while the moon

Sloped to its rest, the music having wearied

And stopped, and all the dancers wandered home.

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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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.

VIII

It came, the time of Dora, when no man,

No man of all her three, was home for messenger.

Darius snored in his own house—a ball

Of skin beneath the bedclothes—and the night

Was early yet for Bruce, who with his father

Tramped the low road from Brownlee’s where they worked,

And working, thought of Dora—all day long

Of Dora’s time, next week or the week after.

But it was now, and none of all the three men

Home to be her messenger! The doctor—

How could he be told the time had come

For pain, for crying out? Then Bruce’s mother,

Moaning, was so helpless at the door,

Calling, calling, calling: “Bruce, where are you?

Go and get the doctor! Hurry, boy!”

But Bruce was on the low road, and the only

Ears that heard were scattered up the sky.

Artemis, on top of Silver Mountain,

Heard; and woke Athene; and the others,

Knowing it was time, went with them both

Like falling stars—all of them, like stars,

To drop and stand in darkness by the door

While Bruce’s mother, moaning, called and called:

“Where are you, boy? Hurry! Get the doctor!”

And still another heard. But Aphrodite,

Listening while Daniel sat, could smile

And wait; could think and wait. It was the time

For punishing this man who in his dreams

Refused her. She could wait and let it work—

The punishment she planned.

For she had looked

Last night along the valley, and seen coming,

Hapless on the highway, two small wanderers,

And said: They shall be mine.

She heard the moaning

Cease, and knew that Artemis was there.

The nurse was there, and Dora would be crying

Softly: “Save me, save me! Send for him!”

So Aphrodite, gathering her sly strength,

Waited no longer.

Where were those poor wanderers—

That pair? But she had seen them, and she knew.

She saw them even now at the abandoned

Chapel down the old road, trying doors

And windows, and forlornly turning in

Where nothing was but darkness; and in darkness,

Nothing but cobwebs.

Smiling a last smile,

Vindictive, at the sitter, she uprose

And scented the whole night, the outer night

Of fields and barns and houses, as she flew

And flew, tinting earth with a false dawn

As in her brilliant singleness she flew

And flew to be the first where Hermes came.

For even now the tall nurse—goddess again

In the dooryard where they clustered—told her peers:

“The time! It is the time! Go, two of you—

Hermes, shall it be? With Gabriel?—

And bring him here, the man of herbs she cries for.

I could do all alone, for I am skilful,

I am the green deliveress. Yet go—

Gabriel, with Hermes—while I soothe

And ready her. The horses that he drives—

You hear them now, drawing the tired one home.

But have no pity. Hurry and intercept him.

Say it is the nurse—say anything—

But bring him here, the mortal man of herbs,

Between you lest she die.”

The feet of Hermes

Glistened as the staff in his right hand

Touched Gabriel on the nearer wing; then lightly

Touched him again. And so the pair departed.

Before the goddess turned they were a rustle

In the far woods; and Artemis went in

Where Dora lay.

“The doctor—he is sent for.

Child! What are you staring at?” For Dora

Shuddered, and alternately her eyes

Opened and closed in terror, as at brightness

Impossible, brought near. But then she smiled.

“It was my own mistake—the way I am.

You were so different. You shone in the door

Like candles, you were like a statue lady—

Different from us. I didn’t know you.

Now I do, though.”

She permitted hands

To smooth, to cool her as she lay in fever,

And as the pain returned; while Artemis

Looked gravely, out of eyes she kept in shadow,

At the small face whereon the truth had fallen;

Looked, and wondered fearfully. Had Hermes,

Had Gabriel heard the horses? Found the man?

But Aphrodite was there first—an ancient

Gypsy, rising out of the dim road

And shrilling between wheels:

“Doctor, Doctor!

Come to the dead church—the one they don’t

Sing songs in any more. A poverty fellow

And his sick queen—not my people, but I pity,

Pity them—they lie in the carriage shed.

Or she does, the queen. In all the world

No friend, and both afraid. They have walked miles

From nowhere, and no house would take them in.

She whimpers with the young thing in her belly,

The babe she has to bear. Come with me, Doctor,

And help her. Be the one man in the world

To help her.”

“Who are you?” His glasses peered

Through the poor light the buggy lamp cast down.

“Romany.”

“And what’s this? You mean the church—”

“The old one.”

“Even mice won’t go near that.

Mischief—you mean mischief. Out of the way,

Granny!”

But she seized the reins and said:

“Good doctor! Be the one man in the world—”

And why it was he knew not, but he went

Where she did, down the sod road toward that moldy

Building where no hymnsong had been heard

Since war days, and where beggars—did she lie?—

Might be or not be.

So when Hermes came,

And Gabriel, there was silence on the highway—

Soft as they listened, never the good sound

Of hooves, of whirring felloes.

Long they looked

And listened; then were back in Bruce’s dooryard,

Signalling their presence; so that Artemis,

Stooping at the window, saw them desolate,

And knew herself defeated.

“Aphrodite!”

She only thought the word, but Dora stared

And begged of her: “Has someone—has he come?

The doctor? Bruce? Where’s Bruce?”

“Be patient, dear.

In time, in time. The doctor was not found.

But there is time, and I myself have medicines—

You trust me?”

Dora nodded.

“Then I’ll go, child,

For certain things—for such help as I need.

Be patient a few minutes. She is here.”

For Bruce’s mother, torturing her hands

As if they were another’s on the rack,

Stood by them, bent and weeping.

All were there

When Artemis, the doorlight shut behind her,

Shouted. Even Aphrodite smiled

And innocently listened, fair as ever

In the fine light that clothed her—no more gypsy,

And no more theater woman. Even Ares—

All of them were there, with lame Hephaestus

Filling his low place among the pear trees,

When the green goddess called.

“Her breath is going.

Enemy of all”—to Aphrodite—

“I shall waste none on you. I only say,

The girl inside is going. Which of you

Can help me, and help her? The middle angel—

Second of you three—immense of wing—

Raphael—have you knowledge?”

There was mournful

Music in the answer.

“I have mended,

Green one, all the wounds made here on earth—

Or there—by deed of angels. In the old days

They fell—not such as we are—and their fall,

As of dark stars that burned, corrupted the sons,

The daughters of frail man. If this is such—”

“It is. Come in with me, shrunk to the likeness

Of a lean passing farmer. I have herbs

And needles. You have strength, and a strange art.

Between us—but come quickly!”

And Darius

Snored in his own house. And Daniel sat

Late by a brass lamp, reading.

And the doctor,

Bending to ask the name of the new mother,

Heard “Mary.”

By the half light of a low

Fire she lay on straw and let her weak hand

Wander.

“But my husband—he is Joe.

There was no work for him. So we went on.

Thank you, Doctor.”

“Quiet. No more talking.”

And Bruce’s father, panting on the low road,

Wondered why his son would never rest.

IX

The risen sun, sparkling upon their bridles,

Hastened the roan horses; and brought Bruce—

Brought even the stiff doctor—beams of hope,

Of something like belief; though Bruce remembered,

And groaned as he remembered, how the nurse,

Weeping, had looked afraid when he came home;

How she and the dark man she had for helper,

Bending above the sufferer, grew sad,

Grew guilty as he came, hearing with him

His little mother’s whimpers, and the cry—

Sudden, as if death were in the room—

Of Dora when she saw him. And his father’s

Feebleness—now he remembered that,

And groaned.

“But couldn’t the nurse—for she was there—

Wouldn’t the nurse have known?”

“I tell you, boy,

I have no nurse. Something is stranger here—

Giddup!—than God is ever going to tell me.

Nurse? There was no such.”

And the horses galloped,

Jingling their bright bridles, till the dooryard

Darkened them, and Bruce’s mother stumbled,

Her apron at her face, among the plum trees.

“I am alone,” she cried, “except for him—”

She pointed where her husband, on a stone

As grey as he was, sat and held his forehead—

“We are alone now, my boy. Too late,

Doctor. Even the nurse is gone. The child,

The dear child, is dead. They both are dead—

Dora, and the other one that never,

Never, never breathed.”

She clutched at Bruce,

Feeling the doctor brush them as he passed,

Then feeling not at all. She only nodded,

Nodded, as her son repeated: “Dead—

Dora, she is dead.” And bore her in,

A limp superfluous bundle.

“Oh, my boy!”—

Perceptibly her white lips lived again—

“Beautiful! One thing about her going,

Oh, my boy, was beautiful. She saw—

Or thought she saw—ten angels in the room.

She counted them. But only three had wings.

She counted the big wings. And said the nurse

Was queen above all others.”

“Nurse? What nurse?”

The doctor in the doorway shook his head,

Frowning, as if to free it from the cobweb

Sound of that false word. “There was no such—”

But the small mother never would believe—

He knew it—and Bruce never would believe.

Who had this tall impostor woman been?

And why? And who the other one? Bruce had said:

“A teacher, too—her friend.” There was no such—

The doctor shook his head. Shame on those bunglers—

Butcherers of girls—who with their knotted

Grass roots and their needles—natural thorns—

Had poisoned the sweet blood, the delicate place.

Where were they, vagrants, now? Could any law

Catch up with their coarse hands, and cleanse the world

Of meddlers on the march? For they were somewhere

Still, the doctor knew; and looked at Bruce

Bent dumbly over Dora. In good time

The boy would feel. He was so quiet now—

An animal, playing dead.

Then Daniel stood there—

Daniel, with Darius at his heels:

An old hound whom giant grief had gentled.

Yet he could move, and did, to where no daughter

Welcomed his hard hand; which nevertheless

Hovered and touched her—touched her, so that tears

Followed, and streamed his face.

“I brought him here,”

Said Daniel. “I was told of it by one—

By two—but they are gone. They do not matter.

Both of them are gone. They said they knew—

My lodgers—then they went. But that’s no matter.

I told her father, and he came with me.

Look at him now. And her. We are not enemies.

Who is my enemy?”

“I was,” said Bruce.

“You were. And I was Dora’s. What I did—”

“You did. But never tell it. As my friend

In sorrow, never say it. There are ears—”

He went to where his mother, staring up,

Saw none but that dear face.

Then Daniel’s stillness

Reigned in the room.

Even the doctor, going,

Went as a thought does, thinly; but his mind

Was more with Mary and her living child,

In the lost church, than here.

A living child.

He must go back to that small son; must listen

To the soft mother’s voice. Why had he stopped her?

“Quiet. No more talking.” Was even then

This mystery in his head, this hazy mirror

Of a much older birth? Who was it? When?

What torment not to remember. Just like this,

Yet where? He drove and thought; and was the image

Of a whole people, impotent to see now

The one god it had.

So three old friends,

By death remade, stood looking down at Dora.

X

Already, in this moment before silver

Morning, ten were on their way to sea.

Already, over mountains and rock rivers—

Tawny with high autumn, yet no sun

Uprisen had revealed it—Hermes sped

And spoke not. At the center of his band,

Encircled, he was thoughtful as he flew

And flew to where a smoking funnel waited,

By a smooth prow whereon the ten would ride,

Would ride the waste Atlantic.

“They were small,

These people, they were pitiful and small,”

Said Hermes, half aloud. “Yet not unworthy,

Nobles, of our regard.”

“They did not guess,”

Said Artemis, “how small.”

“They could not measure,”

Flashed the grey eyes of swift Athene, flying,

“Difference. They were lonely. They had nothing

Past them to compare. They do not move,

These persons, among greater persons still.

The knowledge of the difference is all.

Mortals with art to measure it are never

Pitiful.”

“I thought,” mused Aphrodite,

Beautiful by night as her own star,

Her morning’s mirror, up now in the east,

“I thought I met a presence in that musty

Stable. Felt a power. Yet all so quiet—

Not even the black beetles crept away.

Queer, if it was a god—their only god,

And none of the fools knew.”

“It was your own

Mind’s darkness,” Ares muttered; and Hephaestus

Laughed—at Aphrodite he could laugh,

Now that his limbs were free.

“Was there a song?

Even a musty music? Where a god is,

Surely the air will sound.” Apollo hummed,

Remembering the barn dance and the moon.

“Did you hear anything to prove a presence?”

Artemis, her green robe gilded suddenly

By the first beams of sun, was angry still.

“She heard but her own hatefulness, that plotted

Death.”

“I left the living in your hands—

Yours, and the mighty angel’s. If you erred,

Darling of fawns and virgins, I regret,

As you must, any faltering of skill.”

“Regret!” The speed of Artemis redoubled

As fury filled her. “Lying, laughing word!

You poison the whole dawn with it, as then

You poisoned—for I know you did—the thorns,

The rare leaves I used.”

But Hermes cried:

“Peace, peace between you, daughters! What is done

Is done. There the ship rides that we take—

As one we take it, homing to those lands

Where sleep is our best portion. Only sleep.”

He sighed, and the archangels echoed him:

Those three whose sire, unknown to them last night,

Had dreamed again—a star above a stable.

“Not even sleep,” said Michael. “No, not even

Sleep,” droned weary Gabriel. But Raphael’s

Sadness was for Artemis to see,

And seeing, to have pity on, that no word

Henceforth could express.

For now the ship

Whistled, and the spires above the harbor

Glistened, and the hawsers, letting go,

Dangled in salt.

So easterly they sailed,

And sailed; then south a little. And the crew

Thought only of the Pillars, of the inland

Sea where waves were smaller. But these ten,

Prone on the prow, disdained the autumn danger

Of storm, of the dark swell. Their daily vision—

Common to them all, since reconciled—

Was the long night ahead; or over Asia,

Centuries upon centuries of flying,

Flying where no desert, green with the Word,

Blossomed and blessed them.

Now as in a dream

Never to be redreamed the hills behind them,

Huddling that valley, muffled its fine cries

Of people trapped in sorrow. Even its glad souls,

Silenced, were obscure as drops of dew

Hung in the wild Antipodes. No mortal

Summer would be given these again:

These deities, these angels, who as the dark sea

Heaved went on themselves as waves do,

Wearily, yet smiling as in a dream.

C O L OP H O N

This book has been designed and printed by Carroll Coleman

at The Prairie Press in Iowa City, Iowa. The types are Caslon and

Frye’s Ornamented and the paper is Linweave Early American.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE:

The cover image for this eBook was created by the transcriber using the original cover and is entered into the public domain.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MORTAL SUMMER ***

Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed.

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark license, especially commercial redistribution.

START: FULL LICENSE

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work (or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at www.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works

1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™ electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property (trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the United States and you are located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™ works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when you share it without charge with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any country other than the United States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, copied or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™ trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™ License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project Gutenberg™ License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website (www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works provided that:

- • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.”

- • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ works.

- • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of receipt of the work.

- • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.

1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGE.

1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.

1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any Defect you cause.

Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™

Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.

Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit 501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.

The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact

Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations ($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.

Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.

Most people start at our website which has the main PG search facility: www.gutenberg.org.

This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™, including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.

Table of Contents

MORTAL SUMMER

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

C O L OP H O N

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE