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I AMONG the smoke and fog of a December afternoon | |
| You have the scene arrange itself——as it will seem to do— | |
| With “I have saved this afternoon for you”; | |
| And four wax candles in the darkened room, | |
| Four rings of light upon the ceiling overhead, | 5 |
| An atmosphere of Juliet’s tomb | |
| Prepared for all the things to be said, or left unsaid. | |
| We have been, let us say, to hear the latest Pole | |
| Transmit the Preludes, through his hair and finger-tips. | |
| “So intimate, this Chopin, that I think his soul | 10 |
| Should be resurrected only among friends | |
| Some two or three, who will not touch the bloom | |
| That is rubbed and questioned in the concert room.” | |
| —And so the conversation slips | |
| Among velleities and carefully caught regrets | 15 |
| Through attenuated tones of violins | |
| Mingled with remote cornets | |
| And begins. | |
| |
| “You do not know how much they mean to me, my friends, | |
| And how, how rare and strange it is, to find | 20 |
| In a life composed so much, so much of odds and ends, | |
| (For indeed I do not love it … you knew? you are not blind! | |
| How keen you are!) | |
| To find a friend who has these qualities, | |
| Who has, and gives | 25 |
| Those qualities upon which friendship lives. | |
| How much it means that I say this to you— | |
| Without these friendships—life, what cauchemar!” | |
| Among the windings of the violins | |
| And the ariettes | 30 |
| Of cracked cornets | |
| Inside my brain a dull tom-tom begins | |
| Absurdly hammering a prelude of its own, | |
| Capricious monotone | |
| That is at least one definite “false note.” | 35 |
| —Let us take the air, in a tobacco trance, | |
| Admire the monuments, | |
| Discuss the late events, | |
| Correct our watches by the public clocks. | |
| Then sit for half an hour and drink our bocks. | 40 |
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II Now that lilacs are in bloom | |
| She has a bowl of lilacs in her room | |
| And twists one in her fingers while she talks. | |
| “Ah, my friend, you do not know, you do not know | |
| What life is, you who hold it in your hands”; | 45 |
| (Slowly twisting the lilac stalks) | |
| “You let it flow from you, you let it flow, | |
| And youth is cruel, and has no remorse | |
| And smiles at situations which it cannot see.” | |
| I smile, of course, | 50 |
| And go on drinking tea. | |
| “Yet with these April sunsets, that somehow recall | |
| My buried life, and Paris in the Spring, | |
| I feel immeasurably at peace, and find the world | |
| To be wonderful and youthful, after all.” | 55 |
| |
| The voice returns like the insistent out-of-tune | |
| Of a broken violin on an August afternoon: | |
| “I am always sure that you understand | |
| My feelings, always sure that you feel, | |
| Sure that across the gulf you reach your hand. | 60 |
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| You are invulnerable, you have no Achilles’ heel. | |
| You will go on, and when you have prevailed | |
| You can say: at this point many a one has failed. | |
| |
| But what have I, but what have I, my friend, | |
| To give you, what can you receive from me? | 65 |
| Only the friendship and the sympathy | |
| Of one about to reach her journey’s end. | |
| |
| I shall sit here, serving tea to friends.…” | |
| |
| I take my hat: how can I make a cowardly amends | |
| For what she has said to me? | 70 |
| You will see me any morning in the park | |
| Reading the comics and the sporting page. | |
| Particularly I remark | |
| An English countess goes upon the stage. | |
| A Greek was murdered at a Polish dance, | 75 |
| Another bank defaulter has confessed. | |
| I keep my countenance, | |
| I remain self-possessed | |
| Except when a street piano, mechanical and tired | |
| Reiterates some worn-out common song | 80 |
| With the smell of hyacinths across the garden | |
| Recalling things that other people have desired. | |
| Are these ideas right or wrong? | |
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III The October night comes down; returning as before | |
| Except for a slight sensation of being ill at ease | 85 |
| I mount the stairs and turn the handle of the door | |
| And feel as if I had mounted on my hands and knees. | |
| |
| “And so you are going abroad; and when do you return? | |
| But that’s a useless question. | |
| You hardly know when you are coming back, | 90 |
| You will find so much to learn.” | |
| My smile falls heavily among the bric-à-brac. | |
| |
| “Perhaps you can write to me.” | |
| My self-possession flares up for a second; | |
| This is as I had reckoned. | 95 |
| “I have been wondering frequently of late | |
| (But our beginnings never know our ends!) | |
| Why we have not developed into friends.” | |
| I feel like one who smiles, and turning shall remark | |
| Suddenly, his expression in a glass. | 100 |
| My self-possession gutters; we are really in the dark. | |
| |
| “For everybody said so, all our friends, | |
| They all were sure our feelings would relate | |
| So closely! I myself can hardly understand. | |
| We must leave it now to fate. | 105 |
| You will write, at any rate. | |
| Perhaps it is not too late. | |
| I shall sit here, serving tea to friends.” | |
| |
| And I must borrow every changing shape | |
| To find expression … dance, dance | 110 |
| Like a dancing bear, | |
| Cry like a parrot, chatter like an ape. | |
| Let us take the air, in a tobacco trance— | |
| Well! and what if she should die some afternoon, | |
| Afternoon grey and smoky, evening yellow and rose; | 115 |
| Should die and leave me sitting pen in hand | |
| With the smoke coming down above the housetops; | |
| Doubtful, for quite a while | |
| Not knowing what to feel or if I understand | |
| Or whether wise or foolish, tardy or too soon… | 120 |
| Would she not have the advantage, after all? | |
| This music is successful with a “dying fall” | |
| Now that we talk of dying— | |
| And should I have the right to smile? | |
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