Men, Women and Ghosts

       XLV

   Eunice paced up and down.  No joy she took
    At meeting Gervase, but the custom grown
   Still held her.  He was late.  She sudden shook,
    And caught at her stopped heart.  Her eyes had shown
   Sir Everard emerging from the mist.
    His uniform was travel-stained and torn,
       His jackboots muddy, and his eager stride
    Jangled his spurs.  A thorn
   Entangled, trailed behind him.  To the tryst
   He hastened.  Eunice shuddered, ran—a twist
       Round a sharp turning and she fled to hide.

       XLVI

   But he had seen her as she swiftly ran,
    A flash of white against the river's grey.
   "Eunice," he called.  "My Darling.  Eunice.  Can
    You hear me?  It is Everard.  All day
   I have been riding like the very devil
    To reach you sooner.  Are you startled, Dear?"
       He broke into a run and followed her,
    And caught her, faint with fear,
   Cowering and trembling as though she some evil
   Spirit were seeing.  "What means this uncivil
       Greeting, Dear Heart?"  He saw her senses blur.

       XLVII

   Swaying and catching at the seat, she tried
    To speak, but only gurgled in her throat.
   At last, straining to hold herself, she cried
    To him for pity, and her strange words smote
   A coldness through him, for she begged Gervase
    To leave her, 'twas too much a second time.
       Gervase must go, always Gervase, her mind
    Repeated like a rhyme
   This name he did not know.  In sad amaze
   He watched her, and that hunted, fearful gaze,
       So unremembering and so unkind.

       XLVIII

   Softly he spoke to her, patiently dealt
    With what he feared her madness.  By and by
   He pierced her understanding.  Then he knelt
    Upon the seat, and took her hands:  "Now try
   To think a minute I am come, my Dear,
    Unharmed and back on furlough.  Are you glad
       To have your lover home again?  To me,
    Pickthorn has never had
   A greater pleasantness.  Could you not bear
   To come and sit awhile beside me here?
       A stone between us surely should not be."

       XLIX

   She smiled a little wan and ravelled smile,
    Then came to him and on his shoulder laid
   Her head, and they two rested there awhile,
    Each taking comfort.  Not a word was said.
   But when he put his hand upon her breast
    And felt her beating heart, and with his lips
       Sought solace for her and himself.  She started
    As one sharp lashed with whips,
   And pushed him from her, moaning, his dumb quest
   Denied and shuddered from.  And he, distrest,
       Loosened his wife, and long they sat there, parted.

       L

   Eunice was very quiet all that day,
    A little dazed, and yet she seemed content.
   At candle-time, he asked if she would play
    Upon her harpsichord, at once she went
   And tinkled airs from Lully's 'Carnival'
    And 'Bacchus', newly brought away from France.
       Then jaunted through a lively rigadoon
    To please him with a dance
   By Purcell, for he said that surely all
   Good Englishmen had pride in national
       Accomplishment.  But tiring of it soon

       LI

   He whispered her that if she had forgiven
    His startling her that afternoon, the clock
   Marked early bed-time.  Surely it was Heaven
    He entered when she opened to his knock.
   The hours rustled in the trailing wind
    Over the chimney.  Close they lay and knew
       Only that they were wedded.  At his touch
    Anxiety she threw
   Away like a shed garment, and inclined
   Herself to cherish him, her happy mind
       Quivering, unthinking, loving overmuch.

       LII

   Eunice lay long awake in the cool night
    After her husband slept.  She gazed with joy
   Into the shadows, painting them with bright
    Pictures of all her future life's employ.
   Twin gems they were, set to a single jewel,
    Each shining with the other.  Soft she turned
       And felt his breath upon her hair, and prayed
    Her happiness was earned.
   Past Earls of Crowe should give their blood for fuel
   To light this Frampton's hearth-fire.  By no cruel
       Affrightings would she ever be dismayed.

       LIII

   When Everard, next day, asked her in joke
    What name it was that she had called him by,
   She told him of Gervase, and as she spoke
    She hardly realized it was a lie.
   Her vision she related, but she hid
    The fondness into which she had been led.
       Sir Everard just laughed and pinched her ear,
    And quite out of her head
   The matter drifted.  Then Sir Everard chid
   Himself for laziness, and off he rid
       To see his men and count his farming-gear.

       LIV

   At supper he seemed overspread with gloom,
    But gave no reason why, he only asked
   More questions of Gervase, and round the room
    He walked with restless strides.  At last he tasked
   Her with a greater feeling for this man
    Than she had given.  Eunice quick denied
       The slightest interest other than a friend
    Might claim.  But he replied
   He thought she underrated.  Then a ban
   He put on talk and music.  He'd a plan
       To work at, draining swamps at Pickthorn End.

       LV

   Next morning Eunice found her Lord still changed,
    Hard and unkind, with bursts of anger.  Pride
   Kept him from speaking out.  His probings ranged
    All round his torment.  Lady Eunice tried
   To sooth him.  So a week went by, and then
    His anguish flooded over; with clenched hands
       Striving to stem his words, he told her plain
    Tony had seen them, "brands
   Burning in Hell," the man had said.  Again
   Eunice described her vision, and how when
       Awoke at last she had known dreadful pain.

       LVI

   He could not credit it, and misery fed
    Upon his spirit, day by day it grew.
   To Gervase he forbade the house, and led
    The Lady Eunice such a life she flew
   At his approaching footsteps.  Winter came
    Snowing and blustering through the Manor trees.
       All the roof-edges spiked with icicles
    In fluted companies.
   The Lady Eunice with her tambour-frame
   Kept herself sighing company.  The flame
       Of the birch fire glittered on the walls.

       LVII

   A letter was brought to her as she sat,
    Unsealed, unsigned.  It told her that his wound,
   The writer's, had so well recovered that
    To join his regiment he felt him bound.
   But would she not wish him one short "Godspeed",
    He asked no more.  Her greeting would suffice.
       He had resolved he never should return.
    Would she this sacrifice
   Make for a dying man?  How could she read
   The rest!  But forcing her eyes to the deed,
       She read.  Then dropped it in the fire to burn.

       LVIII

   Gervase had set the river for their meeting
    As farthest from the farms where Everard
   Spent all his days.  How should he know such cheating
    Was quite expected, at least no dullard
   Was Everard Frampton.  Hours by hours he hid
    Among the willows watching.  Dusk had come,
       And from the Manor he had long been gone.
    Eunice her burdensome
   Task set about.  Hooded and cloaked, she slid
   Over the slippery paths, and soon amid
       The sallows saw a boat tied to a stone.

       LIX

   Gervase arose, and kissed her hand, then pointed
    Into the boat.  She shook her head, but he
   Begged her to realize why, and with disjointed
    Words told her of what peril there might be
   From listeners along the river bank.
    A push would take them out of earshot.  Ten
       Minutes was all he asked, then she should land,
    He go away again,
   Forever this time.  Yet how could he thank
   Her for so much compassion.  Here she sank
       Upon a thwart, and bid him quick unstrand

       LX

   His boat.  He cast the rope, and shoved the keel
    Free of the gravel; jumped, and dropped beside
   Her; took the oars, and they began to steal
    Under the overhanging trees.  A wide
   Gash of red lantern-light cleft like a blade
    Into the gloom, and struck on Eunice sitting
       Rigid and stark upon the after thwart.
    It blazed upon their flitting
   In merciless light.  A moment so it stayed,
   Then was extinguished, and Sir Everard made
       One leap, and landed just a fraction short.

       LXI

   His weight upon the gunwale tipped the boat
    To straining balance.  Everard lurched and seized
   His wife and held her smothered to his coat.
    "Everard, loose me, we shall drown—" and squeezed
   Against him, she beat with her hands.  He gasped
    "Never, by God!"  The slidden boat gave way
       And the black foamy water split—and met.
    Bubbled up through the spray
   A wailing rose and in the branches rasped,
   And creaked, and stilled.  Over the treetops, clasped
       In the blue evening, a clear moon was set.

       LXII

   They lie entangled in the twisting roots,
    Embraced forever.  Their cold marriage bed
   Close-canopied and curtained by the shoots
    Of willows and pale birches.  At the head,
   White lilies, like still swans, placidly float
    And sway above the pebbles.  Here are waves
       Sun-smitten for a threaded counterpane
    Gold-woven on their graves.
   In perfect quietness they sleep, remote
   In the green, rippled twilight.  Death has smote
       Them to perpetual oneness who were twain.

       Part First

   Frau Concert-Meister Altgelt shut the door.
   A storm was rising, heavy gusts of wind
   Swirled through the trees, and scattered leaves before
   Her on the clean, flagged path.  The sky behind
   The distant town was black, and sharp defined
   Against it shone the lines of roofs and towers,
   Superimposed and flat like cardboard flowers.

   A pasted city on a purple ground,
   Picked out with luminous paint, it seemed.  The cloud
   Split on an edge of lightning, and a sound
   Of rivers full and rushing boomed through bowed,
   Tossed, hissing branches.  Thunder rumbled loud
   Beyond the town fast swallowing into gloom.
   Frau Altgelt closed the windows of each room.

   She bustled round to shake by constant moving
   The strange, weird atmosphere.  She stirred the fire,
   She twitched the supper-cloth as though improving
   Its careful setting, then her own attire
   Came in for notice, tiptoeing higher and higher
   She peered into the wall-glass, now adjusting
   A straying lock, or else a ribbon thrusting

   This way or that to suit her.  At last sitting,
   Or rather plumping down upon a chair,
   She took her work, the stocking she was knitting,
   And watched the rain upon the window glare
   In white, bright drops.  Through the black glass a flare
   Of lightning squirmed about her needles.  "Oh!"
   She cried.  "What can be keeping Theodore so!"

   A roll of thunder set the casements clapping.
   Frau Altgelt flung her work aside and ran,
   Pulled open the house door, with kerchief flapping
   She stood and gazed along the street.  A man
   Flung back the garden-gate and nearly ran
   Her down as she stood in the door.  "Why, Dear,
   What in the name of patience brings you here?

   Quick, Lotta, shut the door, my violin
   I fear is wetted.  Now, Dear, bring a light.
   This clasp is very much too worn and thin.
   I'll take the other fiddle out to-night
   If it still rains.  Tut! Tut! my child, you're quite
   Clumsy.  Here, help me, hold the case while I—
   Give me the candle.  No, the inside's dry.

   Thank God for that!  Well, Lotta, how are you?
   A bad storm, but the house still stands, I see.
   Is my pipe filled, my Dear?  I'll have a few
   Puffs and a snooze before I eat my tea.
   What do you say?  That you were feared for me?
   Nonsense, my child.  Yes, kiss me, now don't talk.
   I need a rest, the theatre's a long walk."

   Her needles still, her hands upon her lap
   Patiently laid, Charlotta Altgelt sat
   And watched the rain-run window.  In his nap
   Her husband stirred and muttered.  Seeing that,
   Charlotta rose and softly, pit-a-pat,
   Climbed up the stairs, and in her little room
   Found sighing comfort with a moon in bloom.

   But even rainy windows, silver-lit
   By a new-burst, storm-whetted moon, may give
   But poor content to loneliness, and it
   Was hard for young Charlotta so to strive
   And down her eagerness and learn to live
   In placid quiet.  While her husband slept,
   Charlotta in her upper chamber wept.

   Herr Concert-Meister Altgelt was a man
   Gentle and unambitious, that alone
   Had kept him back.  He played as few men can,
   Drawing out of his instrument a tone
   So shimmering-sweet and palpitant, it shone
   Like a bright thread of sound hung in the air,
   Afloat and swinging upward, slim and fair.

   Above all things, above Charlotta his wife,
   Herr Altgelt loved his violin, a fine
   Cremona pattern, Stradivari's life
   Was flowering out of early discipline
   When this was fashioned.  Of soft-cutting pine
   The belly was.  The back of broadly curled
   Maple, the head made thick and sharply whirled.

      The slanting, youthful sound-holes through
      The belly of fine, vigorous pine
      Mellowed each note and blew
      It out again with a woody flavour
      Tanged and fragrant as fir-trees are
      When breezes in their needles jar.

      The varnish was an orange-brown
      Lustered like glass that's long laid down
      Under a crumbling villa stone.
      Purfled stoutly, with mitres which point
      Straight up the corners.  Each curve and joint
      Clear, and bold, and thin.
      Such was Herr Theodore's violin.

   Seven o'clock, the Concert-Meister gone
   With his best violin, the rain being stopped,
   Frau Lotta in the kitchen sat alone
   Watching the embers which the fire dropped.
   The china shone upon the dresser, topped
   By polished copper vessels which her skill
   Kept brightly burnished.  It was very still.

   An air from 'Orfeo' hummed in her head.
   Herr Altgelt had been practising before
   The night's performance.  Charlotta had plead
   With him to stay with her.  Even at the door
   She'd begged him not to go.  "I do implore
   You for this evening, Theodore," she had said.
   "Leave them to-night, and stay with me instead."

   "A silly poppet!"  Theodore pinched her ear.
   "You'd like to have our good Elector turn
   Me out I think."  "But, Theodore, something queer
   Ails me.  Oh, do but notice how they burn,
   My cheeks!  The thunder worried me.  You're stern,
   And cold, and only love your work, I know.
   But Theodore, for this evening, do not go."

   But he had gone, hurriedly at the end,
   For she had kept him talking.  Now she sat
   Alone again, always alone, the trend
   Of all her thinking brought her back to that
   She wished to banish.  What would life be?  What?
   For she was young, and loved, while he was moved
   Only by music.  Each day that was proved.

   Each day he rose and practised.  While he played,
   She stopped her work and listened, and her heart
   Swelled painfully beneath her bodice.  Swayed
   And longing, she would hide from him her smart.
   "Well, Lottchen, will that do?"  Then what a start
   She gave, and she would run to him and cry,
   And he would gently chide her, "Fie, Dear, fie.

   I'm glad I played it well.  But such a taking!
   You'll hear the thing enough before I've done."
   And she would draw away from him, still shaking.
   Had he but guessed she was another one,
   Another violin.  Her strings were aching,
   Stretched to the touch of his bow hand, again
   He played and she almost broke at the strain.

   Where was the use of thinking of it now,
   Sitting alone and listening to the clock!
   She'd best make haste and knit another row.
   Three hours at least must pass before his knock
   Would startle her.  It always was a shock.
   She listened—listened—for so long before,
   That when it came her hearing almost tore.

   She caught herself just starting in to listen.
   What nerves she had:  rattling like brittle sticks!
   She wandered to the window, for the glisten
   Of a bright moon was tempting.  Snuffed the wicks
   Of her two candles.  Still she could not fix
   To anything.  The moon in a broad swath
   Beckoned her out and down the garden-path.

   Against the house, her hollyhocks stood high
   And black, their shadows doubling them.  The night
   Was white and still with moonlight, and a sigh
   Of blowing leaves was there, and the dim flight
   Of insects, and the smell of aconite,
   And stocks, and Marvel of Peru.  She flitted
   Along the path, where blocks of shadow pitted

   The even flags.  She let herself go dreaming
   Of Theodore her husband, and the tune
   From 'Orfeo' swam through her mind, but seeming
   Changed—shriller.  Of a sudden, the clear moon
   Showed her a passer-by, inopportune
   Indeed, but here he was, whistling and striding.
   Lotta squeezed in between the currants, hiding.

   "The best laid plans of mice and men," alas!
   The stranger came indeed, but did not pass.
   Instead, he leant upon the garden-gate,
   Folding his arms and whistling.  Lotta's state,
   Crouched in the prickly currants, on wet grass,
   Was far from pleasant.  Still the stranger stayed,
   And Lotta in her currants watched, dismayed.

   He seemed a proper fellow standing there
   In the bright moonshine.  His cocked hat was laced
   With silver, and he wore his own brown hair
   Tied, but unpowdered.  His whole bearing graced
   A fine cloth coat, and ruffled shirt, and chased
   Sword-hilt.  Charlotta looked, but her position
   Was hardly easy.  When would his volition

   Suggest his walking on?  And then that tune!
   A half-a-dozen bars from 'Orfeo'
   Gone over and over, and murdered.  What Fortune
   Had brought him there to stare about him so?
   "Ach, Gott im Himmel!  Why will he not go!"
   Thought Lotta, but the young man whistled on,
   And seemed in no great hurry to be gone.

   Charlotta, crouched among the currant bushes,
   Watched the moon slowly dip from twig to twig.
   If Theodore should chance to come, and blushes
   Streamed over her.  He would not care a fig,
   He'd only laugh.  She pushed aside a sprig
   Of sharp-edged leaves and peered, then she uprose
   Amid her bushes.  "Sir," said she, "pray whose

   Garden do you suppose you're watching?  Why
   Do you stand there?  I really must insist
   Upon your leaving.  'Tis unmannerly
   To stay so long."  The young man gave a twist
   And turned about, and in the amethyst
   Moonlight he saw her like a nymph half-risen
   From the green bushes which had been her prison.

   He swept his hat off in a hurried bow.
   "Your pardon, Madam, I had no idea
   I was not quite alone, and that is how
   I came to stay.  My trespass was not sheer
   Impertinence.  I thought no one was here,
   And really gardens cry to be admired.
   To-night especially it seemed required.

   And may I beg to introduce myself?
   Heinrich Marohl of Munich.  And your name?"
   Charlotta told him.  And the artful elf
   Promptly exclaimed about her husband's fame.
   So Lotta, half-unwilling, slowly came
   To conversation with him.  When she went
   Into the house, she found the evening spent.

   Theodore arrived quite wearied out and teased,
   With all excitement in him burned away.
   It had gone well, he said, the audience pleased,
   And he had played his very best to-day,
   But afterwards he had been forced to stay
   And practise with the stupid ones.  His head
   Ached furiously, and he must get to bed.

       Part Second

      Herr Concert-Meister Altgelt played,
      And the four strings of his violin
      Were spinning like bees on a day in Spring.
      The notes rose into the wide sun-mote
      Which slanted through the window,
      They lay like coloured beads a-row,
      They knocked together and parted,
      And started to dance,
      Skipping, tripping, each one slipping
      Under and over the others so
      That the polychrome fire streamed like a lance
      Or a comet's tail,
      Behind them.
      Then a wail arose—crescendo—
      And dropped from off the end of the bow,
      And the dancing stopped.
      A scent of lilies filled the room,
      Long and slow.  Each large white bloom
      Breathed a sound which was holy perfume from a blessed censer,
      And the hum of an organ tone,
      And they waved like fans in a hall of stone
      Over a bier standing there in the centre, alone.
      Each lily bent slowly as it was blown.
      Like smoke they rose from the violin—
      Then faded as a swifter bowing
      Jumbled the notes like wavelets flowing
      In a splashing, pashing, rippling motion
      Between broad meadows to an ocean
      Wide as a day and blue as a flower,
      Where every hour
      Gulls dipped, and scattered, and squawked, and squealed,
      And over the marshes the Angelus pealed,
      And the prows of the fishing-boats were spattered
      With spray.
      And away a couple of frigates were starting
      To race to Java with all sails set,
      Topgallants, and royals, and stunsails, and jibs,
      And wide moonsails; and the shining rails
      Were polished so bright they sparked in the sun.
      All the sails went up with a run:
          "They call me Hanging Johnny,
             Away-i-oh;
          They call me Hanging Johnny,
             So hang, boys, hang."
      And the sun had set and the high moon whitened,
      And the ship heeled over to the breeze.
      He drew her into the shade of the sails,
      And whispered tales
      Of voyages in the China seas,
      And his arm around her
      Held and bound her.
      She almost swooned,
      With the breeze and the moon
      And the slipping sea,
      And he beside her,
      Touching her, leaning—
      The ship careening,
      With the white moon steadily shining over
      Her and her lover,
      Theodore, still her lover!

      Then a quiver fell on the crowded notes,
      And slowly floated
      A single note which spread and spread
      Till it filled the room with a shimmer like gold,
      And noises shivered throughout its length,
      And tried its strength.
      They pulled it, and tore it,
      And the stuff waned thinner, but still it bore it.
      Then a wide rent
      Split the arching tent,
      And balls of fire spurted through,
      Spitting yellow, and mauve, and blue.
      One by one they were quenched as they fell,
      Only the blue burned steadily.
      Paler and paler it grew, and—faded—away.
            Herr Altgelt stopped.

   "Well, Lottachen, my Dear, what do you say?
   I think I'm in good trim.  Now let's have dinner.
   What's this, my Love, you're very sweet to-day.
   I wonder how it happens I'm the winner
   Of so much sweetness.  But I think you're thinner;
   You're like a bag of feathers on my knee.
   Why, Lotta child, you're almost strangling me.

   I'm glad you're going out this afternoon.
   The days are getting short, and I'm so tied
   At the Court Theatre my poor little bride
   Has not much junketing I fear, but soon
   I'll ask our manager to grant a boon.
   To-night, perhaps, I'll get a pass for you,
   And when I go, why Lotta can come too.

   Now dinner, Love.  I want some onion soup
   To whip me up till that rehearsal's over.
   You know it's odd how some women can stoop!
   Fraeulein Gebnitz has taken on a lover,
   A Jew named Goldstein.  No one can discover
   If it's his money.  But she lives alone
   Practically.  Gebnitz is a stone,

   Pores over books all day, and has no ear
   For his wife's singing.  Artists must have men;
   They need appreciation.  But it's queer
   What messes people make of their lives, when
   They should know more.  If Gebnitz finds out, then
   His wife will pack.  Yes, shut the door at once.
   I did not feel it cold, I am a dunce."

   Frau Altgelt tied her bonnet on and went
   Into the streets.  A bright, crisp Autumn wind
   Flirted her skirts and hair.  A turbulent,
   Audacious wind it was, now close behind,
   Pushing her bonnet forward till it twined
   The strings across her face, then from in front
   Slantingly swinging at her with a shunt,

   Until she lay against it, struggling, pushing,
   Dismayed to find her clothing tightly bound
   Around her, every fold and wrinkle crushing
   Itself upon her, so that she was wound
   In draperies as clinging as those found
   Sucking about a sea nymph on the frieze
   Of some old Grecian temple.  In the breeze

   The shops and houses had a quality
   Of hard and dazzling colour; something sharp
   And buoyant, like white, puffing sails at sea.
   The city streets were twanging like a harp.
   Charlotta caught the movement, skippingly
   She blew along the pavement, hardly knowing
   Toward what destination she was going.

   She fetched up opposite a jeweller's shop,
   Where filigreed tiaras shone like crowns,
   And necklaces of emeralds seemed to drop
   And then float up again with lightness.  Browns
   Of striped agates struck her like cold frowns
   Amid the gaiety of topaz seals,
   Carved though they were with heads, and arms, and wheels.

   A row of pencils knobbed with quartz or sard
   Delighted her.  And rings of every size
   Turned smartly round like hoops before her eyes,
   Amethyst-flamed or ruby-girdled, jarred
   To spokes and flashing triangles, and starred
   Like rockets bursting on a festal day.
   Charlotta could not tear herself away.

   With eyes glued tightly on a golden box,
   Whose rare enamel piqued her with its hue,
   Changeable, iridescent, shuttlecocks
   Of shades and lustres always darting through
   Its level, superimposing sheet of blue,
   Charlotta did not hear footsteps approaching.
   She started at the words:  "Am I encroaching?"

   "Oh, Heinrich, how you frightened me!  I thought
   We were to meet at three, is it quite that?"
   "No, it is not," he answered, "but I've caught
   The trick of missing you.  One thing is flat,
   I cannot go on this way.  Life is what
   Might best be conjured up by the word:  'Hell'.
   Dearest, when will you come?"  Lotta, to quell

   His effervescence, pointed to the gems
   Within the window, asked him to admire
   A bracelet or a buckle.  But one stems
   Uneasily the burning of a fire.
   Heinrich was chafing, pricked by his desire.
   Little by little she wooed him to her mood
   Until at last he promised to be good.

   But here he started on another tack;
   To buy a jewel, which one would Lotta choose.
   She vainly urged against him all her lack
   Of other trinkets.  Should she dare to use
   A ring or brooch her husband might accuse
   Her of extravagance, and ask to see
   A strict accounting, or still worse might be.

   But Heinrich would not be persuaded.  Why
   Should he not give her what he liked?  And in
   He went, determined certainly to buy
   A thing so beautiful that it would win
   Her wavering fancy.  Altgelt's violin
   He would outscore by such a handsome jewel
   That Lotta could no longer be so cruel!

   Pity Charlotta, torn in diverse ways.
   If she went in with him, the shopman might
   Recognize her, give her her name; in days
   To come he could denounce her.  In her fright
   She almost fled.  But Heinrich would be quite
   Capable of pursuing.  By and by
   She pushed the door and entered hurriedly.

   It took some pains to keep him from bestowing
   A pair of ruby earrings, carved like roses,
   The setting twined to represent the growing
   Tendrils and leaves, upon her.  "Who supposes
   I could obtain such things!  It simply closes
   All comfort for me."  So he changed his mind
   And bought as slight a gift as he could find.

   A locket, frosted over with seed pearls,
   Oblong and slim, for wearing at the neck,
   Or hidden in the bosom; their joined curls
   Should lie in it.  And further to bedeck
   His love, Heinrich had picked a whiff, a fleck,
   The merest puff of a thin, linked chain
   To hang it from.  Lotta could not refrain

   From weeping as they sauntered down the street.
   She did not want the locket, yet she did.
   To have him love her she found very sweet,
   But it is hard to keep love always hid.
   Then there was something in her heart which chid
   Her, told her she loved Theodore in him,
   That all these meetings were a foolish whim.

   She thought of Theodore and the life they led,
   So near together, but so little mingled.
   The great clouds bulged and bellied overhead,
   And the fresh wind about her body tingled;
   The crane of a large warehouse creaked and jingled;
   Charlotta held her breath for very fear,
   About her in the street she seemed to hear:
       "They call me Hanging Johnny,
          Away-i-oh;
       They call me Hanging Johnny,
          So hang, boys, hang."

   And it was Theodore, under the racing skies,
   Who held her and who whispered in her ear.
   She knew her heart was telling her no lies,
   Beating and hammering.  He was so dear,
   The touch of him would send her in a queer
   Swoon that was half an ecstasy.  And yearning
   For Theodore, she wandered, slowly turning

   Street after street as Heinrich wished it so.
   He had some aim, she had forgotten what.
   Their progress was confused and very slow,
   But at the last they reached a lonely spot,
   A garden far above the highest shot
   Of soaring steeple.  At their feet, the town
   Spread open like a chequer-board laid down.

   Lotta was dimly conscious of the rest,
   Vaguely remembered how he clasped the chain
   About her neck.  She treated it in jest,
   And saw his face cloud over with sharp pain.
   Then suddenly she felt as though a strain
   Were put upon her, collared like a slave,
   Leashed in the meshes of this thing he gave.

   She seized the flimsy rings with both her hands
   To snap it, but they held with odd persistence.
   Her eyes were blinded by two wind-blown strands
   Of hair which had been loosened.  Her resistance
   Melted within her, from remotest distance,
   Misty, unreal, his face grew warm and near,
   And giving way she knew him very dear.

   For long he held her, and they both gazed down
   At the wide city, and its blue, bridged river.
   From wooing he jested with her, snipped the blown
   Strands of her hair, and tied them with a sliver
   Cut from his own head.  But she gave a shiver
   When, opening the locket, they were placed
   Under the glass, commingled and enlaced.

   "When will you have it so with us?"  He sighed.
   She shook her head.  He pressed her further.  "No,
   No, Heinrich, Theodore loves me," and she tried
   To free herself and rise.  He held her so,
   Clipped by his arms, she could not move nor go.
   "But you love me," he whispered, with his face
   Burning against her through her kerchief's lace.

   Frau Altgelt knew she toyed with fire, knew
   That what her husband lit this other man
   Fanned to hot flame.  She told herself that few
   Women were so discreet as she, who ran
   No danger since she knew what things to ban.
   She opened her house door at five o'clock,
   A short half-hour before her husband's knock.

       Part Third

   The 'Residenz-Theater' sparked and hummed
   With lights and people.  Gebnitz was to sing,
   That rare soprano.  All the fiddles strummed
   With tuning up; the wood-winds made a ring
   Of reedy bubbling noises, and the sting
   Of sharp, red brass pierced every ear-drum; patting
   From muffled tympani made a dark slatting

   Across the silver shimmering of flutes;
   A bassoon grunted, and an oboe wailed;
   The 'celli pizzicato-ed like great lutes,
   And mutterings of double basses trailed
   Away to silence, while loud harp-strings hailed
   Their thin, bright colours down in such a scatter
   They lost themselves amid the general clatter.

   Frau Altgelt in the gallery, alone,
   Felt lifted up into another world.
   Before her eyes a thousand candles shone
   In the great chandeliers.  A maze of curled
   And powdered periwigs past her eyes swirled.
   She smelt the smoke of candles guttering,
   And caught the glint of jewelled fans fluttering

   All round her in the boxes.  Red and gold,
   The house, like rubies set in filigree,
   Filliped the candlelight about, and bold
   Young sparks with eye-glasses, unblushingly
   Ogled fair beauties in the balcony.
   An officer went by, his steel spurs jangling.
   Behind Charlotta an old man was wrangling

   About a play-bill he had bought and lost.
   Three drunken soldiers had to be ejected.
   Frau Altgelt's eyes stared at the vacant post
   Of Concert-Meister, she at once detected
   The stir which brought him.  But she felt neglected
   When with no glance about him or her way,
   He lifted up his violin to play.

      The curtain went up?  Perhaps.  If so,
      Charlotta never saw it go.
      The famous Fraeulein Gebnitz' singing
      Only came to her like the ringing
      Of bells at a festa
      Which swing in the air
      And nobody realizes they are there.
      They jingle and jangle,
      And clang, and bang,
      And never a soul could tell whether they rang,
      For the plopping of guns and rockets
      And the chinking of silver to spend, in one's pockets,
      And the shuffling and clapping of feet,
      And the loud flapping
      Of flags, with the drums,
      As the military comes.
      It's a famous tune to walk to,
      And I wonder where they're off to.
      Step-step-stepping to the beating of the drums.
      But the rhythm changes as though a mist
      Were curling and twisting
      Over the landscape.
      For a moment a rhythmless, tuneless fog
      Encompasses her.  Then her senses jog
      To the breath of a stately minuet.
      Herr Altgelt's violin is set
      In tune to the slow, sweeping bows, and retreats and advances,
      To curtsies brushing the waxen floor as the Court dances.
      Long and peaceful like warm Summer nights
      When stars shine in the quiet river.  And against the lights
      Blundering insects knock,
      And the 'Rathaus' clock
      Booms twice, through the shrill sounds
      Of flutes and horns in the lamplit grounds.
      Pressed against him in the mazy wavering
      Of a country dance, with her short breath quavering
      She leans upon the beating, throbbing
      Music.  Laughing, sobbing,
      Feet gliding after sliding feet;
      His—hers—
      The ballroom blurs—
      She feels the air
      Lifting her hair,
      And the lapping of water on the stone stair.
      He is there!  He is there!
      Twang harps, and squeal, you thin violins,
      That the dancers may dance, and never discover
      The old stone stair leading down to the river
      With the chestnut-tree branches hanging over
      Her and her lover.
      Theodore, still her lover!

   The evening passed like this, in a half faint,
   Delirium with waking intervals
   Which were the entr'acts.  Under the restraint
   Of a large company, the constant calls
   For oranges or syrops from the stalls
   Outside, the talk, the passing to and fro,
   Lotta sat ill at ease, incognito.

   She heard the Gebnitz praised, the tenor lauded,
   The music vaunted as most excellent.
   The scenery and the costumes were applauded,
   The latter it was whispered had been sent
   From Italy.  The Herr Direktor spent
   A fortune on them, so the gossips said.
   Charlotta felt a lightness in her head.

   When the next act began, her eyes were swimming,
   Her prodded ears were aching and confused.
   The first notes from the orchestra sent skimming
   Her outward consciousness.  Her brain was fused
   Into the music, Theodore's music!  Used
   To hear him play, she caught his single tone.
   For all she noticed they two were alone.

       Part Fourth

   Frau Altgelt waited in the chilly street,
   Hustled by lackeys who ran up and down
   Shouting their coachmen's names; forced to retreat
   A pace or two by lurching chairmen; thrown
   Rudely aside by linkboys; boldly shown
   The ogling rapture in two bleary eyes
   Thrust close to hers in most unpleasant wise.

   Escaping these, she hit a liveried arm,
   Was sworn at by this glittering gentleman
   And ordered off.  However, no great harm
   Came to her.  But she looked a trifle wan
   When Theodore, her belated guardian,
   Emerged.  She snuggled up against him, trembling,
   Half out of fear, half out of the assembling

   Of all the thoughts and needs his playing had given.
   Had she enjoyed herself, he wished to know.
   "Oh! Theodore, can't you feel that it was Heaven!"
   "Heaven!  My Lottachen, and was it so?
   Gebnitz was in good voice, but all the flow
   Of her last aria was spoiled by Klops,
   A wretched flutist, she was mad as hops."

   He was so simple, so matter-of-fact,
   Charlotta Altgelt knew not what to say
   To bring him to her dream.  His lack of tact
   Kept him explaining all the homeward way
   How this thing had gone well, that badly.  "Stay,
   Theodore!" she cried at last.  "You know to me
   Nothing was real, it was an ecstasy."

   And he was heartily glad she had enjoyed
   Herself so much, and said so.  "But it's good
   To be got home again."  He was employed
   In looking at his violin, the wood
   Was old, and evening air did it no good.
   But when he drew up to the table for tea
   Something about his wife's vivacity

   Struck him as hectic, worried him in short.
   He talked of this and that but watched her close.
   Tea over, he endeavoured to extort
   The cause of her excitement.  She arose
   And stood beside him, trying to compose
   Herself, all whipt to quivering, curdled life,
   And he, poor fool, misunderstood his wife.

   Suddenly, broken through her anxious grasp,
   Her music-kindled love crashed on him there.
   Amazed, he felt her fling against him, clasp
   Her arms about him, weighing down his chair,
   Sobbing out all her hours of despair.
   "Theodore, a woman needs to hear things proved.
   Unless you tell me, I feel I'm not loved."

   Theodore went under in this tearing wave,
   He yielded to it, and its headlong flow
   Filled him with all the energy she gave.
   He was a youth again, and this bright glow,
   This living, vivid joy he had to show
   Her what she was to him.  Laughing and crying,
   She asked assurances there's no denying.

   Over and over again her questions, till
   He quite convinced her, every now and then
   She kissed him, shivering as though doubting still.
   But later when they were composed and when
   She dared relax her probings, "Lottachen,"
   He asked, "how is it your love has withstood
   My inadvertence?  I was made of wood."

   She told him, and no doubt she meant it truly,
   That he was sun, and grass, and wind, and sky
   To her.  And even if conscience were unruly
   She salved it by neat sophistries, but why
   Suppose her insincere, it was no lie
   She said, for Heinrich was as much forgot
   As though he'd never been within earshot.

   But Theodore's hands in straying and caressing
   Fumbled against the locket where it lay
   Upon her neck.  "What is this thing I'm pressing?"
   He asked.  "Let's bring it to the light of day."
   He lifted up the locket.  "It should stay
   Outside, my Dear.  Your mother has good taste.
   To keep it hidden surely is a waste."

   Pity again Charlotta, straight aroused
   Out of her happiness.  The locket brought
   A chilly jet of truth upon her, soused
   Under its icy spurting she was caught,
   And choked, and frozen.  Suddenly she sought
   The clasp, but with such art was this contrived
   Her fumbling fingers never once arrived

   Upon it.  Feeling, twisting, round and round,
   She pulled the chain quite through the locket's ring
   And still it held.  Her neck, encompassed, bound,
   Chafed at the sliding meshes.  Such a thing
   To hurl her out of joy!  A gilded string
   Binding her folly to her, and those curls
   Which lay entwined beneath the clustered pearls!

   Again she tried to break the cord.  It stood.
   "Unclasp it, Theodore," she begged.  But he
   Refused, and being in a happy mood,
   Twitted her with her inefficiency,
   Then looking at her very seriously:
   "I think, Charlotta, it is well to have
   Always about one what a mother gave.

   As she has taken the great pains to send
   This jewel to you from Dresden, it will be
   Ingratitude if you do not intend
   To carry it about you constantly.
   With her fine taste you cannot disagree,
   The locket is most beautifully designed."
   He opened it and there the curls were, twined.

   Charlotta's heart dropped beats like knitting-stitches.
   She burned a moment, flaming; then she froze.
   Her face was jerked by little, nervous twitches,
   She heard her husband asking:  "What are those?"
   Put out her hand quickly to interpose,
   But stopped, the gesture half-complete, astounded
   At the calm way the question was propounded.

   "A pretty fancy, Dear, I do declare.
   Indeed I will not let you put it off.
   A lovely thought:  yours and your mother's hair!"
   Charlotta hid a gasp under a cough.
   "Never with my connivance shall you doff
   This charming gift."  He kissed her on the cheek,
   And Lotta suffered him, quite crushed and meek.

   When later in their room she lay awake,
   Watching the moonlight slip along the floor,
   She felt the chain and wept for Theodore's sake.
   She had loved Heinrich also, and the core
   Of truth, unlovely, startled her.  Wherefore
   She vowed from now to break this double life
   And see herself only as Theodore's wife.