JESSIE FAUSET
Reading edition
“Philadelphia where I was born and educated was once the dear delight of my heart. But everything in my life has contrived to pull me away from it. First I travelled to Cornell University and came back with a Phi Beta Kappa key and a degree of Bachelor of Arts. That launched me. Since then I’ve seen England, Scotland, France, Belgium, Switzerland, Italy, Austria and Algeria. The College de France and the Alliance Francaise have given me some points on the difference between the French of Stratford-atte-Bowe and that of Paris. And there was a pleasant year too at the University of Pennsylvania when I renewed my acquaintance with Philadelphia and earned a Master’s Degree. So much for education. As to occupations I’ve taught Latin and French in the Dunbar High School in Washington, D. C. And served as Literary Editor on the Crisis in New York.
Wonderful days those! Now I’m teaching French again in the City of New York which at present claims my love and allegiance. Like the French I am fond of dancing, and adore cards and the theatre probably because I am a minister’s daughter. All my life I have wanted to write novels and have had one published. But usually, in spite of myself, I have scribbled poetry.... I should like to see the West Indies, South America and Tunis and live a long time on the French Riviera. Aside from this I have few desires. And I find life perpetually enchanting.”
WORDS! WORDS!
How did it happen that we quarreled? We two who loved each other so! Only the moment before we were one, Using the language that lovers know. And then of a sudden, a word, a phrase That struck at the heart like a poignard’s blow. And you went berserk, and I saw red, And love lay between us, bleeding and dead! Dead! When we’d loved each other so! How could it happen that we quarreled! Think of the things we used to say! “What does it matter, dear, what you do? Love such as ours has to last for aye!” —“Try me! I long to endure your test!” —“Love, we shall always love, come what may!” What are the words the apostle saith? “In the power of the tongue are Life and Death!” Think of the things we used to say!
TOUCHÉ
Dear, when we sit in that high, placid room, “Loving” and “doving” as all lovers do, Laughing and leaning so close in the gloom,— What is the change that creeps sharp over you? Just as you raise your fine hand to my hair, Bringing that glance of mixed wonder and rue? “Black hair,” you murmur, “so lustrous and rare, Beautiful too, like a raven’s smooth wing; Surely no gold locks were ever more fair.” Why do you say every night that same thing? Turning your mind to some old constant theme, Half meditating and half murmuring? Tell me, that girl of your young manhood’s dream, Her you loved first in that dim long ago— Had she blue eyes? Did her hair goldly gleam? Does she come back to you softly and slow, Stepping wraith-wise from the depths of the past? Quickened and fired by the warmth of our glow? There I’ve divined it! My wit holds you fast. Nay, no excuses; ’tis little I care. I knew a lad in my own girlhood’s past,— Blue eyes he had and such waving gold hair!
NOBLESSE OBLIGE
Lolotte, who attires my hair, Lost her lover. Lolotte weeps; Trails her hand before her eyes; Hangs her head and mopes and sighs, Mutters of the pangs of hell. Fills the circumambient air With her plaints and her despair. Looks at me: “May you never know, Mam’selle, Love’s harsh cruelty.” Love’s dart lurks in my heart too,— None may know the smart Throbbing underneath my smile. Burning, pricking all the while That I dance and sing and spar, Juggling words and making quips To hide the trembling of my lips. I must laugh What time I moan to moon and star To help me stand the gaff. What a silly thing is pride! Lolotte bares her heart. Heedless that each runner reads All her thoughts and all her needs. What I hide with my soul’s life Lolotte tells with tear and cry. Blurs her pain with sob and sigh. Happy Lolotte, she! I must jest while sorrow’s knife Stabs in ecstasy. “If I live, I shall outlive.” Meanwhile I am barred From expression of my pain. Let my heart be torn in twain, Only I may know the truth. Happy Lolotte, blessed she Who may tell her agony! On me a seal is set. Love is lost, and—bitter ruth— Pride is with me yet!
LA VIE C’EST LA VIE
On summer afternoons I sit Quiescent by you in the park, And idly watch the sunbeams gild And tint the ash-trees’ bark. Or else I watch the squirrels frisk And chaffer in the grassy lane; And all the while I mark your voice Breaking with love and pain. I know a woman who would give Her chance of heaven to take my place; To see the love-light in your eyes, The love-glow on your face! And there’s a man whose lightest word Can set my chilly blood afire; Fulfilment of his least behest Defines my life’s desire. But he will none of me. Nor I Of you. Nor you of her. ’Tis said The world is full of jests like these.— I wish that I were dead.
THE RETURN
I that had found the way so smooth With gilly-flowers that beck and nod, Now find that same road wild and steep With need for compass and for rod. And yet with feet that bleed, I pant On blindly,—stumbling back to God!
RENCONTRE
My heart that was so passionless Leapt high last night when I saw you! Within me surged the grief of years And whelmed me with its endless rue. My heart that slept so still, so spent, Awoke last night,—to break anew!
FRAGMENT
The breath of life imbued those few dim days! Yet all we had was this,— A flashing smile, a touch of hands, and once A fleeting kiss. Blank futile death inheres these years between! Still naught have you and I But frozen tears, and stifled words, and once A sharp caught cry.