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.