HAVING HIS WAY

We parted at the Union Station, Tom Hall and I, Two boys in the early twenties Fresh from the quiet of fields, And the sleepy silence of village life. And we stepped into Adams Street, Noisy from trucks and rattling cars, And babbling multitudes. He with his great invention, And I with my translation of Homer, And the books of Rousseau and Marx. And he went his way To sell his great invention. And I in the village glory Of clothes ill-fitting, timid, sensitive And proud, a little learned, so zealous For the weal of the world Came to your chateau palace near the Drive, To you my friend, my queenly cousin, For a little visit before I entered Upon the city’s life. You looked me over with calm Egyptian eyes, And put me at ease with your lovely smile. And there was about you the calm of desert air in Nevada That made me forget myself. Yet you began to guide me with subtlest words, And to mould me with delicate hands, As one might smooth a rumpled collar, Or fasten a loosened scarf, Or lift to place a strand of hair Of one beloved who thrills to the touch. Even with closed eyes you saw everything Of harmony, or form, or hue. There were silver strings in your little ears Which caught the tone pictures of sounds, And the intonations and sonorities of voices; Which trembled to the barbarities of unmelodic words. And there as you saw and heard me, (I knew it at once,) You took me for your piece of bronze in the rough To be made under your hands Your triumph, your work, your creation In the world where you ruled as queen. You would see me as finished art Move before admiring eyes Where music is and richness, And where poverty and struggle And sacrifice and failure are forgotten. That was the cousin you meant me to be. And in a few nights There was an evening dress and fine linen And an opera hat and cloak Laid out for me in my snow white room, And a valet came to help me. For we were to see Carmen together— You and I in a box. You the queen, And I a genius from the country Of whom the word had gone the rounds: A translator of Homer, And a dreamer of revolutions, Her cousin, you know! I was pale from fear and pride As I entered the box with you. I felt I was wronging my dreams And apostatizing all I had dreamed To be in this box with you. And a sullen hatred of everything: The mass of color, the faint perfumes, The lights, the jewels, the dazzling breasts Of the queens in the boxes angered me. And everyone was smiling, and everyone was leveling Opera glasses, sometimes at me, A translator of Homer And a dreamer of socialism. And there like a fool I sat and thought Of the cold without and the beggar man Who stood at your carriage as we alighted. And when the music arose at last A sort of madness whirled in my brain. For what was this Carmen thing But subtle wickedness and cruel lust And hardest heathenism, And delight that seeks its own, In a setting of bloody voluptuousness, Fiendish caprice and faithlessness, In music through which a pagan soul Had sensed and voiced it all? Till at least (I almost shrieked at this) Don Jose in his amorous madness Plunged a knife in the back of the whore he loved To the growl of horns and moan of viols.... And you sat through it all Like a firefly on a vine leaf Suspiring in all your body, And gazing with calm Egyptian eyes, Or turning to me as if you would know If the poison was in my blood.... But I was immune: Democracy seemed too glorious, And the cause of the poor too just, And fair sweet love of men and women So worth the cost to gain and keep, And honest bread too sweet— I was immune.... And I scarcely saw the fair slim girl To whom you introduced me. And I scarcely heard what you said in the carriage About her countless riches. And I scarcely heard your words of praise That I looked like a prince, And that you meant to help me, And do by me what your husband would do If he were living, And lift me along to a place in life Where power and riches are, And beauty is and music, And where struggle and sacrifice are forgotten. And when I did not answer you thought I sat abashed by your side. Instead in my mind were running The notes to Queen Mab, And bits of Greek. I did this to stifle my wrath, And to forget the cage you were luring me into, And the poison you were offering me, And the cause of Truth! And hiding my wrath in a day or two I left you saying I would return, But I never returned. Instead I went where the youths were thinking, Painting and writing, And talking of the revolution, And the glorious day to come. And I was happy even though They sent my great translation back As poor and amateurish. For the years of youth were long ahead There was time to try again.... Then Margaret’s stepmother Drove her from home, and she came to the city Crying in her loneliness and destitution, Suffering from her lame hip. And even these were happy days, For I loved her for her sorrows, I loved her for her lameness. It was all transfigured through my love For democracy and sacrifice, And the sweetness of honest bread. And it was like taking the sacrament, our marriage. And there in our little flat far out On Robey Street I toiled at writing While she went about so lame, Trying to keep the house for me, And to clear away the disorders Which piled about her constantly And were never cleared away.... And is it not strange that to-day, After the lapse of ten years These two things happen within an hour? Your letter from Rome arrived— For though I scorned your life and love, And went my way, You write me still it seems, Not to wound my fallen state, Nor to show me what my life had been If I had heeded you. But just in the continuous sunshine Of noble friendship to show me I am sometimes in your thought. And scarcely had your letter come When Tom Hall crept up the creaking stairs Dragging his feet with the help of a cane— He is rich and came to help me. And Tom Hall had his way as well: He hated marriage and went the rounds, Wherever a pretty face allured. And now he is sick and dragging his feet. And here am I at a writing desk: I’m cap and bells for the Daily Globe And my grind is a column a day. You see it comes to this, dear queen: Can a man or woman alive escape The granite’s edges or ditch’s mire, The thorny thickets or marsh’s gas, Or the traps one thinks would never be set Except for the fox or wolf?.... And here is Margaret down with a cough Never to rise from her bed again. And I sit by at my task of jokes, And I stop to read your letter again, And wonder why life has never caught you, And why you are laughing there in Rome Where you dine with happy friends; Or tramp the thickets around the ruins Of the Baths of Caracalla— I see the platforms and dizzy arches Under a sky of Italy. It’s cloudy here and the elevated Rattles and roars beneath my window. You’re picking flowers while it’s winter here. I read these things in your letter and wonder Is the asp at your breast in spite of laughter? Or when is the asp to sting you?