MONSIEUR D—— TO THE PSYCHOANALYST

In time I’ll tell you all the dreams I’ve had— But now—well, let me think! O yes three times I’ve dreamed a creature with a dragon’s head, Which was her head as well, for so it seemed, Gemmed with her brazen eyes half luminous And half opaque, slate colored, lay across My breast and hurt my heart, and breathed her breath From half-dead, livid overlapping lips (As when you crush a snake’s head jaws will lie Awry and out of plumb) like pestilence Right in my nostrils. This interpreted Means characters are breaths, and most are bad When closely known. Such breath suits well the dragon, But would not suit her, so you’d think to see How fair her face, how seeming fair her soul. So let me tell you. All my hair is gray, My youth is gone, pretense will work no more. I’m fifty-seven, yet I cling to youth, Because I cling to love, have never known Aught but successions of immoderate—what? Some call it lust—you call it libido. Well it is urge, creative fire and drives The artist half-soul mad, as I am mad— Look how my poor hand trembles, my voice breaks— No! I’ll go on. I’ll tell you all, be done. Then if you cannot cure me, there’s a balm I know myself. If I had only loved Elizabeth, who wrote me years ago Such pleading letters—every man can win Some woman’s love completely, had she won My love as well! O what a monstrous world Where such envenomed fire is, held by Chance And shot in blindness. So she felt the flame And looked on me, I felt the flame and looked Upon this cockatrice. So as I said I had been teacher, actor, writer, poet, Had seen my face on lithographs, felt warm In every capillary for that face Which seemed star-guided, noble, to be loved, Revered, and thus through self-esteem I bore My failures hoping, buoyed by some success As the swift years went by. But on a day When I was forty-five, looked thirty-five, No gray hairs then, they called me thirty-five, My name went round the city, in the press They hailed me as a genius, I had played Othello to their liking, was yet young And promised much, they said. That afternoon A woman came to see me in my suite, Wonder and admiration in her eyes. Her manner halted, as she thumbed a book Upon the table, while she told her tale: She had won favor as an amateur, Could I, the greatest talked of man to-day, Show her the way to greatness, might it be A modest part could be assigned to her When I played mad Othello? I have found That when a woman has no business with you Her calling speaks the oldest one of all. So true to this I acted. We commenced And for three months I struggled for the prize. Her first play was to make me pity her. She told me of her suffering, her youth, (She was then thirty-five), her poverty, Her labor to learn French. And like a man I pitied her and opened up my purse. She said, “No! No! this hat and dress will do, It brushes well.” She would not take a cent. I saw her daily for a month before I won her. Though she gave me hands and lips— There was a fury in her lips, my heart Seemed like to stop—I could not win the prize. One day she broke in tears: “You seemed so noble, So great of mind, are you then like the rest Who want a woman’s body, nothing else?” “I want your love,” I said, “your love for mine, I love you, dearest!” faugh, must I repeat The gagging words? So I declared the love I felt too deeply, and to prove my love I added: “I’ll renounce the gift of love, My Lady Wonderful, worship you afar. You would not have me tortured by your eyes, Nor have me see you often, in this case!” So I had given love as I had given All wealth that I could pour of soul, achievement, Name in the world, all pride, all thought of self Present or future to this woman, now For love’s sake I renounced the gift of love. And so I left her. Well, she called me back. And though I was a fool, and blinded too, I saw her thought and won her in an hour. So then commenced my madness, for she said It could not be again. The blood I tasted Could not be drunk. “You love me,” she would say, “Then bring me not to shame, it will be known If we go on. I cannot lose my bread. Librarians cannot have their names in doubt Who serve the public, as I do.” So it was The madness braced my will, and unrelenting I sought her, won her. In a little while We were adjusted to habitual love. And I was happy save when I was mad. For she knew younger men who came to call; Or take her to the theatre, with one She corresponded. “Let it be,” she said, “I must not be in public with you, dear, Whose name and greatness in the world would point To our relationship, how could it be You would be with a woman without station, Celebrity or wealth, except for this? These others are a blind.” I could not solve Out of the whirling clouds of passion truth— My days were tortured, in the dreams of sleep I saw this dragon head I told you of. And so through heavy venery, and dread, And anger, doubt, faith, love and much of hate, I took to drink. So drinking with her once, For she could drink me blind, I turned and said: “You say I am the first, I think you lie.” She wailed a flood of tears. A hundred eyes Turned on us in the café where we sat. We left and walked the park. I goaded her, Pried out the secret. Why, at twenty-three She had become the mistress of a man. It ended just six months before she came To see me in my suite. Now here I was: To hold on to myself I had to hold This woman, win her wholly, crush her soul, Destroy her so she would no longer be My heart’s desire. For I had given all. And I could see she valued it the less As time went on. My name, what was it now? My art, what was it now? She even hinted I could not act Othello. There was nothing I could do more to keep her, hold her love, Her admiration. O how good esteem Seems to a man who forfeits it to her Whose body he can have, who cannot have That sympathy whereby a man is nerved To daily work and living. What is Art? No picture would be painted, poem sung Save for the thought that woman close at hand, Or somewhere in the world yet to be found By reason of the picture or the poem, Will see and love you for it. Let me say In passing, and dismiss it, I began With little sums until I gave her much. There’s matter of more moment. I confess, In spite of my licentious life, the creed One sees among the artists, where I’ve lived, To strong belief in woman’s virtue, yes, In spite of lip avowal of the faith Of love called free, I have not quite believed it. But it was in her soul. She sucked that milk, A child upon her mother’s breast, she said— It all came out at last from many talks, And then, just then, I thought I saw foreshadowed A social change upon the things of sex: We read together Ann Veronica, And Bernard Shaw, and laughed and said, at last We see each other clearly. We have found A footing for our life. I slept at last. The dragon vanished from my dreams. I waked A song upon my lips, left drink alone, Could face my image in the looking-glass, And find restored a noble quality, A strength and genius. But if love be free And if you love though only for an hour Why not the cup of love? Her former friend Piqued to an interest by my love for her Came back to see if he had overlooked A beauty he would have. Well, she confessed Their night together. It was at the time My poor canzones which sang our stormy love Had just been finished. Every artist fool Writes sonnets or canzones once in his life. And so I had to add a verse to tell Her faithlessness—or was it faithlessness? Since she declared she loved me, did not love This older friend. But if she did not love him What was this act? She called it just a trial Of our love which had stood the test, O God Such mazes for my soul! Flushed then with wrath And drink I beat her cruelly. She stood With scarce a cry of pain and let me strike, And said if I considered it was just To beat her so, she wished to bear the pain. Then with a cry I ceased. We fell asleep Stretched on the bed together. When we woke She kissed me her forgiveness. I returned The kiss, ah me! So now the story turns. There was a woman critic who pursued My work with hateful words. Before I knew The cockatrice I found it best to fold This critic’s column under, never read. And in a day or two from that on which I beat my mistress, what should I behold?— A letter from her—she had left the town Without my knowing, she was visiting This critic enemy at her summer home. And in this mail I found my poor canzones Returned to me, and in the letter this: “My friend says for some reason you would try To compromise me by this wretched verse, So I return it to you, go and burn. I shall not see you more—so she advises, And so I think. I wish you well no less. You are a little old to rise to fame, Or excellence in acting, yet go on. Perhaps there is not aught beside to do, And it will occupy your mind, good-bye.” So shortly everywhere I seemed to sense The feeling that they deemed me foul and base. While we were friends I made her known to artists, And writers in the city. With this start She had gone on and multiplied her friends Among this folk. I saw it all at once As one sees dawn from darkness. Then The social standard melted, gave away To all that had been written for some years. Free love had won at last. And we who kept Our love in hiding, she who lied to keep Her name as one who lived a maiden’s life, And I who doubted, hated her because She was not freshly mine, we, she and I, Stepped to a world all new, she to enjoy And I to perish. I was weak from loss Of blood from wounds she gave me, spent for love Poured for her sorrow, for she grieved and wept That I was not her early love, her love At love’s beginning. I went here and there To build her life up, make it rich, repair The injuries of her youth, retrieve the days Which had brought loneliness. Forbear with me— I thought I could tell all in just a word— Yes, this is it—She learned what was my strength And took it for her own, found out my faults And struck me there. She gave me confidence And trust, I fancied. On analysis She had concealed herself, there had not been Clear understanding with us. So she took My friends, and friends are never wholly friends, And made them hers, through these made other friends, Explored my havens, my alliances, My secret powers of prestige in the world. And I awoke to find the world my foe! And every desk of every editor Silent for knowledge of me, breaking silence In just a word of hate. You see she loosed This story like a mist which creeps through cracks That I had compromised her. Then behold I who had helped to bring this era in Of sex equality, yes, in spite of all, My ingrained feelings I have spoken of, Found myself robbed of her by just the creed I had upheld, and saw her live with him Who was her friend, before I knew her, yes, And justified by those whom she had feared, Because they hated me, and pitied him Bound to a woman in a loveless life Who would not free him, let him marry her. Then the last atom of my strength I summoned To play Othello. It was death or life! Soul triumph or soul ruin. But you see The cockatrice had sent the word around And sharpened every critic eye. I faced An audience of one mind, could sense it all Where hatred, mild amusement were well mixed To poison, paralyze creative power, And even break my memory. But I said Show now your genius, drink the hatred in Till all your spirit sparkles as a star When the north wind of winter blows at night. Nothing opposes but a woman’s hate. Rise on its wreckage. So I spurred myself. And even when I saw her critic friend Limned from the mass of faces, lost my clue And waited for the prompter, then my rage Upheld me—yes, but wait—the rest is brief. I had not acted through the strangle scene When I heard calls and bells, the curtain fell, My understudy led me from the stage. Out in the night we went—I knew not where— It was a night of drink, and I awoke To strange surroundings in a scented room, A woman with light hair lay by my side “How did I get here”—then the woman laughed— She was a Fury, for the Furies had me. Out of the house I ran, from place to place, All day went wandering in the city, thus My wanderings of ten years began, they seem Ten centuries. What do you think of this? I’m fifty-seven, with a bad complex, Can you unravel it and make me well?