| |
| HE saw her from the bottom of the stairs | |
| Before she saw him. She was starting down, | |
| Looking back over her shoulder at some fear. | |
| She took a doubtful step and then undid it | |
| To raise herself and look again. He spoke | 5 |
| Advancing toward her: “What is it you see | |
| From up there always—for I want to know.” | |
| She turned and sank upon her skirts at that, | |
| And her face changed from terrified to dull. | |
| He said to gain time: “What is it you see,” | 10 |
| Mounting until she cowered under him. | |
| “I will find out now—you must tell me, dear.” | |
| She, in her place, refused him any help | |
| With the least stiffening of her neck and silence. | |
| She let him look, sure that he wouldn’t see, | 15 |
| Blind creature; and a while he didn’t see. | |
| But at last he murmured, “Oh,” and again, “Oh.” | |
| |
| “What is it—what?” she said. | |
| |
| “Just that I see.” | |
| |
| “You don’t,” she challenged. “Tell me what it is.” | 20 |
| |
| “The wonder is I didn’t see at once. | |
| I never noticed it from here before. | |
| I must be wonted to it—that’s the reason. | |
| The little graveyard where my people are! | |
| So small the window frames the whole of it. | 25 |
| Not so much larger than a bedroom, is it? | |
| There are three stones of slate and one of marble, | |
| Broad-shouldered little slabs there in the sunlight | |
| On the sidehill. We haven’t to mind those. | |
| But I understand: it is not the stones, | 30 |
| But the child’s mound——” | |
| |
| “Don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t,” she cried. | |
| |
| She withdrew shrinking from beneath his arm | |
| That rested on the banister, and slid downstairs; | |
| And turned on him with such a daunting look, | 35 |
| He said twice over before he knew himself: | |
| “Can’t a man speak of his own child he’s lost?” | |
| |
| “Not you! Oh, where’s my hat? Oh, I don’t need it! | |
| I must get out of here. I must get air. | |
| I don’t know rightly whether any man can.” | 40 |
| |
| “Amy! Don’t go to someone else this time. | |
| Listen to me. I won’t come down the stairs.” | |
| He sat and fixed his chin between his fists. | |
| “There’s something I should like to ask you, dear.” | |
| |
| “You don’t know how to ask it.” | 45 |
| |
| “Help me, then.” | |
| Her fingers moved the latch for all reply. | |
| |
| “My words are nearly always an offence. | |
| I don’t know how to speak of anything | |
| So as to please you. But I might be taught | 50 |
| I should suppose. I can’t say I see how. | |
| A man must partly give up being a man | |
| With women-folk. We could have some arrangement | |
| By which I’d bind myself to keep hands off | |
| Anything special you’re a-mind to name. | 55 |
| Though I don’t like such things ’twixt those that love. | |
| Two that don’t love can’t live together without them. | |
| But two that do can’t live together with them.” | |
| She moved the latch a little. “Don’t—don’t go. | |
| Don’t carry it to someone else this time. | 60 |
| Tell me about it if it’s something human. | |
| Let me into your grief. I’m not so much | |
| Unlike other folks as your standing there | |
| Apart would make me out. Give me my chance. | |
| I do think, though, you overdo it a little. | 65 |
| What was it brought you up to think it the thing | |
| To take your mother-loss of a first child | |
| So inconsolably—in the face of love. | |
| You’d think his memory might be satisfied——” | |
| |
| “There you go sneering now!” | 70 |
| |
| “I’m not, I’m not! | |
| You make me angry. I’ll come down to you. | |
| God, what a woman! And it’s come to this, | |
| A man can’t speak of his own child that’s dead.” | |
| |
| “You can’t because you don’t know how. | 75 |
| If you had any feelings, you that dug | |
| With your own hand—how could you?—his little grave; | |
| I saw you from that very window there, | |
| Making the gravel leap and leap in air, | |
| Leap up, like that, like that, and land so lightly | 80 |
| And roll back down the mound beside the hole. | |
| I thought, Who is that man? I didn’t know you. | |
| And I crept down the stairs and up the stairs | |
| To look again, and still your spade kept lifting. | |
| Then you came in. I heard your rumbling voice | 85 |
| Out in the kitchen, and I don’t know why, | |
| But I went near to see with my own eyes. | |
| You could sit there with the stains on your shoes | |
| Of the fresh earth from your own baby’s grave | |
| And talk about your everyday concerns. | 90 |
| You had stood the spade up against the wall | |
| Outside there in the entry, for I saw it.” | |
| |
| “I shall laugh the worst laugh I ever laughed. | |
| I’m cursed. God, if I don’t believe I’m cursed.” | |
| |
| “I can repeat the very words you were saying. | 95 |
| ‘Three foggy mornings and one rainy day | |
| Will rot the best birch fence a man can build.’ | |
| Think of it, talk like that at such a time! | |
| What had how long it takes a birch to rot | |
| To do with what was in the darkened parlour. | 100 |
| You couldn’t care! The nearest friends can go | |
| With anyone to death, comes so far short | |
| They might as well not try to go at all. | |
| No, from the time when one is sick to death, | |
| One is alone, and he dies more alone. | 105 |
| Friends make pretence of following to the grave, | |
| But before one is in it, their minds are turned | |
| And making the best of their way back to life | |
| And living people, and things they understand. | |
| But the world’s evil. I won’t have grief so | 110 |
| If I can change it. Oh, I won’t, I won’t!” | |
| |
| “There, you have said it all and you feel better. | |
| You won’t go now. You’re crying. Close the door. | |
| The heart’s gone out of it: why keep it up. | |
| Amy! There’s someone coming down the road!” | 115 |
| |
| “You—oh, you think the talk is all. I must go— | |
| Somewhere out of this house. How can I make you——” | |
| |
| “If—you—do!” She was opening the door wider. | |
| Where do you mean to go? First tell me that. | |
| I’ll follow and bring you back by force. I will!—” | 120 |
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