Читать книгу Mortal Summer - Mark Van Doren - Страница 4

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Daniel was mending fence, for it was May,

And early rains had painted the drear pastures.

He walked, testing the wire, and wished again

For his old pipe. He missed it, and grew moody.

Berrien would never notice it on the shelf;

Berrien would never bring it. A good wife,

But scornful of the comforts. A good woman,

Who never guessed the outrage he had done her.

New Year’s Eve, and Dora. He remembered—

And set his jaw, missing the pipe stem there.

He pulled at a slack strand of the barbed wire,

And snagged himself—here, in the palm of his hand.

A little blood came which he wiped away.

He did miss that tobacco. And he did,

He did loathe simple Dora—warm and simple,

Who with her dark head nodding close to his,

On New Year’s Eve, had done with him this outrage.

He would forget her if he could; and old

Darius, her profane, her grizzled father.

So proud of her he was, and kept so neat

The mountain shack they lived in, he and his one

Sweet chick he swore was safe as in State’s prison.

Daniel counted the months. Was the child showing?

Darius—did he guess? And Doctor Smith—

Would she have gone to him? Daniel looked off,

Unmindful of the beautiful May morning.

Bruce Hanna, that poor boy. Was he suspicious?

He had been born for Dora, she for him;

And then last New Year’s Eve, when the sleigh bells rang

So slyly, writing ruin in cold air!

Daniel, wiping his hand again, looked back

At the wild barb that bit him.

Who was that?

For a quizzical, small stranger stood by the fence,

Feeling its rust, its toughness. He was swarthy

And lame, and had bright eyes. And in his hand

A pipe—for all the township Daniel’s own!

“Here, have you need of this? I’m on my way

Northeast awhile, repairing peoples’ ranges.

It gave itself to me, but you can have it.”

Then he was gone, unless he walked and waved—

For someone did—Daniel could not distinguish—

From the far border of the field. The small

Stranger was gone, and all that Daniel held

Was a filled pipe bowl, comforting his palm.

He must ask Berrien, he said at noon,

If a lame dwarf had come to mend the cook stove.

He must ask Berrien, who wouldn’t listen,

How a man’s pipe could vanish from its shelf.

For so it had, into his very pocket.

“Berrien!” he called. But she was busy

With her own bother.

“Daniel, a woman’s here—

Wants to stay and board all summer—wants

To rest. A theater woman. I’ve said no,

But maybe—”

Who was the gold one, listening there

And smiling? Looking over Berrien’s shoulder

And lighting the front room with little smiles?

A faded gold one, well beyond her prime,

But the true substance, glistening. Berrien frowned

And her head shook. But Daniel, fascinated,

Said he would think, would figure.

In the end

She stayed, the theater woman; and that night

Daniel had dreams of her. She came to his bed

In beauty; stood beside him and said “Dora.”

How could she know of Dora? It was a dream,

Yet how could she know so much? And how had she fathomed,

All in one day, the longing he denied?

There was no loathing. Anywhere in his heart—

That sweetened as he said it—there was no hate

For Dora, whom he thought he saw there too,

Standing beside the theater woman and weeping,

And holding her simple hands out so he could say:

“Tomorrow, little sweetheart half my years,

Tomorrow I will tell the world about us.

You must be mine to keep. I have been cruel;

I have been absent, darling, from your pain.

Tomorrow I will put my two arms round you,

And bear if I can the—pleasure.”

Then he woke,

And none but Berrien watched him in the room—

Berrien, who ever after watched him,

Night and day detesting this pale witch

Who came and went and charmed him.

So she thought,

Said Daniel, never answering her eyes.

For him there were no hours now save those dark ones

When the pair came. At midnight they would be there,

Faithful as moths; and every sunny morning,

Starting from his pillow, he would mutter:

“Tomorrow is today. Then I must go

To Dora, I must tell her.” Yet he waited

Always upon another secret midnight;

And witnessed every noon how the gold woman,

Smiling her light smile, seemed not to know

Of Dora; was no witch at all; was no one.