Jim And Arabel's Sister

Last night a friend of mine and I sat talking,         When all at once I found 'twas one o'clock.         So we came out and he went home to wife         And children, and I started for the club         Which I call home; and then just like a flash         You came into my mind. I bought a slug         And stood, in the booth, with doubtful heart and heard         The buzzer buzz. Well, it was sweet to me         To hear your voice at last - it was so drowsy,         Like a child's voice. And I could see your eyes         Heavy with sleep, and I could see you standing         In nightgown with head leaned against the wall....         Julia! the welcome of your drowsy voice         Went through me like the warmth of priceless wine,         It showed your understanding, that you know         How it is with a man, and how it is with me         Who work by day and sometimes drift by night         About this hellish city. Though you know         That I am fifty-one, can you imagine         My feeling with no children growing up?         My feeling as of one who sees a play         And afterwards sits somewhere at a table         And talks with friends about the different parts         Over a sandwich and a glass of beer?         My feeling with this money which I've made         And cannot use? Sometimes the stress of working         The money dulls the fancy which could use it         In splendid dreams or in the art of life.         Well, here was I ringing your bell at last         At half-past one, and there you stood before me         With a sleepy voice and a sleepy smile, with hands         So warm, and cheeks so red from sleep, not vexed,         But like a child, awakened, who smiles at you         With half-shut eyes and kisses you, so you         Gave me a kiss. The world seems better, Julia,         For that kiss which you gave me at the door....         Breakfast? Why, toast and coffee, not too strong,         My heart acts queer of late....             I want to say         Lest I forget it, if you ever hear         From Arabel or Francis what I said         To Francis when he told me he intended         To marry Arabel, why just remember         Our talk this morning and forget I said it,         I'm sorry that I said it. But, you see,         That night we met, I being fifty-one         And old at what men call the game, looked on         With steady eye and quiet nerve, I saw you         Just as I'd see a woman anywhere;         And I found you as I'd found others before you,         But with this difference so it seemed to me:         What had been false with them was real with you,         What had been shame with them with you was life,         What had been craft with them with you was nature,         What had been sin with them to you was good,         What had been vice with them to you the honest         And uncorrupted innocence of a human         Heart so human looking on our souls.         What had been coarse to them to you was clean         As rain is, or fresh flowers, all things that grow         And move and sing along creation's way.         You came to me like friendship, what you gave         Was friendship's gift, when friends think least of self         And least of motive. And it is through you         That I have risen out of the pit where sneers         And laughter, looks and words obscene,         Blaspheme our nature. It is through you, Julia,         As one amid great beach trees where soft mosses         Pillow our heads and where we see the clouds         Upon their infinite sailings and the lake         Washes beneath us, and we lie and think         How this has been forever and will be         When we are dust a thousand, thousand years,         Yet how life is eternal - just as one         Who there falls into prayer for ecstasy         Of wonder, prophecy could not blaspheme         The Eternal Power (as he might well blaspheme         The gospel hymns and ritual) that I         Cannot blaspheme you, Julia.         For what is our communion, yours and mine,         If it be not a way of laying hold         On that mysterious essence which makes one         Of heaven and earth, makes kindred human hands....         Tears are not like you, Julia; laugh, that's right!         Pour me a little coffee, if you please.         I'll take from my herbarium certain species         To make my points: Now here there is the woman         Of life promiscuous, or nearly so.         She fixes her design upon a man,         Who's married and the riotous game begins.         They go along a year or two perhaps.         Then psychic chemistry performs its part:         They are in love, or he's in love with her.         What shall be done with love? Now watch the woman:         That which she gave without love at the first         She now withdraws in spite of love unless         He breaks his life up, cuts all former ties         And weds her. Do you wonder sometimes men         Kill women with a knife or strangle them?         Well, here's another: She has been to Ogontz,         You meet her at a dinner-dance, we'll say.         She has green eyes and hair as light as jonquils;         She wears black velvet and a salmon sash.         And when you dance with her she has a way         Of giving you her flesh beneath thin silk,         Which almost lisps as she caresses you         With legs that scarcely touch you; and she says         Things with a double meaning, and she smiles         To carry out her meaning. Well, you think         The girl is yours, and after weeks of chasing         She lands you up at the appointed place         With mamma, who looks at you with big eyes,         That have a nervous way of opening         And closing slowly like a big wax doll's,         From which great clouds of wrath and wonder come;         Which meeting is a way of saying to you:         The girl is yours if you will marry her,         And let her have your money.         Julia, be still;         I can't go on while you are laughing so.         I know that men are easy, but to see         Women as women see them is a gift         That comes to men who reach my age in life....         Well, here's another, here's the type of woman         Whose power of motherhood conceals the art         By which she thrives, through which she reaches also         An apotheosis in society.         Her dream is children conscious or unconscious.         And her strength is the race's, and she draws         The urgings of posterity and leans         Upon the hopes and ideals of the day.         To her a man must sacrifice his life.         But women, Julia, of whatever type,         Are still but waiting ovules seeking man,         And man's life to develop, even to live.         And like the praying mantis who's devoured         In the embrace, man is devoured by women         In some way, by some sort. Love is a flame         In man's life where he warms him but to suck         The invisible heat and perish. Life is cramped,         Bound down with many ropes, shut in by gates,         Love is not free which should be wholly free         For Life's sake.         On Michigan Avenue         At lunch time, or at five o'clock, you'll see         In rain or shine a certain tailor walk         In modish coat and trousers, with a cane.         That fellow is the pitifulest man I know.         He has no woman, cannot find a woman,         Because all women, seeing him, divine         What surges through him, and within their hearts         Laugh slyly and deny him for the fun         Of seeing how denial keeps him walking         All up and down the boulevard. He's found         No hand of human friendship like yours, Julia.         I use him for my point. If we could make         Some fine erotometer one could sit         And watch its trembling springs and nervous hands         Record the waves of longing in the city,         And the urge of life that writhes beneath the blows         Of custom and of fear. Love is not free,         Which should be wholly free for Life's sake.         Julia.         So much for all these things, and now for you         To whom they lead.             You'll find among the marshes         The sundew and the pitcher plant; in shallows,         Where the green scum floats languidly you'll find         The water lily with white petals and         A sickly perfume. But the sundew catches         The midges flitting by with rainbow wings,         Impales them on its tiny spines, in time         Devours them. And the pitcher plant holds out         Its cup of green for larger bugs, which fall         Into the water, treasured there like tears         Of women, and so drowned are soon absorbed         Into the verdant vesture of its leaves.         The pitcher plant and sundew, water lily         Well typify the nature of most women         Who must have blood or soul of man to live,         Except you, Julia. For my friend at Hinsdale         Who raises flowers laid out a primrose bed.         He read somewhere that primroses will change         Under your eyes sometimes to something else,         Become another flower and not a primrose,         Another species even. So he watched         And saw it, saw this miracle! The seed         Has somewhere in its vital self the power         Of this mutation. What is the origin         Of spiritual species? For you're a primrose, Julia,         Who has mutated: You are not a mother;         Nor are you yet the woman seeking marriage;         Nor yet the woman thriving by her sex;         Nor yet the woman spoken of by Solomon         Who waits and watches and whose steps lead down         To death and hell. Nor yet Delilah who         Rejoices in the secret of man's strength         And in subduing it.          You are a flower         Designed to comfort such poor men as I,         And show the world how love can be a thing         That asks no more than what it freely gives,         And gives all, all some women call the prize         For life or honor, riches, power or place.         You are a blossom in the primrose bed         So raised to subtler color, sweeter scent.         You have mutated, Julia, that is it,         This flower of you is what I call The Lover!