University of Virginia Library

It is not I! It is not he. But she.
'Twas that that sickened all the soul of me.
I felt betrayal in the very air,
Not naming it. The worst there is to bear
I know, to the inmost soul. What I shall do?
With just as little doubt I know that too.

How hot the world is, suddenly! I rest
My head against the night's vast quiet breast;
Across the plains the night air blows this way.
The green fields round the town look cool and gray,
Chill looks the earth—but I can feel its heat
In my parched lips and burning pulse's beat
Hot, hot as hell, wherein I must abide,
The world within mocking the world outside.
For many weeks our plans had all been laid,
Only the time when movement could be made
Remained unfixed.

‘It may be years,’ said he,
‘But we are patient—however long it be!’
‘It may be ere to-morrow's dawn shall break,
But we are ready, are ready!’ so she spake.
And I said, ‘Freedom triumphs! Hope endures,
Fed by such fervour and such faith as yours.’

And then I heard a word how all was fit
To aid our plan and our unfolding it.
I hurried to my friend to tell him all,
Glad to the soul of the long longed-for call
‘To work!’ I found them sitting silently,
Watching a splendid blood-red sunset die.
They turned and smiled at me: a quiet mood
Was on them, when peace seemed the deepest good,
And rest and love and happiness seemed right
In a disconsolate wronged world's despite.

I spoke my tidings. ‘You and I will go
And sow the seed upon the field we know,
And she the harder task shall do, and wait
To see what fruit is raised from it by fate;
Shall hold the threads of all our lives within
Her hands, and give the signals “Lose!” and “Win!”
And now comes parting, and new life, new pain
For us, who, maybe, shall not meet again.’

His eyes showed lightning.

‘O, I knew,’ said he,
‘Life was not over yet, for you—for me.
I can work now—a work that may repay
For these five wasted years I have thrown away.
Intensity may compensate for time,
And new strong hope shall expiate my crime—
Despair, the blackest crime that stains man's soul.
And you, my brother, friend, myself still strong,
Who have hoped, nor once despaired these five years long,
O, you are glad, as earth is glad of flowers,
Of this great good, and glorious chance of ours
To work, perform, achieve, retrieve, repair,
Justify hope, annihilate despair!’

He reached his hands out to me as he spake,
With face all radiant for the new joy's sake;
Born leader of men, born chief of enterprise,
With the deep voice and strong magnetic eyes;
More than all others, fit and sure to lead,
To teach the soul the thought, the hand the deed!

She had sat silent, statue of repose,
Harkening to all our words from first to close.
Now—while he stood transfigured there—she rose.
Then, as he turned to her, she thundered

‘No!
By all our love and joy, you shall not go!
You swore yourself to me—to me. The vow
Shall firmly hold, and save you for me now.
Your safety and my love, my Love, are worth
A million times the million dreams of earth.
Let him go! What he does or does not do,
Who cares?—but all I am holds life from you.’

He did not speak. I spoke:

‘But you have said
A thousand times . . . .’

‘My lies upon my head,’
She cried to him. ‘What is it I would not do
Or say, if saying or doing pleasured you?
Has it been hard to act this patriot's part
These years long—prompted by a steady heart
To seem the thing you wished me, and to be
In soul more strong than you could fancy me?
I have lied for all these years—save in such word
As love has whispered, and you alone have heard.
Fre dom? A name! The people? None of them
Worthy to touch my lover's garment-hem!
Plenty there be are good enough to die
The deaths that Freedom must be purchased by;
But nothing that the world could gain could pay
For your one life, if that were thrown away.
I have kept silence, I have spoken and lied,
That you most fully might be satisfied.
But now the time has come for speaking true,
For saying what you shall and shall not do.
Vain words he wastes, this foolish boy, your friend,
To me your life is vowed till life shall end.
Judge you what honour Freedom will confer
On him who breaks a vow to follow her!
What? Urge dishonour and a broken vow?
These were not things you willed for him till now!
Urge him, entreat—in any words you know.
I hold his heart; I say he shall not go!’

She flung an arm across his neck. And he
Half moved his lips—yet never spoke to me.
She spoke. ‘To-morrow he will speak to you!’
I came away.

O, I am patient too!
I waited till I heard what he would do.
To-day this came:

‘Forgive her, forgive me!
O more than brother, right is hard to see,
And mine eyes blind. Life's maze has many a turn.
Only this much unclouded I discern—
A vow is sacred. So—I yield. For she
Claims to the uttermost the soul of me.
But you—go on! It shall be given you
To do the deeds I was too weak to do.
Some day, perhaps, she may believe as I—
As you. Till then, O more than friend, Good-bye!’

So the dream's ended!

Now comes action's turn.
What must I do? These scanty tears that burn
Like fire along my face—heart of my heart,
These are for you, for me, since we must part;
But all the other fire that burns me through
Is for the future. What remains to do?
How end the contradiction of his life?
All high dreams crushed—a woman and a wife
Set in the place that Freedom once was in!
This is the one unpardonable sin,
Or were, if I should suffer it. I hold
The keys of fate, of issues manifold.
‘If she were dead, he would be ours again.
How those four words danced through my dizzy brain
Last night! Now within my weary head
Another phrase keeps time—‘When she is dead.’
His sensuous nature will be sad awhile,
To miss her face and eyes, her voice and smile;
But the true self will conquer, and the man
Will do the work—the work none other can.
And she has played a game for heavy stakes,
And wins the sleep from which none ever wakes.
And I—gain nothing—but the world shall gain!
Weigh, now, and balance! Venture or refrain?
Refrain—have pity—go my working way,
And hope to see the face I love, some day
After long years—when somewhat we have won—
To hear him say, ‘What I, too, might have done
If . . .’

What a hope to feed the empty years!
Venture! A sharp brief pain, some short-lived tears
For him. For me renouncement of my land,
Of all my right to hold him by the hand;
Of all my chance of seeing him some day,
When all those shadows may have passed away.
For him a splendid future (when his hand
Alone shall execute what both have planned.
So that the travail shall not be in vain)—
Sad, but not sorry, triumphing through pain!
This for the man I love! This may I give;
Its price my death—and, dying, I shall live,
If by some glorious death I yield my breath
Making of life a hymn—a song of death.