 | New Ballads |  |
22
A WOMAN AND HER SON
‘Has he come yet?’ the dying woman asked.
‘No,’ said the nurse. ‘Be quiet.’
‘No,’ said the nurse. ‘Be quiet.’
‘When he comes
Bring him to me: I may not live an hour.’
Bring him to me: I may not live an hour.’
‘Not if you talk. Be quiet.’
‘When he comes
Bring him to me.’
Bring him to me.’
‘Hush, will you!’
Night came down.
The cries of children playing in the street
Suddenly rose more voluble and shrill;
Ceased, and broke out again; and ceased and broke
In eager prate; then dwindled and expired.
The cries of children playing in the street
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Ceased, and broke out again; and ceased and broke
In eager prate; then dwindled and expired.
‘Across the dreary common once I saw
The moon rise out of London like a ghost.
Has the moon risen? Is he come?’
The moon rise out of London like a ghost.
Has the moon risen? Is he come?’
‘Not yet.
Be still, or you will die before he comes.’
Be still, or you will die before he comes.’
The working-men with heavy iron tread,
The thin-shod clerks, the shopmen neat and plump
Home from the city came. On muddy beer
The melancholy mean suburban street
Grew maudlin for an hour; pianos waked
In dissonance from dreams of rusty peace,
And unpitched voices quavered tedious songs
Of sentiment infirm or nerveless mirth.
The thin-shod clerks, the shopmen neat and plump
Home from the city came. On muddy beer
The melancholy mean suburban street
Grew maudlin for an hour; pianos waked
In dissonance from dreams of rusty peace,
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Of sentiment infirm or nerveless mirth.
‘Has he come yet?’
‘Be still or you will die!’
And when the hour of gaiety had passed,
And the poor revellers were gone to bed,
The moon among the chimneys wandering long
Escaped at last, and sadly overlooked
The waste raw land where doleful suburbs thrive.
And the poor revellers were gone to bed,
The moon among the chimneys wandering long
Escaped at last, and sadly overlooked
The waste raw land where doleful suburbs thrive.
Then came a firm quick step—measured but quick;
And then a triple knock that shook the house
And brought the plaster down.
And then a triple knock that shook the house
And brought the plaster down.
‘My son!’ she cried.
‘Bring him to me!’
‘Bring him to me!’
25
He came; the nurse went out.
‘Mother, I thought to spare myself this pain,’
He said at once, ‘but that was cowardly.
And so I come to bid you try to think,
To understand at last.’
He said at once, ‘but that was cowardly.
And so I come to bid you try to think,
To understand at last.’
‘Still hard, my son?’
‘Hard as the nether millstone.’
‘But I hope
To soften you,’ she said, ‘before I die.’
To soften you,’ she said, ‘before I die.’
‘And I to see you harden with a hiss
As life goes out in the cold bath of death.
Oh, surely now your creed will set you free
For one great moment, and the universe
Flash on your intellect as power, power, power,
Knowing not good or evil, God or sin,
But only everlasting yea and nay.
Is weakness greatness? No, a thousand times!
Is force the greatest? Yes, for ever yes!
Be strong, be great, now you have come to die.’
As life goes out in the cold bath of death.
Oh, surely now your creed will set you free
For one great moment, and the universe
Flash on your intellect as power, power, power,
Knowing not good or evil, God or sin,
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Is weakness greatness? No, a thousand times!
Is force the greatest? Yes, for ever yes!
Be strong, be great, now you have come to die.’
‘My son, you seem to me a kind of prig.’
‘How can I get it said? Think, mother, think!
Look back upon your fifty wretched years
And show me anywhere the hand of God.
Your husband saving souls—O, paltry souls
That need salvation!—lost the grip of things,
And left you penniless with none to aid
But me the prodigal. Back to the start!
An orphan girl, hurt, melancholy, frail,
Before you learned to play, your toil began:
That might have been your making, had the weight
Of drudgery, the unsheathed fire of woe
Borne down and beat on your defenceless life:
Souls shrivel up in these extremes of pain,
Or issue diamonds to engrave the world;
But yours before it could be made or marred,
Plucked from the burning, saved by faith, became
Inferior as a thing of paste that hopes
To pass for real in heaven's enduing light.
You married then a crude evangelist,
Whose soul was like a wafer that can take
One single impress only.’
Look back upon your fifty wretched years
And show me anywhere the hand of God.
Your husband saving souls—O, paltry souls
That need salvation!—lost the grip of things,
And left you penniless with none to aid
But me the prodigal. Back to the start!
An orphan girl, hurt, melancholy, frail,
Before you learned to play, your toil began:
That might have been your making, had the weight
Of drudgery, the unsheathed fire of woe
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Souls shrivel up in these extremes of pain,
Or issue diamonds to engrave the world;
But yours before it could be made or marred,
Plucked from the burning, saved by faith, became
Inferior as a thing of paste that hopes
To pass for real in heaven's enduing light.
You married then a crude evangelist,
Whose soul was like a wafer that can take
One single impress only.’
‘Oh, my son!
Your father!’
Your father!’
‘He, my father! These are times
When all must to the crucible—no thought,
Practice, or use, or custom sacro-sanct
But shall be violable now. And first
If ever we evade the wonted round,
The stagnant vortex of the eddying years,
The child must take the father by the beard,
And say, “What did you in begetting me?”’
When all must to the crucible—no thought,
Practice, or use, or custom sacro-sanct
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If ever we evade the wonted round,
The stagnant vortex of the eddying years,
The child must take the father by the beard,
And say, “What did you in begetting me?”’
‘I will not listen!’
‘But you shall, you must—
You cannot help yourself. Death in your eyes
And voice, and I to torture you with truth,
Even as your preachers for a thousand years
Pestered with falsehood souls of dying folk.
Look at the man, your husband. Of the soil;
Broad, strong, adust; head, massive; eyes of steel;
Yet some way ailing, for he understood
But one idea, and he married you.’
You cannot help yourself. Death in your eyes
And voice, and I to torture you with truth,
Even as your preachers for a thousand years
Pestered with falsehood souls of dying folk.
Look at the man, your husband. Of the soil;
Broad, strong, adust; head, massive; eyes of steel;
Yet some way ailing, for he understood
But one idea, and he married you.’
The dying woman sat up straight in bed;
A ghastly blush glowed on her yellow cheek,
And flame broke from her eyes, but words came not.
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And flame broke from her eyes, but words came not.
The son's pent wrath burnt on. ‘He married you;
You were his wife, his servant; cheerfully
You bore him children; and your house was hell.
Unwell, half-starved, and clad in cast-off clothes,
We had no room, no sport; nothing but fear
Of our evangelist, whose little purse
Opened to all save us; who squandered smiles
On wily proselytes, and gloomed at home.
You had eight children; only three grew up:
Of these, one died bedrid, and one insane,
And I alone am left you. Think of it!
It matters nothing if a fish, a plant
Teem with waste offspring, but a conscious womb!
Eight times you bore a child, and in fierce throes,
For you were frail and small: of all your love,
Your hopes, your passion, not a memory steals
To smooth your dying pillow, only I
Am here to rack you. Where does God appear?’
You were his wife, his servant; cheerfully
You bore him children; and your house was hell.
Unwell, half-starved, and clad in cast-off clothes,
We had no room, no sport; nothing but fear
Of our evangelist, whose little purse
Opened to all save us; who squandered smiles
On wily proselytes, and gloomed at home.
You had eight children; only three grew up:
Of these, one died bedrid, and one insane,
And I alone am left you. Think of it!
It matters nothing if a fish, a plant
Teem with waste offspring, but a conscious womb!
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For you were frail and small: of all your love,
Your hopes, your passion, not a memory steals
To smooth your dying pillow, only I
Am here to rack you. Where does God appear?’
‘God shall appear,’ the dying woman said.
‘God has appeared; my heart is in his hand.
Were there no God, no Heaven!—Oh, foolish boy!
You foolish fellow! Pain and trouble here
Are God's benignest providence—the whip
And spur to Heaven. But joy was mine below—
I am unjust to God—great joy was mine:
Which makes Heaven sweeter too; because if earth
Afford such pleasure in mortality
What must immortal happiness be like!
Eight times I was a mother. Frail and small?
Yes; but the passionate, courageous mate
Of a strong man. Oh, boy! You paltry boy!
Hush! Think! Think—you! Eight times I bore a child,
Eight souls for God! In Heaven they wait for me—
My husband and the seven. I see them all!
And two are children still—my little ones!
While I have sorrowed here, shrinking sometimes
From that which was decreed, my Father, God,
Was storing Heaven with treasure for me. Hush!
My dowry in the skies! God's thoughtfulness!
I see it all! Lest Heaven might, unalloyed,
Distress my shy soul, I leave earth in doubt
Of your salvation: something to hope and fear
Until I get accustomed to the peace
That passeth understanding. When you come—
For you will come, my son. . . .’
‘God has appeared; my heart is in his hand.
Were there no God, no Heaven!—Oh, foolish boy!
You foolish fellow! Pain and trouble here
Are God's benignest providence—the whip
And spur to Heaven. But joy was mine below—
I am unjust to God—great joy was mine:
Which makes Heaven sweeter too; because if earth
Afford such pleasure in mortality
What must immortal happiness be like!
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Yes; but the passionate, courageous mate
Of a strong man. Oh, boy! You paltry boy!
Hush! Think! Think—you! Eight times I bore a child,
Eight souls for God! In Heaven they wait for me—
My husband and the seven. I see them all!
And two are children still—my little ones!
While I have sorrowed here, shrinking sometimes
From that which was decreed, my Father, God,
Was storing Heaven with treasure for me. Hush!
My dowry in the skies! God's thoughtfulness!
I see it all! Lest Heaven might, unalloyed,
Distress my shy soul, I leave earth in doubt
Of your salvation: something to hope and fear
Until I get accustomed to the peace
That passeth understanding. When you come—
For you will come, my son. . . .’
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Her strength gave out;
She sank down panting, bathed in tears and sweat.
She sank down panting, bathed in tears and sweat.
‘Could I but touch your intellect,’ he cried,
‘Before you die! Mother, the world is mad:
This castle in the air, this Heaven of yours,
Is the lewd dream of morbid vanity.
For each of us death is the end of all;
And when the sun goes out the race of men
Shall cease for ever. It is ours to make
This farce of fate a splendid tragedy:
Since we must be the sport of circumstance,
We should be sportsmen, and produce a breed
Of gallant creatures, conscious of their doom,
Marching with lofty brows, game to the last.
Oh good and evil, heaven and hell are lies!
But strength is great: there is no other truth:
This is the yea-and-nay that makes men hard.
Mother, be hard and happy in your death.’
‘Before you die! Mother, the world is mad:
This castle in the air, this Heaven of yours,
Is the lewd dream of morbid vanity.
For each of us death is the end of all;
And when the sun goes out the race of men
Shall cease for ever. It is ours to make
This farce of fate a splendid tragedy:
Since we must be the sport of circumstance,
We should be sportsmen, and produce a breed
Of gallant creatures, conscious of their doom,
Marching with lofty brows, game to the last.
Oh good and evil, heaven and hell are lies!
But strength is great: there is no other truth:
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Mother, be hard and happy in your death.’
‘What do you say? I hear the waters roll. . .’
Then, with a faint cry, striving to arise—
‘After I die I shall come back to you,
And then you must believe; you must believe,
For I shall bring you news of God and Heaven!’
Then, with a faint cry, striving to arise—
‘After I die I shall come back to you,
And then you must believe; you must believe,
For I shall bring you news of God and Heaven!’
He set his teeth, and saw his mother die.
Outside a city-reveller's tipsy tread
Severed the silence with a jagged rent;
The tall lamps flickered through the sombre street,
With yellow light hiding the stainless stars:
In the next house a child awoke and cried;
Far off a clank and clash of shunting trains
Broke out and ceased, as if the fettered world
Started and shook its irons in the night;
Across the dreary common citywards,
The moon, among the chimneys sunk again,
Cast on the clouds a shade of smoky pearl.
Outside a city-reveller's tipsy tread
Severed the silence with a jagged rent;
The tall lamps flickered through the sombre street,
With yellow light hiding the stainless stars:
In the next house a child awoke and cried;
Far off a clank and clash of shunting trains
Broke out and ceased, as if the fettered world
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Across the dreary common citywards,
The moon, among the chimneys sunk again,
Cast on the clouds a shade of smoky pearl.
And when her funeral day had come, her son,
Before they fastened down the coffin lid,
Shut himself in the chamber, there to gaze
Upon her dead face, hardening his heart.
But as he gazed, into the smooth wan cheek
Life with its wrinkles shot again; the eyes
Burst open, and the bony fingers clutched
The coffin sides; the woman raised herself,
And owl-like in her shroud blinked on the light.
Before they fastened down the coffin lid,
Shut himself in the chamber, there to gaze
Upon her dead face, hardening his heart.
But as he gazed, into the smooth wan cheek
Life with its wrinkles shot again; the eyes
Burst open, and the bony fingers clutched
The coffin sides; the woman raised herself,
And owl-like in her shroud blinked on the light.
‘Mother, what news of God and Heaven?’ he asked.
Feeble and strange, her voice came from afar:
‘I am not dead: I must have been asleep.’
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‘I am not dead: I must have been asleep.’
‘Do not imagine that. You lay here dead—
Three days and nights, a corpse. Life has come back:
Often it does, although faint-hearted folk
Fear to admit it: none of those who die,
And come to life again, can ever tell
Of any bourne from which they have returned:
Therefore they were not dead, your casuists say.
The ancient jugglery that tricks the world!
You lay here dead, three days and nights. What news?
“After I die I shall come back to you,
And then you must believe”—these were your words—
“For I shall bring you news of God and Heaven.”’
She cast a look forlorn about the room:
The door was shut; the worn venetian, down;
And stuffy sunlight through the dusty slats
Spotted the floor, and smeared the faded walls.
He with his strident voice and eyes of steel
Stood by relentless.
Three days and nights, a corpse. Life has come back:
Often it does, although faint-hearted folk
Fear to admit it: none of those who die,
And come to life again, can ever tell
Of any bourne from which they have returned:
Therefore they were not dead, your casuists say.
The ancient jugglery that tricks the world!
You lay here dead, three days and nights. What news?
“After I die I shall come back to you,
And then you must believe”—these were your words—
“For I shall bring you news of God and Heaven.”’
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The door was shut; the worn venetian, down;
And stuffy sunlight through the dusty slats
Spotted the floor, and smeared the faded walls.
He with his strident voice and eyes of steel
Stood by relentless.
‘I remember, dear,’
She whispered, ‘very little. When I died
I saw my children dimly bending down,
The little ones in front, to beckon me,
A moment in the dark; and that is all.’
She whispered, ‘very little. When I died
I saw my children dimly bending down,
The little ones in front, to beckon me,
A moment in the dark; and that is all.’
‘That was before you died—the last attempt
Of fancy to create the heart's desire.
Now mother, be courageous; now, be hard.’
Of fancy to create the heart's desire.
Now mother, be courageous; now, be hard.’
‘What must I say or do, my dearest son?
Oh me, the deep discomfort of my mind!
Come to me, hold me, help me to be brave,
And I shall make you happy if I can,
For I have none but you—none anywhere . . .
Mary, the youngest, whom you never saw
Looked out of Heaven first: her little hands. . .
Three days and nights, dead, and no memory!. . .
A poor old creature dying a second death,
I understand the settled treachery,
The plot of love and hope against the world.
Fearless, I gave myself at nature's call;
And when they died, my children, one by one,
All sweetly in my heart I buried them.
Who stole them while I slept? Where are they all?
My heart is eerie, like a rifled grave
Where silent spiders spin among the dust,
And the wind moans and laughs under its breath.
But in a drawer. . . . What is there in the drawer?
No pressure of a little rosy hand
Upon a faded cheek—nor anywhere
The seven fair stars I made. Oh love the cheat!
And hope, the radiant devil pointing up,
Lest men should cease to give the couple sport
And end the world at once! For three days dead—
Here in my coffin; and no memory!
Oh, it is hard! But I—I, too, am hard . . .
Be hard, my son, and steep your heart of flesh
In stony waters till it grows a stone,
Or love and hope will hack it with blunt knives
As long as it can feel.’
Oh me, the deep discomfort of my mind!
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And I shall make you happy if I can,
For I have none but you—none anywhere . . .
Mary, the youngest, whom you never saw
Looked out of Heaven first: her little hands. . .
Three days and nights, dead, and no memory!. . .
A poor old creature dying a second death,
I understand the settled treachery,
The plot of love and hope against the world.
Fearless, I gave myself at nature's call;
And when they died, my children, one by one,
All sweetly in my heart I buried them.
Who stole them while I slept? Where are they all?
My heart is eerie, like a rifled grave
Where silent spiders spin among the dust,
And the wind moans and laughs under its breath.
38
No pressure of a little rosy hand
Upon a faded cheek—nor anywhere
The seven fair stars I made. Oh love the cheat!
And hope, the radiant devil pointing up,
Lest men should cease to give the couple sport
And end the world at once! For three days dead—
Here in my coffin; and no memory!
Oh, it is hard! But I—I, too, am hard . . .
Be hard, my son, and steep your heart of flesh
In stony waters till it grows a stone,
Or love and hope will hack it with blunt knives
As long as it can feel.’
He, holding her,
With sobs and laughter spoke: his mind had snapped
Like a frayed string o'erstretched: ‘Mother, rejoice;
For I shall make you glad. There is no heaven
Your children are resolved to dust and dew:
But, mother, I am God. I shall create
The heaven of your desires. There must be heaven
For mothers and their babes. Let heaven be now!’
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Like a frayed string o'erstretched: ‘Mother, rejoice;
For I shall make you glad. There is no heaven
Your children are resolved to dust and dew:
But, mother, I am God. I shall create
The heaven of your desires. There must be heaven
For mothers and their babes. Let heaven be now!’
They found him conjuring chaos with mad words
And brandished hands across his mother's corpse.
And brandished hands across his mother's corpse.
Thus did he see her harden with a hiss
As life went out in the cold bath of death;
Thus did she soften him before she died:
For both were bigots—fateful souls that plague
The gentle world.
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Thus did she soften him before she died:
For both were bigots—fateful souls that plague
The gentle world.
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