Mary Maclane I Mary Mclane A Diary of Human Days

I , ^M A R Y M Ac^L.
ANE
I,
A DIARY OF HUMAN DAYS
BY
MARY MAcLANE
.lO'IBOK OS uTllB STORY OJ' llilY llAC-....''
NEW YORK
FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY

PUBLISHERS
CoonrigU, 1917, "1
A. Sto^ CoKP^re
A.I ri"" r« ^ ^ , ^^^mg lial oflraaslalhtiolt

•1o fortJlp■llmpagu.
I, Mary MacLane
A crucible of my own making
Tô-day
T is the êdge of a so^mber July anight in
I B u^^M on^^
TOe sky is moun^tains

are gray-melanôly.
And at point I mme Me ^face to face.
I am ^Mary ^Mac^we: of no impoânm to the
widee brright world and ddearly and damnably im-
^portant to Me.
to face I look at Me some ha^tred,
da^m- and greagrea inten tn ^.
I put Me in a ^ccible of my oown making and set
it in the flaming Inferno of my mind. And
I âsy thus:
I am rare—I am in some ways
I am ^ ^ a n and without.
I am vain and s^ôw and f^w.
I am a ^^W ized deeply m^yself.
I am of woman-^s and most that go with
that, some other pointesntes
I am d ^ ^ ^ ^ but devâsted, laid ^waste in s p ^ ^
I'm like a leo^pard and I'm a ^poet and I'm like
I
a A crucible of my own making
a ^ religieuse and I’m like an outlaw.

I have a potent senae of humor—a saving
and a demo^ m ^ grace.
I have b^ rain. r a ^ r ation—not po^ werful but fine
^ and of a ramarkabMe ^ ^ f c y .
I am scornful-temi^pered and I am brave.
I am dender in ^ body and somroay fr ^ ragil and
fleshed and ^ swe
I am oddly a fool and a comp lu liar’ and a
spiritual v^ ^ t a nd.
I am ^ strong. in^v idual in my wavering.
ffaint, fanciful in my truth.
I am ^ ^ ^ ^ y self-co^ « ous but sincere in it.
I am ^ ultra-mod^ ^ very oold-f^ h b ned: sav^ agely
inco^ ngruous.
I am young. but not vvery yo^ ung.
I am ^ wistful—I am infamous.
In brief, I am a human ^ being.
I am p^ ^ ^ dy and aual^ ^ r f y with
some c ra tin g dead-feeling genius.
And ^ were I not so ^ ^ ^ y ^ tiredly ^ e I would say
I am .
So ^ asyod I ^ begin to ^ » k of m^ yself, to
show to m^ yself in the wo ^ an who is ^ u de
me. It may or it mayn’t show ^so a a uni-
E^ ve-old wo^ an. If it is ao it is not my
p^ port. I Msing only the and the individual.
A crucible 0/ my own making 3
So does in each man and woman and child
who breathes, but is afraid to sing it aloud. And
^ IDOltly none knows it is that he does sing. But it
is the only ^ ^ ^ h of eaeir. A bishop ^ ^ eerving
^ uly and ^ tirelesly the ^w r of his
a ^rong vanity and ideal of the in
A ^ ^ r o gwho o lives in and for his own
is an the bishop. And
both are me.
not egoist, is my word: it and not the
ide a l^ ^ one is the word.’
It is made of glow and gleam and splendor, that
^ Ego. I would be its vo te ^ . '
So I me ^ » k of Me—my Soul, my H^ eart,
my ^ tient ôdy, my m^ agic ^ Mind: their poten
tial*.^ and cond uctions.
—there is a Self in each hu^ an one w^ hicho livesand
has its^ vain someway-frightful not in
^ ^ th e and not in but Just ben eath ^ ho
Skin. It is the one for on^ eself alone.
It is the of soul and bones. It is the dyest
s^ ubtlest.in hu^ an scope. It is the lon^ eliest:
lonely. It is long. long isolation —
^ a ^ tfu l, ^^tf^n g . barbarous, shameful, to
^ points of ^în^^ everw-p^^nt, ^ ^ ^ ^ y intr^^ng
to on^ eself, ^ ^ t a : ^ &n fo^ rever ^ and
4 A ^ crucibk of my ^making
It is my flaim to out that in the ^ ês of this

Me-^w k: no depths save as they come up and touch
that, no surfês save as they sink skin-deep. Only
the flat ungfowing bl^ oody Self Just fo neath My
Skin.
I shall fail in it, ppartly ^ beca^ my ^ writing skill is
unequal to some nicenês in the task. but mostly
^ because I am not very honest even m^ yself.
I’Q come someway near it.
Half i^mtabty, half by cboieboie 5
To-morrow
AALF INEVITABLY, by ôice, I write
now.
I am at a lowering impatient shoulder-
shrugging Iife-point where I must m^ yself or
Ilose m^ yself or breaL
And I am quite alone as I live my life.
And I am unhappy—-a scornful unhappines not of
b^ i t ^ ^ itive grief which admite of e n ^ ^ ng
I u w ies of sorrow, but of muffled um ^ts and
tortw es of knowing I fit in nowhere that I drift—
a drift—-and it brin ^ an u^ ^ t f able dread, always
more and more dread, into days and into wakeful
a nights.
And it turns the brunt of it a away
from me.
And to write is the thing I most love to do.
And I myselftf am the most immediste potent topic
I find in my knowl^ edge to write on: the b ^ es^
the lite s t, the brûlest, the narowest, the lovdiest,
the hateful^ ^ the most colorful, the most drab, the
most myrtic, the most obvious, and the one ^ u t
takes me f^ thest as a writer and as a person.
I write m^ yself when I write the thoughts smoulder
ing in me whether they be of êath, of Ri oses, of
^ Christ’s Mother, of Ten-penny Nails.
6 Half inevitably, half by choice
One’s thonghts are one’s most crucial advventures.

Seriously and ^ ongly and intently to contemplate
doing m^ d er is ev^ eryway more exciting, more
romantic, more profoundly tragicc tthann the murder
done.
I unfold my^ self in a^ ^ ^ d and precious w 1 itn
thoughts. I cast the reflections of my in e r selvves
on the paper from the insolent mrnor of my ^ Mind.
—my ^ fo d—it is so fr e —
My Soul is not fr e : ^ God hung a sttmg of cu ^ » ,
like a manacling ^ chain, round its neck long
and long ngo. Always I feel it. My Heart is not
for it is dead: in a listles way and a trivivial
way, dead. And my ^ ^ y—it is free but has a
11tming of som^ ^ n g w^ ^ r i and ^ useles like a
dinner spreadd out on a table uneaten and growwing
cold.
—but my free Mind—
Though I were shut fast in a prison: though I were
rtrap^ ^ in an electric ^ chair: though I were gnawed
and d^ yed by leprosy: I n stil could think,
thoughts free as gold-dreenched outer air, thoughts
delicat&-luminous as young dawn, thoughts facile,
sedurtive, speculative, c artful, evil, sly, sublime.
You might cut off my two hands: but you could
not kk e me from reme^^rin g the ^SadGray Loveli-
nes of the Sea when the f a in beats, beats, beats
Half xi^^bly, bbalj by c^ hoice 7
upon it.
You might ^ admonish me by &iving a red-hot spike
my two w^ te shoulders: but you could not
by that influence my Thought—you could not so
much as their COTent.
I ^ intently aware of my Mind from moment to
moment—all the ^ pasing life-moments. The aw v&>
nes is a troubled power, a heavy burden and a
wild en^ ^ ntment.—
^ Also what I feel I
I am my own law, my own orracle, my own one inti
mate friend, my own guide though I guide meto dead-
w a l, my own mentor, my own foe, my own lover.
I am in age one-and-th^ty, a smouldering-flamed
period which feels the wings of the Youth-bird
^&ting ro ong and violent for flight—half-ready to
fly away.
I am not a c^^ming ^ ^ w n. Quite seventy siningly-
^ used adjectives would ^ betr fit me.
But I have some chasm of youth, and a c^ ^ of
sex, and a c^ ^ of intelect and intuition, and
some ^ charms of ^ personality.
I have a perf^ v id ap p rau tion of th^ tWthings in
other persons. And my ^ eel has some^me sstruck
fire from their flint.
But always my ^ eel has t ^ ed hack ^ ^ ily yet
Wrongly to ^ itself.
8 A twisted moral
Tom m or
F I should meet ^God to know and s^peak to the
I t ^ g but one I should ask ^ m would be.

‘^What was your idea, ^God, in making me?’
I can Mieve he had some P u ^ ^ ^ in it.
I’m in most ways a devilish ^person. There's
fold more evH than ^ g o in me. It is evil of a
and meracing kind, the kind that ^goes in
brave and ^&uty-tinted dothes and is ^ e and
sound. While the ^ g o in me is il and forlorn and
neervously afraid—a something of ^tear-blOTeel eyes
and trembling Singers.
Yet ^God has made âny things les plaûsible ^than
me. He has made sharks in the and ^people
who hire îldreen to work in their and înes,
and poison ivy and zebras—
—and he has made besides a Wonder of t^things:
^Thin Pink Mountain D a ^ s , Young EEnglish Pôets,
Hydranggeas in the sudden Blue of their first Bloom,
human Singing Voices,—more things, always more—
When I think of them a l a joyous theffl breaks over
me likee a little frfrenuzied wave. It is delirium-of-^blis
to feel oneself living though shadows be pitch-btak
^God has a Pu^^& in making evêrything, I ^think.
I am half-curious about the P ^ ^ ^ that ^goes
me. He might have made me for his oown amûse-
A ^twisted 9
ment. He might have made me to discÎine my
Soul with some blights and ggoa& or to punish it for
harc^^îan êase and pleasure in the long-disistant
centuri^^ld past. He might have made me to
âson or scowurge other Iivves, as I may touch them,
with Mary-Mac-Lane-nes. He might have made
me to point a moral.
I muse about it with doubts.
But if I knew my I Wike would not s w ^ e
a ^ & ’s-breadth from my own ouurse which is an
ra^ôwedly selfish one.
If I could myself s e a way of truth I would walk in
it. I have it in me to worship. 1 long io worsmp.
And I am game, wearily and coldly game: when
I I go on through to the end.
But I s e no way of truth—none for me. And ^God
is ^ ^ U y absent and reticent. So I go on in the
way where I find myself. And about it. And
it faintly as I n o ^ ^ £ of it.
10 Everyday and to-morrow
To-morrow
foe in Butte in the outward
a family danghter with no respousi-
^This Butte is an incongruous fring-place for me.

And I have not one human friend in it—no kindli-
nes. And Nature in her perplêxingest môod would
not of hererself have ^cast me as a faamily danghter.
have kept me thus for four y ^ ^ past:
that nothing has scaled me out of it: a slight family
presswe like a tiny needle-point which pierces only
if one moves: and to stay thus is p^^n tly the line
of least resistance.
Unles impelled to violent action by a violent rea
son—like love or hatred or jealousy or a baby or
humiliated pride or ro w in g ambition—-a woân
follows the physical line of least res^tonce. I have
followed it these years outward aacqui^cence
and inward r—es—languid râges which lay me wâste.
The years and aûiescences and r^ e s have built
up a mood which c o m ^ ^ ^ me, drives me, damus
me and lifts me up.
It is a forceful môod, thongh I am not myself forcrceful.
This môod is —
I Uve an immoral life. It is immorail ^beca^ it is
deaeadly futile. A l my TJSues of ^riy , soul, înd
Everyday and to-morrow ii
and are d^yining, w ^ ^ ^ down,

minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day:
no to me or to my life, nor to an^hing h uân
or ^divine.
It me my life and m^yself.
I do not q ^te know why.
But to be an ardent p ic k ^ k rt or an meager harlot
would feel honêster.
My Everyday ^goes ^this: I waken in the morn
ing and lie listles some minutes with drooping
eyelids. I look at a gilt-and-blue bar of morning
Blight which sslants palely in at one window and at
a melting-gold triangle of sun which shows at the
other window on the red brick wal of the h o ^
next to ^this. Then I say ‘another day,’ and I
kick off ^^-covers with one foot and slide out of
my ^ctow bed, and into blue slipped, and out of a
^thin nightgown, and into pepeignoir or bathrobe.
I and flatten and gather up my tengled hair
and push some pins through it. And I go
into a grren-and-gray batheoom and
draw a bath and get into it. I splash in brief OTift
soapsuds, and go under a sudden heroic icy cold
shower, and dry me a scoururging towel. Then
I go back into the blu*-white bed-rom and get into
clothes, femimne ^thin under-^ênts and a nun-
^ e froot
12 Eiveryday and
I look in my m ôr. Some days I’m a delicately

besutiful girl. Other days I’m a very plain wo^man.
One’s physical attractivenes is a maêr of one’s
mental c h e ^ is^ .
I say to Me in the m^ror, ‘It’s you-and-me,
^Maclane, and another wasting damning To-morrow.
"To-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow
^Creps in this pace from day to day.” '
A haunting d^dence is in that To-morrow thought.
And always the To-morrow thought comes out of
my morning mirror. I dwell on it awhile, til my
gray eyes and my lips and my teeth and my foreh^d
are tired of it, and make nothing new of it.
I jerk the flat scoUop of foir at one side of my fore
head and turn away. I open door and windows
wider for the blowing-through of b r^ e s . And I
wander down-stairs. It is half-after nine or ^half-
after ten. I go into the clean empty clock-ticking
kitchen and ^ k my breakfast. It. is a task ful of
hungry p^rance and pleasantnes. I make a Brit
ish-feeling breakfast of tea and m arm ^de and l i t e
squares of and pink-and-tan rashers of ^bacon
and two delightful êg. Up to the moment of
b r^ M n g the eggs the morning has an ancient same-
n es with other mornings. But êg, though I’ve
eaten them every day for quite five-and-twenty
yêars are always a fascinating novelty.
Everyday and to-morrow 13
They ^ divelidous in my breakfast. So ^ the
' ûares of and the bacon-rashers and the tea
and marmalade. When I’ve done with them I lay
down my napkin by my cup, light a cigarette, breathe
a p u f or two from it and feel conten^tedly aware that
my brain has gone to ^rest in sweet tranquility with
my breakfast. When my brain .is in my head it
ânal^yzes the soul out of my ^riy, the gleam out of
my gray eyes, the savor out of my life, the human
off my tongue. That pas^breakfast moment
is the only ^^ce-moment I know in my day and in
my life.
Having puffed away the and read bits of a
mourning paper I then prove me arantly middle-
^clas by contemplating washing my breakfast dishes.
I am m id d l^ ^ ^ quite, from the Soul outward.
But it is not s ^ ^ ^ y apparent—one’s and
aspirations flit garbledly far and wide. But a
tendency to wash one’s dishes aêr eating one’s
breakfast feels conclusively and p l^ ^ n tly middle-
^clas. Not that I do always wash them, but always
I tthinnk of it with the inclination to do it.
I sit on the shaded front veranda in the summer
noon day and look away south at the blue Highlands,
ever snow-^&ked: or êast at the near towering
splendid grim wall of the arid Rockies which
^ârates Butte from New York. from London,
I Everyday and to-morrow
— -the Spains— es— the ^^^m ^^the Isle of

or south-wwest beyond ho^^tops at some
foot^^ ^wve which a vveil ^nde by
md^ting togêr a Lump of Gold and an Apriicot
and sprea^g it thin.
Then TrestlesIrestlesy I go into the house and up to my
^ m . I put it in order—in prim, prim im ^^Û te
order. One markked p^hase of mine is of some wanton
ereature-ae—a menad, a mental ^ ^ ^ o n , a she-imp.
But playing o p h ite to that is another—that of a
New-^^fcnd sp^êr steel-riveeted to neat
ferraously-orderly ^ ^ its. A rtray thread on my
blue rug hûrts, me until I pick it up. Dust
around my ^ m gives me a n ^ o u s pain, a p^rora
gnawing grief-of-th^so^ra, until I’ve removed.it.
And my ^raêd-loo^king ^bed-af—after I’ve t ^ e d
over its tûfted m attres and ‘made’ it, smooth and
white and erisp and soft—-how the fibera of me would
^writhe should anyone sit on it. But no one sits on it.
And I m^yself ^ n e r t^m p^& one fi^ ^ -tip down
into its would sel my ^ ^ y to a B ^ ^ u
sol&er for four dmes: it is that way I feel about it.
My must be kkept ^perfect t il the moment I
into it at night to float under the eaeam-worlds.
Then maybe I pul a soft black hat down over my
^hair and draw on gloves and go out into the gray-
pavved for a lo^qish w ^L Or maybe the day
Everyday and to-morrow
is humidly hot. Then I don’t go but stay in the

blue-white rrom and mend a bit of tom ^êrie or
a ^m ^^rehirf or a silk or a ^ t t i ^ t .
Or I take b o b and dig out some G rek—Homer or
a Sapphic frâgment—vvery ^laboriously but
ling that I ^ do it at a l: the thin^ one for^te
being the one Iêarned at sohool. Or I
read an ^g lish or a French phil^pher, or a trans
lated Toistoi, or a bit of B ^ ^ novel, or some bits
of Dickens-^wb withh which laêr I am long
familiar and long enamored for the rrestful f^renes
of their sentiment and the pungent appetaing
of their v ^ in s .
And ^^cenw hiles I think and think.
Then it’s dinnertime and I perhaps c^mge into the
other nonlfo Adres and nibble some dinner with no
a p ^ its , and talk the assembled s^mal family
in a vein and tone of life-long insincercerity. When
in family-circlde-nes I’ve had to hide my true self
as if hehicd a hun^dred black veils since the age of
two y^tt. It would be a po^rant effort now to
show any of it at the family dinners, which is the
only meeting-time. The one easyy way is to be
comprehensively insincere at the dinners where
^ h no ap ^^fc I nibble. None there ^wants my
sin^^ty, and so in my Soul’s accounting now it is
^ ^ ^ ^ y and dêrminedly No ^ k ^ e r. It is a
i6 Everyday and to-morrow
M I which stopr^ringing long and long ^ o . U it

rang now it would ring only No-Maêr, No-Ma^tter
Then it’s anight and I go t.o tetake the walk I dididn’t
tetake in the aftonoon. I walk down long lonely
^ ^ t e . Long lonely thoughhts pile int.o me and
^through me and wrap me in a nebula that I feel
around me like a mantle. I walk two or three miles
of paved & r^ts til I'm very tired. I am lithe but
fragile from co^^m t involun^tary self-analysis.
One may analyze one’s Iif^^perience and life-
emotion til physical tisues at times grow frail,
^âmer-thin. It is then as if—at a word, a
whispered thought, a of the heart—one’s Soul
might flu^CT through the Veil, join light tands with
the death-an-angel and flee away.
—but I love my life even while I analyze it bit by
bit and so hate it. I love it in its grating monotones
and its moments of glow and its days of shadow
and storm and biêrish lowering pasion—
I walk ^back beneath a night sky of dusky velvet-blue
decked jewels of moon and ^star and flying
brighêdged cloud. The night has a s^ûed
preciousnes, like an fflicitly p^regnant woman’s.
It is big the ^^^d-exquisite To-morrow.
The night air ^ ^ e s my lips and throat. I pull off
my gloves t.o feel it on my hands. It gives me a
chasmed and unCTCiring feeleeling of being
Everyday and to-morrow 17
^without heing Io^ved.
I come backck to my blue-white ro m , ^take off my
hat, rufHe my tthrough my look at Me in
the ^rnor and smile the melancholy smile
which I k e p for Mê-alone. It’s an int^mte moment
of ^ ^ i n g —a r ^ ^ r t i o n of my on coming
back to her. îten when I walk I go without Me,
and zander far from Me, and forrget Me.
Then I sit at my flat bblack desk and desultorily
for two or or four hours. Some^mes a l^ e t ,
sometimes some v^verses or a h^toc faney in
p ^ ^ . But now mredy ^this.
Then I go do^^teim to a refr^*ator or a ^^*-w ay
to find fôod-a—a slslice off an affable cold joint, some
^ ^ ^ Io o k in g slices of b rad , a slim in n ^ n t onion.
And I eat them, not relishingly but voraciously,
reminding myself of a foraging f ^ w e coyote.
It is two or or four in the morning. I smoke a
quiet in a ^co night doorway and count
the n ^ o u s gray-velvet moths outside the ot^ .
And a l the while I think and ^ n k .
Then I come up to my ^ m and sit on the floor by
my low and read some ^^êntury ^g iish
^ ^ ^ ^ th e Brownings and SheHey and the un-
spea^kable John Keats. The Pôets ra k e me a
of incal^cont magic and lovelines. They ^ the
blest of a flaming Heaven. In the amidst of
i8 Everyday and to-morrow
soddenest ^ ^ i n e s their fiery wings ‘pi^co the

anight.’
Then I’m t ^ f f l ^ y I dose the boks and
make ra d y for my in a Iyrie-feeling k ^ ^ o r.
A soft ^ t ^ ^ s n a p p in g of whal^rene stays:
a muffled rhythmc undoing of mmetal^dîlk-^rubber
a p u s ^ ^ down and ^ding out of d a ^ m e
dothes and into a pale ^co silk nightgown:
a h^ried brushing of ^hair: an anointing of hands
and throat fa in to ^ te d êam: a ^gonight
to Me in the mrnor: a wave of a fa ^ n l ^ —
my lif ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ K u a l and and con
temptuous and menacing—sweeping down over me
in an inroftle showCT: and I’m betwixt smooth
linen sh^te.
In ^twenty ^conds bllest, blbiest ^sle.
o r such wide ^ d e n e s is my day made. One day
difl'er from another in or ^ u t vol^canic mole-
hil. And some days I not only wash a gseat âny
dishes but do a dual of h o ^w n rk neatly and self1-
satisfactorily and a d e v ^ h ^sculery
Ând some days as I move in the ^pace thoûghts
and fieel^gs OTswe or barW ous come and ctachange
my world’s (face in a momennt.
Âlso a casual h^ran being of rabbitish brrain and
chipmun^h soasib^ty may rtray my path
and gmtly bere me and ^ ^ ^ tu a te my own
Everyday and to-morrow 1 9
nes.
But always the same days in dubious To-
moorwnes.
Always mmorraly fu ^ ^
And w fly alone.
20 A matthêmatic fadead-walU
To-morrow
’M put to it to decide whether ^God loves me or
I hates me when he me down alone.
There are times when my Lonînes is a

and sc in ^ tilt and ^resourceful Londmes îth a
and êcstatic gleam in it. The miracle of
a ^person rushes upon and ^w ut and into me
'with ligh^^g and with mrausic.
One looses that in a day of many friendships.
But opener are tlines when the taired h ^ r t
and the w ^ ^ , brrain beat-beat. beat-beat to
torturing self-rh^^ro. The spirit of me
dôses its eyes in turbulent dusks of wondering and
and its forehead a matheematic
dead-wal. And it prays—blind ûseles ûnhumble
prayyers which leave it and d^thute, arid,
lurking- But whhen it its h ^ d and
o ^ ra its eyes there are the mel^ting mauves and
ârw ns of a dead sun the CTêvening sky, and
the s^mall far wistful ^m es of always-hopeful
—they m a ^ it m a ^ r le s whether ^God loves or
hates me, but I ^wish I knew.
My neattf blw chair 21
To-moww
SUP^POSE there’s northing quite to êven
I my inmost self1 in what I ponder and what I

^^rien ce and what I feel.
My only elemental ‘diferentnes’ is that I find it
and it. .
But I ûsed to think at eight—n—those
^ o l^ rn n t moments-—that only I suffered, only I
^^& ed achingly out into the only I ^ ^ e d
new-bloomed intolerably OTswe and bitter
on my lips.
The ôtism of youth is mêrciles measurreles
endlesly vulnerable. Youth plays on îtself as one
plays on a litle dulcimer, with music as s w ^ , but
a crude r a U ^ n e s which jerks and
b r^ ta the rtristrings.
I/ have got by that ^stage of ^ t o m . But I've
enured on another wilder, more lawles—esarther-
^ ^ g if le s be-visioned.
While I sit here this midnight in a Neat Blue
in this Butte-Montana for what I know a legion-
women of my psychic breed may be sitting lonely
in neat red or neat blue or neat gray or neat any-
c:oIored —in W ichita-^^^^ and South Bend-
Indiana and Red Wing-Minnesota and Portland-
Maine and R^&êster-New York and W^^Têxas
22 My blw chair
and La Q ^ ^ W ^ ttu s in and tawling G ran-

Kentucky: eachh feelingng Heerselff set in a wrong
caûght in a tangltangl of Ilite vapidish
p ^ ^ ^ : êach w ^ta& waking always—w^^ng a l
her life—not hopeful and ^pasionate like
but patient or blasphemous or scornful or vol^lcanic
E a rly - ^ ^ ^ : the w ^ ^ ^ - s e e ^wng to êach
a ^^»nal big and s u ^ ^ ^ e and
—^-and it a long-arc^tomed feeleeling ^ e a
bright blade stuckck deep in her br^reast eachh more or
le s roundly hating W ^^Têas and Po^rtland-
^laine and RRed W ing-M inn^te and the other
plaaces: and êach by hot unquiet humanneses
inside her and an old y ^ m of sex and the blôod
wwaring with m ^lad minute tenets dating from
^^civilization’s dawn-times.
But though I am of that psychic b re d no Ilite
tenets war in me.
It’s as if a palate and a w^ri-nymph tad fatheered
and mothered me: making me of a r^culous
po^Mnt coîenco and of no human tradhions.
I am of ininte conventionalities, f r e as a
wttdeat on a ^ ^ ig h t I am f r e of them as I
sit h m , quiet-looking in my plain black
The virile Scotch--CaMnadian curl is brahed and
brushed out of my hhair to make it lie smooth and
d ^ ^ ^ over my and forthead, My feet are
My neattf blw chair 23
shod daintily like a ^ ^ m in g girl’s. . My snails are

pînkly polishedly pointed. My ^ ctow b^lack eye
brows look nearly patrician in their OTenenes.
My lips are stily sadd. My eyelids droop like the
sucking dove’s. But my gray eyes beneath the
tids—when I praise them to the .g i^ ^ my own
Êsnce looks out of them, ti^redly vivid. It sems
rnde of lannguor and bar^rienes and despair: and
v ^ ^ e ^rftines, and some pure ^ ^ ^ o u s heathen
religion, and lust: and lurid consciousnes of every
day things and smouldering melancholy and blazingng
loving hatred of life.
My gray eyes out-look the wildcat’s on a twilight
hill.
But—so far as the Sitting ^ ——I sit here in my
Neat Blue the same as they a l sit in any-
colored c^chairs in their and La
To-Morrow
wandering about, a ^Lost Pierson, wandering
and lost.
Not ^^îficently lost in wide f o ^ c forest
dososes, ^ o n g great blackish green trunks and
branches a l ôund oveerwhdming and thrilling me.
Not dramatieelly lost on dêsert reefs breakers
riding up ^ e menacing hosts and joyously drown
ing me.
But lost surprisingly in a small clump of shoulder-
high bazd-brah. In it are some wood-ticks, and
a few eaterp^^^ and a few wan spiders which spin
litle desultory webs from twig to twig and then
abandon them for other twigs. Underfoot are
unrc^êd wet places at intends that my high
hard heels sink into êxasperatingly.
I walk round and round and a c r ^ in the hazel
brush groping and knowing I’m lost in it b.tt know
ing little of it: knowing no way out of it. •
The bushes ^bear green leaves—rather small ones and
warped ^because the clump is in a half-shaded place
back of a hiU. And they ^bear hâzel-nuts, but not
very gôod ones—moostly sh el
A tbin dammddmss 2J
To-morrow
O^ WNTwo pU n black and none besides.
I And I need no more.
In whith two sentences I touch the crux and

the keynote and the thin da^ edne s of my life
as it is set: of my life, not of myself, for myyself lives
naked inside the circle of my life.
But my outer life is spapacedby my Two pllain
My Two measure how far removed I pres
ently am from the wide world of things.
In the world of things a woman is jud^ d not
^ specificaly by her morals: not invariably by her
reputation: not ^ absolutely by her money: not
indub^ itably by her ^ ial prestige: only relatively
by her beauty: and as to her brain or lack of it—
la-Ia-Ial She is jud^ d in the maêr-world simply,
completely, entirely by her clothes. It is tacitly
so ^ e e d and d^ eed a l over the ^ r t h—wherever
women are of the fe^ male sex and men pursue them.
It is no injustice to any woman. It is the fairest
fiat in the unwr^ten cede. .
ûly a few women, the few specialized br^ eeds,
the fire or the humannes in them by play
acting or suffrageting or singing or painting or
writing or trained-nursing or house-keeping. But
there’snotone—froma wandering Romany ^ gypsy, red-
26 A tbin damnednus
bl^ oodedand strong-h^ ^ e d , to an over-guarded over

bred British prin^ ces—who doesn’t what she is
in the clothes she w^ ^ and the way she weare them.
Her clothes con^ ceal and reveal, artfully and contra
dictorily and endl^ ^ y.
It is a l a limitles field.
No actor could act H a ^ et without that perfect
H a ^ ^ etesque black costume.
A nun’s staid beautiful ^ ^ it in^ terprrets her own
meaeanings ^ withinn and without.
A woman nakked may look ârkkedly puree: the
^ ^ e woman clothed conventionally and demureely
may aîeve a meanly ghoulishly foul seming.
One either is made or maned by one’s hab^m ents.
A wo ^ an by her raiment’s and manner
more of her wit, her ego, her temper, her
humor, her plastic p^ ^ ting ^ personality t^m she
could by throwing a bomb, by making a ^ go or
bad pudding, by losing her ch^W y or by traducing
her neig^ hbo. The and shadow and Iik^ elihoed
of ^ h of those acts is in the fashion and line and
d^ etail of her garments.
A jury thinks it tries a women for a crcrime. Some of
the twelve good and true may admit each to hi ^ ^ f
that they are trying the color of her eyes or the shape
of her A in or the droop of her shoulders. But it's
only her clothes they unwitt^ ingly try for mi r i er or
A tbin clammdness 27
theft or for^gery or whatever has trip^ ^ her. It

may be an alluringly shabby dres that saves
her from the gallows. It may be a hat worn at the
OTong angle that is found guilty and ^ tenced to
death. A glove in her lap, a fluttering veil, a little
white handkerchief drop^ pedto the floor by her
—those are what the court tries for life or ^ ^ r ty .—
But it is I I te l ^w ut, I and my Two plain
In me a s^ mart frock or an u^^coming one ^ ^ e s a
surprising diference. I imprres my ^ m e with my
mixed temperament and it râlistes in kind.
One day I looked a beautiful young ereaturee—one
August Saturday in New York it was—in a tailored
gown of embroidered linen. With it I wore such a
^ go hat: its color was pale olive: its ^ texture was soft
Milan straw: its price was forty doQllars. My shoes
were gray silk. I so fancied myyself that day that I
feared lest my writing talent had gone away from me.
For ^ ed takes away the bear if he ^ es you the
se ttles. And in il-conditioned clothes—some days
the weather, the devil, the soddennes of life get into
one’s ^ ^ ents and make even fair ones look il-
conditioned—1 am. pîn-f^ ed, plain a l over—so
plain *that the vilainies of my nature feel doubtful
and I half-think I may be a ^ go woman.
In a life full of ^ » ple I would own varied delicate
^ a utiful clothes since it is by them one is jud^ ^
28 A tbin damrnd^s
and since I ^ q ^ te vain. But no ^»ple are in

my life. I feel d^^rcked. I am caUghht in a vvise
by my own ânalîe ra tt^ ^ tio n . I am not
ffre to live a world-life t i l I’ve someway
Meandlearnedifnotw^hither I goat I ^ ^ w h e r e l^ n d
So it’s Two pîn I own and none besides.ides.
It may be I not ever ^ . i n n ^ more.
The Two are at praent of ^serge and voile.
Their identtity ^^change of feMon and
whh w w ing out. They are cut wwel and fit me
But the Two ddoes not nor the plain-
nnes. I only from one Frock to the other
and from the other to the one again.
I have vtfious other clothes. A wo^man-w—whatever
her straits and tem ^rc—pers-gamers what she ^ of
h a n ^ a d e under-linent and dainty and
silk hose and a l such private panoply. They are the
a p ^ d of her ^ rather ^than her in^dividuality.
The u n ^ ^ ^ a n t world is u^nable to ju ^ ^ her by
them. But the woman hêelf juddges and
by the of her intimate garments.
My sex is to me a m ^ ic I ^ ^ d over it and
dothe it sflkenly.
Âlso I own a healthful-looking ho^^gowa
or two in which I do ho^w ork.
But my ^pasing life, my eerie lonely life, is in
my Two and none herides, and I n n e no more.
A prnrn of self *9
To-morrow
Y Two ^ ^ ^ e s te l me the scope of my
M ^ ^ -Mac-Lane-nes. .
Every day they te l me things ^w ut myself.
They te l me I’m living in a prison of self, invisible
and ^ ^ i c and somberly just.
They te l me I'm in ing an outer life narow and
br^^ in gly companionles and that if I were not
self-reliant by long ^& it a leprous morbidnes
would rot me in ^ ^ y and spirit.
They te l me ^ beca^ of outer solitude an inner
fever of emotion and egotism and a fervid analytic
light are on a l my phr ases of self: mental, physical,
e th ic a l and ^ ual.
They te l me my way of thought is at once me^ ta tive
and cave-womanish.
They te l me I’m a l ways the Unmarried Woman
and profoundly loverly.
They te l me I’m like a child and like a sequ^tered
savage. ,
They te l me I am having no restful unrealities of
life chattering women and no monotonous
cas^ ualy bl^ oodt h ^ ^ flirtations with men.
They te l me I walk ^ rfy to the edges of myself and
^ stare into hon rriblo-OTest egotistic ^ y^ sses.
They te l me I’m gravve-eyed and coldly melantholy.
30 A prow of self
They te l me there's a bereftnes in the curves of my
and an unfulfillment in my I ^ ^ g ir t loins.
They te l me I am bOTen of s e c tio n and fertile in
f^ ^ g .
They te l me ^God has away the besr and
the s^kites and left me only piês of brread and
drininks of water.
A winding sheet 31
To-morrow
HE least important thing in fny life is its
T tantangiblenes.
The only things t hat matter ^& ^giy are
the things that happen inside me.
If I do a ^ el act and feel no ^ elty in my Soul
it is nothing. If I feel ^ elty in my Soul tho^ ugh I
do no ^ el act I’m guilty of a sort of butchery and
my spirit-hands are bl^ oody with it.
The adventw es of my spirit ^ ^ realer t ^m the
outer things that befal me.
To dwel on the self that is known only to me—the
that is intricate and v^ ersatile, tinted, demi-
tinted, deei><fyed, luminous, gives me an intimate
del^ ectation, a mental inflor^cence and sometimes
an ^ exaltation. It is not always so but it be so.
But always to look back on the of outer events
that have made my tangible life darkens my day.
Intrr a ^ ^ on throws a ^^& ing s^ pel around me,
though it may be a black one.
But rretrr a ^ ^ i on wraps me in a Winding Sheet.
^ Whn the day is already dark from low-hanging
clouan—and often when the sun is bright, bright,
bright—I walk my floor and think of my scattettered
life-flo^ m with a frown at the eyebrows: a
and heavy and tw^ isted frown.
3* A winding sheet
.To-clay was a leaden day. The air held a ^ a liry

like the inf^ ernal breath of dead people. I leaned el
bows on my dull window-sill and looked off at
and' p^ p le moun^ tains. I tried to t ^ ^ of some
t reason—some r^ eason ^ ^ tangible or ^ poetic—for
I wore my b^ rocade Chinese coat f^ astened down the
left side round flashing âss buttons and
embroidered with blue bats and gardenias: and ^ h
it a erinkly cre^ s ilk petticoat: and silk shoes and
white silk I felt rrighteous
^ beca^ in the forenoon I bad done mush hons^
work. I wor^ d thoroughly and well, swearing and
re^&ting softly to lend me And
aftereard I felt useful and ^w d.
But having changed from Dutch cap and apron and
domesticnes to r a nted silk and my sad window I
grew suddenly frail and vulnerable. Shadows
stormed my wall and ^ scaled it and entoed in and
^ k ed my castle. I lounged away from my window,
folded my in my I^ oose blue sleeves and slowly
wal^ d my floor. I had no strength to
combat shadows.
I picked up two alien s^^fe, of lint and paper
res^ ^ w ely, from the ^ rug. but inside me und ^^ted
and indêst&le memories had their own way.
They brought close an u^ tisfying and ^ distisfying
vistate of ^ ^ y ^ ^ banes.
A winding start 33
T h w was a stubborn baby in Winnipeg-Canada,
as I’ve h ^ ^ a baby with a white skin, coldly pen-
w e dark-blue eyes, no no voice, hand-wor^d
m ^ in ffrocks and a fat lumpish men.
It was MacLane.
T h ra was a ttahreyear-old ^child, as I ^dimly re
in C.rada and stil &ubbom, with a
stout keg-like pink-and-white ^body, ^ ^ f o g blue
eyeses, a tiny voice, thick sun-colored ccurls, cambric
froke and short whhite ^ k s and a morose temper.
& e bad one love, a yellow torto^^shell which
she hu^gged and hu^^d violence until one day
it died surprisingly in her arms.
It was this Mary Macbane.
There was a ^ven-year-old child in ^^mesota, as
I well remeêmber, stil &ubbom and still often morose,
a thin bony foUe ^ ^ y , conscious gray eyeyes, a
tanned face, weather-^beaen ^mds, untidy frrocks,
^&utiful fluffy golden a tendency to êretiv^
nes and lies, a speculative înd, fantastic day-
and a free hoyde^sh way of life. She tad
playmates but no loves except an objêctive love for
quiet grenwoods and swect meadows and windy
h i l and hay-filled and for the swface d e ^ s
of life. She tad subjective hatreds for being f ^ e d
over, for being t ^ ^ d and for r^tiv es.
It was Mary MacLane.
34 A winding sheet
There was a thîrten-year-old ^^rcn, as I wel

remember, in a windy Montana town, who was
neither girl, child nor savage but was a of
the t^ re . She tad a devilish contrary will and
temper, the unenlightened inexpresive whofly
unamaetwe face and feature of ^ l y adol^cence*
a self-love that had not the ^guity of egotism and
a devouring appetite for reading. She read every
thing she happened on—from Voltaire to Nick
^Carter: from ‘hady Audley’s ^roet' to Fox's ^rok
of She read Alexander Pope and Viretor
Hugo and John Stûart Mill. She read •^ n a Rivers'
by ^tary J. Holmes: also Confucius: and the
Brothers Grimm. She had a long-l^êd lanky
frame, conscious gray eyes, lovely coppery-gold dark
^hairand a silly headful of tangled irrational thoughts.
She had pathetic im^posible day-êara. She had
few companions and no loves but much hatred for
m'ost things sane, seusible and honest.
It was this Mary Machane.
There was an eighteen-y^'-old girl in this Buê,
as I well remember, with the outward sav^^ry
tamed out of her by studiousnes. She was slim
but no longer lanky and owned a white-hot alivenes
and a grace. She had repeUing gray eyes and the
^ûtiful cop^pery hair, and about her an isolation,
a complete aloofnes. Her spirit fed îtself on wonder-
A winding sbeet 3;
ful and exûsits dreams by môods of
yowg ^pasionate woo, ânal^yzed and torn),o stashreds:
a l of it hid beneath a vvery quiet surface. She had
outw^dly a markedly vfrglnal q ^ ^ y but
was inwKdly insolently demi-viererge. She had no
com^panons, no frien&hipe. She absor^d h ^ ^ tf
in digging knowlêdge out of her high sohool
^ttks, &udying and imagining over it, and wander
ing in the f^ ^nAting highways which it opened to
her. She was at her moment of brain-awakening,
soul-awakening, ssex-awakening, life-awakenin&
world-awakening: it unc^teined windows of
old sorrow for her to look from. She had no ^cha-
^ ^ ^ i c weaknês—she was sstrongly and ^ m -
fuly courageorous. It and the need of self-^-expresion,
bem of her tem ing spirit and lifelong supp^îon
of it, led her to herserself out in a which
was published. It was a ^Ktic ^ » k and had insight
and vision and a riot of color youth as its key-
noote. And it was human and figuratively and
^&ally fuU of the devif. The far-and-wide public
in ^ g la n d and America ^ d it, and the newspa^pers
made a loud noise ^w ut it and the lonely girl who
^roto it found herself Oddly notorious. It brought
money which made her f r e of Butte and it brought
human into her life which chan^^ her life
fo ^ e r. And it brought her no maer or outer
36 A winding shed
excitsment or elation.
It was this Mary Macla.ne.
There was a girl of six-a-and-twenty in ^ ^ to n and in
New York who had half-forrgot her Iong-faamiliar
for several yêars She lived and moved in foUy
and triviality and falsenes. From having had t o
few companions she had many who did her no
^ g o and no hut hel^d her w^fc ^pasing days
and disipate her m^ris and mental tissues. She
had grown worldly in ^taste, weak in ^^m er or
thought, frâgile in ^body from a ine^da^ty
of fôod and sleep, and in every attttribute un^ârn
ofherseldf. Her Soul lay sleeping: her H ^ rt ^.beuse
it felt t o kenly worked overtime: nothing en^êd
her Mind. But her ânalytic trend stayed by and
it she pulled to bits the varied fraên^tary
things she encountered. She Iêarned New York
town in human sordid enlighîng disciplining ways.
She I^roed ^people of many kinds in âny ways.
She Iêarned other young women, which dep^êd
and exhilarated and pa^lexed her. She lêarned men
—a raace whose make and motive toward women
no analysis. She had not the usual defensive
armor of the normal woman, for she was not a normal
woman but trends of varying individuals
gathered into one seusitive woman-envelope. She
was w d e s toward men in their crude ^ - r a ^ ^ t y
A winding sheet 37
in ways no ‘ wo^man would ^dare or eare to be.
No could wring one ^tear from her, nor c a ^ a
quickemning of her foofoh Hêart. nor any emotion
in her save mirth. And there were women friends--—
There were some friends--^pe whose i l effects she
wil never ^recover from, from having ^bestowed t o
much of heêrself on them in the headlong nêwnes of
knowing and o^wning friends--dship rafter her long young
Ionelines.
—she could not cherish an^hing sanely. She
couldn’t 'stand in her doorway and watch a pretty
bird flying ^wve a green and admire it for
the gleam of its brfflknt wings in the sun, and let
it go. She must run out—leaving her door
E nding open and tea-and-cakea un^êd within—
and follow where the bird flew, through mir-e and
brier, round the world—
From the odd notoriety were many and
^êxperinces and adventure. She met some famous
—writsra, factors. ârtists-—of ^ ^ a b l e philo
sophic p la m n ^ . She saw her ^w k of youth
b u rl^ ^ ed with ^ ^ t i c piquance in the Wêber-and-
Fields show of its ^^& n (with one Collier,
of com^fous, ^cast as her long-lost Devil). There
was a ^hasty voyage to the edge of Europe—a voyage
of ^m fic âsictaknes lying in her stateroom: a ^half-
ûnpse of Park a l gray and green in the rain: a
38 A winding sheet
whole glimpse of London, mystic, D ickeraûe

and roundly British in its yeUow-brown fog: and
back again within ten days with more berth-ridden
seasicknes ^&ing from Cherbourg to New York
harbor: the whole adventure grown from a Spring
morning impulse. There were winters in Florida at
sun-flooded r ^ r t towns fuH of gaudiness and
gambling and surprising winter-resort ^&ple. Those
were mongrel w ^ re l years empty of every ^realness,
every pu^wso, every van^tage: they filled her with a
bastard wisdom.
It was this Mary M acl.ne.
There was a girl of seven-and-twenty worn to psychic
fragments and returned on a winter's day in a mfood
of in feren ce to this' Butte. It was her first return
since she and her book had gone forth eight years
before. She Îebrated it by being brought low with
a baleful blôod-sucking demon of ilness, what is
' called ^ r l e t fever. Borne upon by the mountain
altitude after sea-levels and ^toing in the way of
epidemic germ, she had no c^mce. A strong
feverish seserpent wound around her, consuming
and destroying. There were tortured dying weeks.
She tad never ^ b e il before in a l her life. ^This
was the most crucial ^ ^ ily adventure she had
known. It opened a new and dreadful world.
There was no passing of ^me in ththose long, long
A winding sbhe 39
wêeks, no rational thinking, no day, no night, no
no mourning, no memory. There was pain, and
uêr wearines and a feeling of being huried to her
grave. There was an air of hurry in the etiQnes
^ u n d , as if she and ^cath had made a elate which
she would be late in keping unles she were on.
There was a doctoor, and a crisp white ^ ^ ^ e d nurse,
and there êre in te r^ ^ ^ le b i t r drugs and nar
row of monotonous nalk. She was endlêsy
distur^^ by and medicine, and by cold spong-
^gs and c^^glugs of feverish ^bedlineus, and
anointings with olive oil, and ta^kings of her temper
ature, and sprayings of her throat: when she wanted
only to sink down, down, forever and forever to the
underoorld. She mmost ^sank. But êd capri
ciously decided he had other plans for her—insomuch
as d ^ ^ i n g she was not to be let go then.
weeks she ^ ^ ^ y rose from her and t o k
^stock of herself. Her r&le then was of a ho^rrible
yellow skeleton negative gray eyes, a wreck of
tisue and v ^ Jity such as only scarlet fever
achieve, and her ^ûtiful thick cop^pery hair chan^ri
to a strange short mo^^colored tangle. She was a
long time ^covering. The scarlet demon changed
her life and its mcan^gs and energies and
outlooks more effectûaly ^than if she tad b e n
tra p ^ d by a game-at-law and ^gaols and coûrts had
40 A winding sheet
had their toH of her. But rafter months, a year and a

of months, her health came ^back perfect if not
vigorous, and her ^ g o looks—the few she ever had,
and even the humannizing incongruous curls, though
changed, grew long and covered her head again in a
heathen frivol. A so ragnificont is this
blôod-and-flesh. It grows up again out of its cashes.
Burn a l of it but one cell in the ^rchinggest sicknes
and so that bones are whole it wwil renew ^&lf
Crom that, perfect as the swect-bay. But this mind,
le s magnificent and le s mytterious and more
d^cate and dubious, r ^ e s only by aid of the h ^ r t
beneath it and the soul beyond it. Her mind came
slowly out of darkened apathy. It lived in a high-
waUed cloister telling its languid ^beads by rote.
But as if it the swect aura of her renewed
^body it at woke strong and cold ov^vernight and
was awê again of itseif and the moururning âgic of
being.
It was ^tacl.ane.
And rafter a year or two more it is
Macl.ane.
It is I myself.
I walk my floor in leaden a feel
in my thrcat of damned and damning unfulfilment
and at my eyebrows the twiseed frown.
In it is ^ ra d and ^ ^ ^ h and worriment: in itis
A winding sheet 4*
hideous altering b re a ^ g prepoUence of death.
—if my hair, just my hair, tad not come back rafter
that ' red fever I'd have decided—not capriciously
Iilike êd but detorminedlym^yself—to have died
by my o ^ hand one anight. It is no brave thought
and it would have ^ b e no brave d ^d. Though it
wants a lowering to leave life when, despite
a l, one loves its very ^textureless color, its ^bodies
air: not to ^speak of the yelow hot deathles sunshine
that ^can not re a ^ one in her dark grave—
But the look and feel of my hair are the look and
feel of positive life, op^êd to death.
To live up to my han- would keep me brave.
But the retrospects, which I can't êscape, come and
wrap me in the Winding Sh^&
42 The Troad,
To-morrow
LAY down at noonday on my green couch and
I I tad a quainint dreaeam. I have jurt awakened

from it in a flush of languor and comfort. And
the &eam is vivid in my mind. I dreaeamed I was
^ w ie d and it was pink-and-^pearl dawn in my
ÔTied ^^-room. And in the ^bed one inch away
from mine was not my marriod husband but 'another
man/ It was no man I halving ^ se.
As I look back into the dream he seema of the
nowhere, a Granger. But in the he was no
& r^êr. I had crudely adm^ted him to my night.
And I tad just awakened in the pink-and-white
dawn and was sto sit silk-gowned and ruffie-^CTod
in my bed, CT^Îleged like a tailor withh my êlbows
on my knees and my Ain on my idly contem
plating him. . And he was lying in the other narrow
^bed contemplating me and s m ^ ^ a Iirde. He ^had
mee and yellowish ^hair. The of the
&eam was the sound 'off-stage* of the appreaching
foo^teps of monsieur-the-husband. As it always is
in the psychology of &eams the ins^tent thing in
the situation was not the footeteps, nor even that
they were approaching, but the sound: the elusive
threat of their sound. He would p ^^n tly ^ ^ v e r
us. Nobody ap^&rod to ^care: not 'another man’
The Dover road 43
smiling so tranquily: not I siting musingly over

looking ^m who had overnight 'enjoyed me’: not
the hus^md, ^because he never knew it—before he
could open the gailty door I awoke.
A shortrt-cut gently headlong &eam. I was a t once
mmaried, mixed adulterantly ^ h an imperfect
Granger and awahing in plea^nt mild anticipation,
to mateh the pink-and-^pearl of the summer dawn,
the d i ^ u in the approach^ sound of my husband’s
foo^^pe. It was humorous and ^ ^ t i c . Un-
m ^ y preliminaries were done away in that
& ^rn. I was given at once the one ^c& ng worth
while moment in it.
HaTOg no data as to what were my hushand’s,
temper and tenor, what he looked or who he
wwas, I could not in the &eam or out of it sur^be
what he would say or bow be would act when be
opened the door.
—-a theme for idling s^& ^tio n in a summer’s
day—
Âlso I wonder whence came that dream: so Un-
so Irrelevant to any thought in me: so
ftght: so D is^îng: so Draamatic: so
quaintly Vulgar.
A question: to which the one a^w er is that un.
^ ^ e r ^ l e ^ w e r to a l questions, propounded by Mr.
F.’s Aunt—‘There’s mil^tones on the Dover road.’
44 Thee harp of ^worn .strinp
To-mo^rrow
M
AY I oown no le av e n e d egotisism.
May I oown no e ^ is m that is not ^sensitive
and p o ^ ^ t and v&rant: a ^harp of Wom
The s ^ tis in g world is ful of non-anal^c

of ox-eyed TOion and h e n -^ ^ e d mental ^^b er
whose egotism is a etu^^dous im p ^ ^ ^ I e ^m or:
those who b ^ e d the ^ ^ d or O rl^ ^ : those who
^crucified the prophet of N ^ ^ e th : those who ^ e d
John Keats.
They i^ e rit the wtihich is a G olden-G r^
but never look at it.
They accept life, which is Intoxiearing life, but
never feel its ^textmt with their fing^.
They gather a Blue iris by a ^DW1h^-edge and let it
die in their sweating ^mds, or let it fal to the ground
as they walk, or throw it away when the Blue
droop: without looking a t it and breathing it and
knowing it: without ^sensing the tremulous Blue to
be lovelier in its wilting.
Theirs is the thick fat solilidly-fierce egotism of an
e m ^ o r or an infant whose metaphyysic concept
is that be is îve, and wwil remain alive, and must
be îve, though a l around ^ m b led drop by &op
to their death.
K e barp of strings 4S
I have aanal^yzed mine, and it is not so withh me.
If I say I am enûnting or false or despiîcabe it is
^because I know it’s true. Not ^because I say it but
^beca^ I have ^ ^ e d and proved it. I feel the
^textûres of my life with the tips of my fin^ro. I
my outward and let the old winds blow
over ththem-—icy, balmy, ^rah, gentle, s c o r^ ^ ^
cooling. I suffer for it but I know those winds:
songs of seas and ^stars and of litle pebbles ^ in
ththeir thradero ^^ us-dim w îng: life is in the soft
ringing perfume of their wings.
No breath of and ^» u ty comes to me that
I do not pay for with the ^&ting ache of my Heart,
the n ^ o u s tetensions of my ^ ^ y , the fraying and
s^hred^ding of my Soul. If any ^&uty or ^poet-thing
comes easily and gives me pleasure and not pain, I
know I have not yet got it and that it wil come
^în.
It wwil come ^pin: withh the pain.
I can’t eat cake and have it.
I can’t ra k e silk pûrses out of sows’ êars.
oseose things I learn nearly ^perfectly from playing
on my ^harp with the Worn Strîngs.
46 A sfrmgly-winndy Saturday
To-moorw
T is a roongly-windy Saturday.
I A th o ^ h t îtself in my ro3iled-and-
pêld brain: that one half of me is ^lad,
but the other is doubly &ne and someway over-
SSane, so that in it a l I brbreaka U lit te tto ^than ^ n .
A separate indivlual 47
To-morroow
HIS ôdy I in is familiar and mysterious.
T It is like a ^w k of
^în.
to ^read and r ^ d
It has the owned sentientness of hone-and-flesh,

and with it tremors fine as spirit-emotions.
My Body is more ^than my Mind, my Heart
and my Soul ; My Body if fragile is healthful, and
is one with the woân-race: it moves withh the
sualh cosmos. My ^Mind zanders in and
mouses on p i ^ ^ t i m p ^ t ^ ^ , enchanting vil-
klainies, odd inversions, whatnot. My Soul—-a OTswe
and an aq u isfe —its tfrod have home
it languidly down the ^ m stairways of many
some leading in ^wilful ways.
And my Heart is a pagan Heart. Its ^ e s c e is
flavored withh the day and lyric trail of the Sapphic
students.
Bodily I am ^so p ^ a n in the freedom of my owned
sez feelings—as are a l women. Most of them do
rot know it and those who do hide it in a to^M ike
silence, except the brazen, the headlongly honest
and the artlessly frank. I come under none of those
heads. I am m^yself. I tive and ponder alone.
And my Body feels consciously aloof and as a some
way ^separate individual: with inner o râs as
48 A s m w w sârate indiridual
hopes, smooth skin as emotion and drops of

blôod as thoughts—little drops of ^spar^kling red
virile sweet bl^ri for its thoûghts.
I so my Body as it and breathes and moves
about, with me and close to me. It is my so conânt
companion. It is an a ttr ^ iv e girl. a huann
of some I love it for the p r r a l ^ air it
bbreatthes and the long jwel-days of sunshine it has
known: for the tiny w^ro and ^tears of its dafly
life—the trending of its m ^ c tisues ^h
going-up-or-down-stairs, each CTcrosing of a dooM-sil
I love it for that it must lie at pale, pale and
et——et——still—in its grave.
I love my Body for its woman-complexities of
I love it for the lonely lyric poetry of its cel-ad-
ventures..
I love my Body for long journey of wwoe and
loveliness which it ^goes, from Birthday to ^Death-
day, in wilding passions of subtle nOTousnes: ^ h
day a day of bodily beauty and intolerablenes and
fear and uêr m ^ ^ ^ : ^because life ii, and ^because
I oown a white smcoth»sâned and ^because
the ânge, âstrange Air of Evveryday bbreatthes oa
it—touêa it—-always!
Sincnty aand fospair 49
To-morrow
^M a true Artist, not as a wrwriter1but as a writing-
person.
I try to feel myself Iiterarily a poet—finer-made
t^m a god. But I fail as a poet-Iitterateur as I fail
as a poet~person. A poet ffies always on wings of
fiery gold though h might be waywarcQy. But
often I wwalk my feet in odd gutters, and have
some plaisance in them, and analyze their gutteriness
as
—p-poet or no poet, h is ^best to be myself. In heights
and murks and widths and trivial horrors, myself—
But as an Artist I am in the true. As a painter of
words and raker of paragraphs which picture my
I
phases and emotions, and in my conscious feeling
anent it, I realize the flair, the
It is not a literary but a personal
^mper.
I have what ^goes withh a l artist-matter—long periods

of dry-rot when having nothing ripe to I write
nothing. My Artist~spirit proves îtself, jif fie s
îtself in my ttimes of stagnation and reaction. Out
of it something h ^ran and sad and I ^ ^ u s grows
in me, something which is worldly but awaits
its ripe thae of expression with someway-<livine
acorn.
I once thought me destined to be a in the
SO and despair
And many good ^»ple visioned a

writing ^ e e r for me. It has a vapid ^ t e , ju& to
r^recal it. My flawed life has that to felicitate upon—
that I have not s^pen it in fat lumps of wrîting,
magazine tales and sei:-novels. In the days, and
later, when my demi-vierge made its su û c I
was besought by publishers to o th ^ ^ —to
go on, to reap and ^m er. I pushed a l that away
with a pr^^mpied hand, not as ppart and ^ c e l of
my wastrel Iîng but in my assured ^rt^-tem per.
I should feel more true-to-form to êarn my living by
linen proses in a shop, along with rorows of
pale women, ^than by my wrîng.
My writing is to me a precious thing—and a rare
bird—and a Babylonish jade. It demanda gold in
exchange for îtself. But though it is my talent it is
not my living. It is myself, ^ e my g lo b es
and my throat, to commêrcialize by the day.
But I ^can not ^think of me as an without think*
ing of me as a ^ r . The two are som ây rrelated.,
I am an appalling, an encom^pasing Liar. I am a
^Liar by the drct My life ticks out silent lies as
my little drck ticks out ^ seconds. It is a p^ hasehasd
to put my finger on. I feel it on me the way I feel a
headache. I write this b o k with seriousness and
earnestness. It is a l a môod of sincerity and de-
spaialr. But except I it some backgroun^g of
Sincerity and despair
lies, though êach in it is fair fact, I fail as_an

Artist.
It is strange about lies—es-any lies, ail lies. They are
muscularly stronger thann truths. They come more
^ d ily to h ^ ^ m tongues. They fit more easily
into the games of life. And in me they ^ s e
nêedful to my ^ ^ t înd.
I mean not the lies I may te l but the lies I tUnk.
I m û not my f^renes. ^hat is a diferennt th^&
one I feel someway responsible for. But the ^ ^ ^ in g
lies feel to be a heritagee from ancient evil selves.
I lie to myself, to the air around me—I blow lies
into space from my quiet lips. And one half of me
knows them for lies and the other half of me belînes
them.
Those half-known lies, the n ed of the lies half
believed, ere the ^realization of an êsntial ^rtist-
spirit.
The oblique belief in them and the ^ ^ ^ itio n of
them as lies prôclaim me to m^yself, as a writing-
^^w n: ^Liar and
J2 It'S not
To-morrow
”S not ^Deah I fear, nor Life.
I horridly fear something this side of but
out-pacing Life a ^rie: a nervousnes in my
Sto— ^ —a vvery Muddy—a Lonely Hotel
R om .
r
A human prerogatite S3
To-morrow
T is a d d e of nighht. A has just toled
I ô.
I am clothed in bedrom negligees and a

softening sweetness of cold from head to
foot.,
I am tranqquil for to-day I had a wwalk that made me
feel SinOTe and Safe.
It is a comforting feeling: it is a hasf-sanndwich.
It was a long walk south^-east of Butte along an
outskbting rrad where I used often to walk when I
was s ^ ^ n —a brrad gray desert. It was the same
sand and ^ C T ^ n ^ . 11 was ^bare and w ^ ^ e d as
if a giant coyote had picked its rocky ribs.
The day was windy and dusty. The surakine was
tWck and sweet and heavy like floatingg honey.
The dust thas blew against the white of my nneck
was like ground
My feet ached as I walked.
My shoes were Cûban-heeled thick-soled pumps of
coeded silk, a kind easy to walk in. But the same
feet which once readily bore me seven miles along
thet road ache now at th ra . A l of me ^hed as I
walked along. I cursedd desultorily with a s^coth
whispered flow of craes, ^beca^ the circumstances
^ ^ e d to derand it. But I loved the walk—even
54 A human prerogati1e
the more for my têd feet and my athing knees and
my i r ^ g dsooping shouldders and the hot
^ d my threat.
My Soul ^tasted rrealnes in it.
dclose to me, in immense sad beauty, wwere the
deep high, heavy silent somber hhil of Montana.
To-day the n ^ e r ones were a stately enchanted
Blue: a Blue of a l âges: a Blue of infinitude: a Blue
^with a feel of life and death in its Bluenes. Âbove
it the sky was..: not blue but a pale glimmering
shimmering silver hung with gray silk douds
soft as doves’ plu^mage.
I sat on a flat rock and looked at a l of it and at the
desert around, and at my dusty shoes.
A l of it felt overwhdmingly sincere: at one ^with the
wide worn ûsed ^ rth .
My dusty shoes looked to be at one ^with it and could
in^terpret it.
I felt my shoes could ^ i m their human prerogative
of ^ttin g dusty in any of this world’s reads.
It gave me a feeling of human Sincerity: ^go-and-
evilfl Safenes.
It is on me now, along ^with cold CTeam and ^ o n g
memory of ^ ^ r t and Sun and Blue.
It is as ^ g o as a bef-sandmwich.
I don’t like beaf-^ndwi^.
The merciless beauty JJ
To-morrow
OMEETIMFS the dusk is full of fire.
S Some dusks I sit by my window looking out

and hotly and coldly want a Lover: hotly
îth my êdy and coldly with my Mind.
A dusk has just gone. I sat looking out at it.
A of dark eream t ^ ^ d with heated violet ^rne
from nowhere and hung ^Mve the ground.
Suddenly came on me a sesense of bewildering
mysterious beauty.
In it was a feel of ripping w^roth that creptpt into
my bone-and-flesh from forehead to heel, from
temples to soles, from crown to toe-tips.
It ^crept dow and suffoeating like chloro
form.
I leaned eelbows on window-sill and chin on palms
and sunk my in the violet shades outside and
etr^ghtway knew I wanted a Lover: not in delieate
moonlit culmination Juliet in her balcony: not
denyiningly likee the timid young nun in her cloister
unaware by faint forbidden emotions.
I wanted a Lover likee the jungle leoperd leaping
tthrooûgh the Sprin^kne convert at nightfall to find
her mate.
It is a subtltie and an obvious feeling, âile of a
meerciles beauty.
The merciless beauty
It is the titired murge of sex-tisues and n^^ê-cel

^ i t w ^ furious, fiery as the sun.
It is the same which the heated leopard fisis in her
ramaculate lusi. It is quite the same—but it .
could not move me as I sat alone Ioverles to the
of an eyebrow, to a change"'of a
movement of ^boTO on the window-sill or of
beneath my cWn. Nor could it, though the potential
Lora1^had outside my window.
For any woodman of any the world is ful of
L o ^ ra êach and a l to be tad by the fluêr of her
finger, the d ^ p of her white eyelids, the tretrembling
of her pink-bowed TOe world is full of them—
facile Lovvers, craven, ^ ^ rn t and p in c ^ ^ k . And
it’s that kind I want hotly my Bedy, coldly
my Mind in dusks of rippling warmth—rippling,
ripplingg warmth—
1 want the Lover as the Ico^pard wants here. But
I’m not a leopard: inêad, a woman-porson of k ^
sentientness and wild ^wistful ^ m ^ a tio n . So I
wouldn’t so much as ^crok a finger to a Lover
to me: a curious n ^ o u s inertk.
It’s only I want the Lover with frantic blind cosmc
ardors inside me.
I analyze it in my magic Mind and find I would <cal
no Lover. I analyze farther and find I’d reject a l
but an im ^^& le one-in-ten-tho^&nd. But remains
The ô-riciles beauty 57
the desire, hot as live embers, cold as hail.

Sex is an odd attribute. It has to me like a
blest impediment and a incumbrance and a
radiant ^ ^ . —
I was seventeen I on a threshold and
peered curiously into a dim-m-lit str^ ^ ^ ^ ra te d
R om .
It wwas unnknown to me then. My mind alone
bespoke it. As I at its doorway the air it
wafted out touched my with only the lightest
frayed-cobweb contact, unintelligible and unen-
Iightening. I had lived an emptily alone girlhood.
I
At five-and-twenty I c r ^ o s the Room's threshold.
I breathed lightly the odd fragrance. I looked
curiously around. I touched some amorous-Iooking
grapes and some love-promising apples that lay
^w ut: I bit into one and burst a grape with my
finger and thûmb. I gathered a weak-petaled
flower or two. I gauged the Room and its furnish-
ments and was unthrilled by anything in it. Even
bodily it left me unthrilled.
Those two memory-mists do not keep me in the
now-dusk and in the strength and terror and fire
of top-most youth from wanting a sudden Lover
with a l that’s in my Body.
Love has naught to do with it. ^ v e is a
58 The merciless beauty
wînged Bird. I know it. I know the values of my

life and of me. I do not ^ ^ ^ e tampers for torches,
dueats for Iouis d’ors, v ic io u s neponthe for ds^rn-
le s death.
In dusk-moments my bene-and-flesh is a l of me I’m
ssure of. It and ends in It
angers the violent su^mo^nses of this dearth and its
dusks.
In the j^-g o n e dusk I felt the priprickling blôod low
to my finnger-ennds. A fl^d-ttide, b k n ^ g rred,
s^êd and ^ ^ e d and bubbled and pounded at
my heart.
•1 want a ^ ^ ^ ^ s o m e ^ ^ ’—1 murmêd to the
shaddoows beyond my window.
I grgrew breathl^.
The spirit of my flesh ^rose a wind-blown flame.
A loud cry rang in my neroe-w ildês.
That moment the vâriant analysis wMhich always
rides with me dÂ.
There ^rne ssher feeling—the merefles
beauty.
—-a ân-^^ttn, maybe—the ân of happy un-
analytic brutalitY—to be suddenly there îth me:
to flash into my shadowy solitude ^ e a ^ ^ t ^ g
bolt and b ^ t and break me.
—-a ^^tor-hour of wildnes—restlesn^^
made of SStar-^me and Lily-^petal and Q o u d -b ^ t
Tbe merciless beauty 59
on Mountain-su^îts and ^&-wavves purplle in a

Stotormy Dawn-an— an intolerable and ^âsy—
But just gone and I sit it in the pale ^cast of
thoûght.
But bbreathlesy I ^recal the breaêasness of it.
6o My shoes
To-moorw
LOVE my S h ^
I I loove them ^because they so my feet.

I walk many a mile along the stone pa^vements
and into ^ ^ a n t edd and on open roadsds at
the outs^kirts of Butte.
And while I walk I tthink.
I t^ ^ of a greaeat many kinda-pods—petent and
^ngic and mad. The act of waling an e ^ ^ e
in my ssparkikling in fe^^ mind. And the weight
and the stting and the hurt and the f^âscinaion of my
w aling thonghts ^bear down on my slim feet as they
^car me along. And the herd-^&ten world beneath
t^ m feels r^ n tfu l and u n co m p l^^t to my soles.
And then I look down at my Shoes ^with their
tailored vamps and their walk-worthy soles and
i^^m tly my feet feel ^ u r e ^ ^ r a t eevil, s ^ ^ ^ y
pro^êd from my thoughts and from the world’s
surface: my thoughts which shoot down on theni '
out of my dCTilish bîn and the world-hardnes
beneath them.
Tô-day I was walking along the road that leads up
the ever-wonderful Anaconda Hill—-a p^co of stones
and sand-wâstes and hoists and ^ffoldings and
mines ten th o u ^ d d l^ ^ g men th o ^ n d s of
feet down in their m ^ ^ c bowels. Qose by were
My shoes 61
mâncholy m ^^^^-toaed mountains at the north

-east. They ^were f r ^ e . triumphant, grief-stricken,
^teryingly beautiful. ^Purple clouds hung around
them moûrning vveils. I can’t look enoûgh at
th r a —it is as if there w ^ra’t enough Ioo^king-powwer
in my h ^ ^ u gray eyes.
^ ^ ^ t l y I ^came to a s^smal ôpen as I waikked,
a toy A toy is more a d^dert
^than is a ^ a l one. The ^ d in it is grayer
^The stones are abrappter. The sun is flaêr-Iootiking.
^The air is ^wiling to fuîsh breath to a huân
being. The that could be said of one is
that it ^was intolerably desolate. I Ioo^d ^ » u t
and ^w u t it. And suddenly I was afraid. Afraid
of many thithings: afraid of ^ ^ ^ tric k e n mountains:
afraid of my life and of Me.
I leaned a yelow lêdge of r a k ^with a subtle
sickening faintishf^^^. ‘I am afraid.' I said inside
me. 'of world and life. and of a l
and —n ^ e s and days and
toy d ^ ^ fe and a l How I cope with
it—I alone?'
Then I looked down at my Shoes of black soft duU
leather and cloth. buttoned snugly around my rankles
and ^with tough supple soles fit to take me to Jericho
and Thus neatly ârmored I felt suddenly
my blue-veined feet need fear noting from sand and
6i My shoes
stone and W d n es of ground. And if my feet are

not afraid—my feet which ^bear weights of all-of-me
—why should afraidnes touch my spirit which is
proud?
There wwil be always Shoes in the world: stout
stylish s e r a ^ ^ le ^wts, and pale delicate rat-skin
pumps, and satin mulê-slip^pers.
And always I shal have Shoes: in toy d e se ^ I
have black ^ o n g snug-buttoned ones.
I looked at them in this toy-dêsert and strâightway
I wasn’t afraid.
It has bean often like that.
So I love my Sh^&
An êerie quality 63
To-morrow
HEN I was Ten y^re old I played ^ mar
W bles 'for kceeeps,’ smoked litle piêces

of r&ân b^^^hip in the hay-dented
and slid ‘^bely-bûster’ down long winter
on my sled. And I hammered and sawed ruinously
grownup tols, w^îng happily. And I
plac ed d o l âbsor^ bedly for hours on end.
I was not boyishh and not girlish.
I was not except for an eded h^ ^ ty thild-
h^rt.
I was m^yself.
So long ngo and lounger I consciously owned an
eerie wMhich topped oover the êdge of my
h^^êss.
And own it.
6 4
A belliad
To-morrow
HIS noonday as I sat on the veranda
T young lads stopped by the stone coping

which borders front yard, and con-
v ^ ^ . One was eager-Iooking and about .elOTra
y^ra oold. The other was perhaps t^êen and
morose and he ^had a s ^ a l Trifle which he poshed
^with a bit of waste, not lifting his as they talkbd.
Said the younger boy: *Say-Frank, I could 'a’ had
that old shot-gun off my if I’d’ a’ went rafter it
to Rocker that ^rne. *
'Like hhel you could.’ said Frank.
‘Say-Frank, you know that o' Billjr
O’Rourke’s?—he êde m b u l^ y e s and one raide
ring ^with it day 'fore yesterday.*
' ULike hhel he did.’ Frank.
*Say-Frank, Mexicans and Indians get a guy
ev'ry time with a long-distance rifle without taking
aim through the sight.’
'U ke hhel they ^can,’ ^ d Frank.
‘Say-Frank, there’s a kid down on South
that’s got a Colt automatic that’ll hit without
at a l.’
'Likee hhel there is.’ saidd Frank.
‘Say-Frank, you know them Ilite brras
guas the ^ ^ i s ’s got?—the bores o* them ’re
rifled just likee tthis/
'Like hel they said Frank.
'Say-Frank, my grandfather in Illinois ’s got a
bulet in him he got at the battle o’ Fredericksburg
in the War.'
'Like hell he has/ said Frank.
'Say-Frank, it ^costs a hundred-thousand do^ra to
rake a Krupp ^m and weighty do^rc ev’ry time you
fire it.’
'Like hel it does,’ said Frank.
'Say-Frank, it ain’t a felony to ercak a burgkr
a gun even if he’s only br^în’ into somebody ^se’s
house.’
•^Likehell it ain’t,’ said Frank.
'Say-Frank, my mother ^goes huntin’, — — she
shoot rabbits and ducks on the wing and once she
got a deer with that big old .44 o’ my Uncle Walt’s.’
'Likehell she did,’ said Frank.
'Say-Frank— listen,you gi^me- your gun for
my bicycle, both my catcher's glovves and four
dofors when I get paid?’
'^Lik hel I will,’ said Frank.
'Say-Frank— I— n, will you gimme it for my
bicycle, my catcher’s glovves, four dol^re when
I get paid and my shepherd pup?’
•^Like hell I said Frank.
'Say-Frank— listen,— -and my ârtificcial srake?'
66 A beUiad
‘1i.kee hel,’ Frank.

‘Say-F^rank—glisten,—and my halff o' ^ m ^ ’s
^camera?’
•^Like heU,’ ^ d Frank.
‘Say-Frank—I^ten,—-and my yyear’s sshin-
‘^Like hhel,’ ^ d Frank.

‘Say-Frank—-listen,—-and my tbis ^year’s sshin-
^^& ?’
‘like hell,’ said Frank.
‘Say-Frank, come right down to it I don’t want a
.22. If I get a year rt’U be a .32.’
‘like he—’ —
^Whch point I felt to be the top-note of the h ^ ^ ^

so I rrose and came into the h o ^ .
I felt replete wwith rhythm and with a of sur-
p ^ ^ ^ h ^ ^ m attituudes ^mote from my own.
Swift BOmy days 67
To-morrow
WIFT, Swift go my days.
By rights I think time should drag with me,
for I am w u s t^ my portion of life as I
it.
But my days ^pas Swift—Swift, Swift.
They come, they fly away—-before I know.
I’m thinking it is Tuesday: but while I’m thin^king
—W în^day has come: and gone: and Thu^day
is rahing in. Tuesday, blue-and-gold or graay-and-
silvver, its mornings and nights and bits of fôod
and oponings of doors and thinkings: Wednesday
the same ^^pm ent: Th^^fey the same.
Êach day comes and ^goes like a hash of ^med silvered
S
garbled light.
But there is time in rach for me to touch the en
chanted Everydaynes: time for the turbulent sly
dîght of ^în& smeling, feeling the ^ r ^
h ^ o r s and romances in ^ h smaU thing n ^ me—
my Qook, my Window, my Jar of C.OId ^Cream, my
Two Thumbs. There is time in êach day for it to
make me pay a w iring glimmering feverish h o ^ ^ ^
to the myrtic daily g^fo&d.
My life traffic homages from me.
I am w iring out—fraraily, tfftiredly, from a desolate
uneasy love of livingng.
68 Swift go my dqss
It is why my days go Swift when by rights time

should drag leadenly in pu^shment for barbarous
futilenes.
There is not timê-space enough in any of the days
efficient to love the virile and the murderous
red and the OTswe pale surprising purple in the su^nset
^wve the west d ^ rt: nor ^ c o to love the smel
of a sudden August rain: nor the flaming dêate
Idea of the ^poet John Keats.
While I’m ^ ^ in g to love eash of those to its heighht
of Iov^worthin— — the t^day is gone: and_the ^
morrow, which must s e a new lov^^me for
^ h Thing, is come.
But while I say 'is come’ : it’s gone.
So Swift go my days— oh Swwift, Swift!
By the of fcdead A^mcons 69
To-morrow
INCE I wrote the beginning of ^this there- has
come the wwarin Europe: a war full of suffêring
brave women and dead full of êr-
ân and cruelty and etupi^ty and or F ^ t h
gamenes and French splendor of valor.
It has an eft'ect of some kind on êach ^ ^ n who
so much as its ‘hea&ines.’
It has the effect on me of making me a jeelously
patriotic ^m eriû.
It makes me of ^ ^ ^ ^ n and ^tty sb u rg
an edd furious pepersonal shame. '
We are Ameri^cans not by aradent but by the bl^ri
or dead Amerieacans. But we asurne it is by ^radra^
We lie down a nation o£ to let the pig-
h ^ ^ ^ Hun trample by proxy on our neck.
It was for Amererica to declare war in the ^ ^ e hour
the Lûsitania p^^nggers met murder.
We were not ‘t o proud’ but afrdd. Afraid and not
rad y .
Not ra d y has no right thing to do with it.
TCey were not ^ready at ^ ^ ^ ^ n .
I long with some ^pasion to exchange my two b ^ &
for two w ^te ones ^ h red on the
sl^ e s :to ^reemycountry in adayjofdeathandhonor.
It t o is a l the time under my skin though I write
along but in ^this flawed song of myself.
70 To express me
To-morrow
T SUP^POSE I’m very lonely.
I It is luck— luck from the ^ ^ ^ —not to he ^beset
^ by el^tera of ^&ple, ^&ple who do their ^think
ing outside their heads, 'chrerful’ ^»ple, ^»ple who
say ‘paedon me’ : a l the ^mning sorts sca^tfed
^Mut o^tourting one’s view of th e horrizons.
But for want of— other, mother people— I am inteêly
lonely.
When I was eigh^n I thought I must he the most
lonely CTcreat^ in tthis world. I ânalyzed my life
then as now and it by itself had set me aj^part. But
I then as it’s given Youth to stand— on HHigh
Ground. I was strong to endure Ionelines while
viciously hating it. There was unaware a hope-
colored blblis in my ine^rerience which companioned
me. I felt it then without knowing I felt it. I
s e that pînly now.
Now ^so I s e pluainly and feel pklainly ^wt I ^stand
on Io w c t ground, at ^wrer vantagee. As my ^bodily
len gth which was then robust is now slight. The
metaphysic life-shadows reath me more easily.
They have a feel of fatally shutting down, fatefuly
closing in. They ^ the mirnges on the dun-colored
worldly air near me of my own ûseles untow^d
selves. Th ere is no more the ho^ ^ t t lored b ^ .
To express me 71
At eighten I said to me: 'I ’m lonely but some day
I may be happily friend s ^ ^ d and apprehended and
it be like pasudise.’
Now I say to me: 'I'm lonely by fate and by na^ ture
and tem^ perament. I’ve known some friends^pe of
vivid aluriningnes and info^ u ^ ^ — —they await me
now in the offing. And others. There is pasa^se
in it—an odd OTswe dubious pasedre. But what’s
the ^ —?’
It's that what’s-the-^ ^ born of the lower van^tage.
ground and the elosing-in shadows, that thiefly
makes me lonely—lonely to a d^peratenes and on
thaough to a ^ ruinous calm.
It is this metaphysic Ionelines whith br ^ da in me
one constant ^ ^ nles t restles ^ urgent motif: to
me: not of-the-past except desultorily, not
of-the-future save indifferently: but of my' low-
toned, Iow-echoing now. Until I’ve Exp^ ^ e d me
there’s no ^ttin g open the gates of my spirit to a
^ ^ r-by, though the ^^rcr-by should be a
in-the-flesh, a an angel a torch.
Four-and-twenty turbulent m^ oods may break over
me in a day, or four-and-twenty passive ones, or
four-and-twenty someway joyous ones. But like
the theme in a fugue loud tranquil ^^CTent
nêed to ^ Express me transcends them a l.
It is a big voracious part-human bird of prey. Of
72 To express me
it t o I say what’s-the-use. But it is a nêed without

a ûse, a need scornful of It spr^ga uncon-
ceWived, unsoureed from inside me. It from the
ashes of bligh^ngeat môods and ^beats its b^îng
etrong ngkinst my face.
It says: 'Know me, defer to me, Slim-womman.
•Sorve me, foUow me, gather-in a l your answwers for
me. Do thoûgh I undo you, though I rend you,
^tear you with my teth so like a wolf's.
you’ve answered me I may let you go. Until
then, tum to me. T el me: tel me again and
^în. Uêr yourself. Inteterpret. Unfold.’
It makes my tf^space someway someway
heaeartbrareaking, someway frrightful— st^wn with duet
of broken ^stars. '
I live long hours of nervous profound passionate
self-communion. I discover etrange lovely aage-
worn' faucets of my Soul. I ^ ^ v e r the subtle
^mting Ego-— the wonderful that livea and
waits in its garbled radiance just beneath my skin.
To ask onêlf and make answer out of oneself is
the most delicious of life’s mental delêctatious.
I might have m ^ is it but for those ^&ting bruising
wings against my fê, now and y^ ears ngo: for
^prresing breeds the êt Êxpresions.
I might have gone on through yêars and' dêcades
and lumps of months knowing at ^best a of
To me 73
some rare ^ person, a l i t e les or more of another rare

^ rson, a little of a musician’s soul in a nocturne,
a of a dead ^ poet’s splendors. But to Me and
my own fine spirit-^ relatioraU ps to th^ things I
could remain, but for my radiant flawed egotistic
in^ terprrtireting strange.
But for it I'd not have the wit to ^ coive the one
h^ an being in the world I ^ y know with vâlnes:
my own ^ Self. I should drop into my grave at
without a g^ri-by to the glowing one who was locked
just inside, whose hand I’d never clas^ pedwhose sad
pru d ent eyes I’d never looked in, who was then
^tting out and on and away.
It is a ^ being ^ cl and tr^ fi^ guring and terrifying:
terribly worth gasping close and breathing with.
And some days it sleeps, sleeps like the dead: it is
delicater thann rose-vapors before the dawn: a sun-
blown faery thing.
When it sleeps I’m left alone. Then comes a doubt
ful dreadful quiet, a hell of d^ umbness that only God
could reach.
It is as if neither ^ ed nor I attempts to^cope it.
74 Bastard lacy valentines
To-morrow
HE thing I admire moet is l e n gth. The
T I most hate is Weaknes, of eash and

evevery kind.
A l the r^ûring things in the world ^ in and of
the ông dêeds done in it. A l the mîschief and
desÔT come from human Wêaknes.
I wouldstrongly murder my foe ^than fo^rgive
Wêakly for my scem^ advan^tage. I would be
happier in my mind as a ^careful c^ ^ o^ an thann as
a Iôoejointed I would rather have a farthing’s
value as a faithful concubine ^than no value as a
slattern ho^wtfe.
Strontrength prepays îtself ^ren^h— and
Truth is etrength nearly always: and not always.

To theat ôngly in the lifo-gsme me more than
does Weak easy honêsty. By being a tto n g ân
Napolcon brought home the hacon. an
honest one would have got him not one rasher of
the hacon of bis desire. The raco is t o ridden wwith
'temperament’ to let truth be its prevahing fora.
But ^rcnngth ploows its ^rnful way throûgh tem
perament like a ssteam-shovel. The hacon Napoleon
brought home he ^ tt k from other ^& ple, carousing
them They were Weak and let ^m tetake
Bastard lacy valentines 75
it, or they were strong and got kiled trying to kep

it. To get kiled trying to keep your bacon is to be
even Wronger thann the Napoleon who lives and takes
it from you. Those who sit and kt Napoleon
get their ^ bacon are fit only to be the^ mselves made
into ^ bacon.
Truth belong.'l ^ with love, ^ with friendship, with
c^^ty, ^ with paychic lo^ n g ^ dnes: ^ ith a l the
al^ ^ ^ ic gr^ aces and tendern^ es.
But in the mere grin^ ng IMngnes of it is
to be strong. I say to Me, 'Mary ^ c ^ m e, be
&rong: whether you’re Iwing joyous on a hil or
mo^ urnful in a valley, make s^ t to be strong!
In whith paragraphs I make an apologetic preamble
to Me when ^wut to dweU on my odd ironic element
of W^ eaknes. My W^ eaknes is not an art nor a
science nor a nor a trtrait but is a sort of ruinous
trade touthed ^ with a l of thê, a trade at whith I
work and lose heavily from a viewpoint of ^rconal
^ nomy.
In Atlanta-êorgin lives a man ^ h whom I ex-
anango semi^âsional latere. He is thirty-nine
and clever and what is s caled a busines ^ an. He
is a busines man not only by circu ^ ^ nce but by
nature. At a glance one would picture him in the
of an office in a ^ ste-and-brick building
with a roll-top desk, a swivel ^ chair, a cabinet full
BastaTard ^lacy ^^rtinnes
of files, a stenâpher ^with an ^tf^êrate vvo-

^ûlulary, and stationery neatly engraved with his
his busines, his cable ad^dres and his tele
phone n ^ ^ ^ . The look of the neat Ieetrhead
and the fibrous feel of the bond paper give one
the i^» that wh^wer went into a busines venture
^with ^m would come out of it ^sadvan^cously.
another ânce at U^self one would infer
that his leisure hours might be fancifuly spent.
In hours of êase some busines men folow base-
others golf, ‘ tutired’ ones musiuSical comedy.
others ^take up coUecting or some ^personal
phantasm. In the laêr category is my a^ în-
tance of A^nta. He affectss ^ Mary Macl.ne and
musings of her in his Ieis^ hours. But what I am
to ^m does not concern nor much intoterest me.
^What he is to me c o n ^ ^ me, for he— his I^^rs—
are a pr^nt source of my êlaborated Wêaknes.
I feel a wave of conscious Weaknes washing over
me as I writewrite about it. His ^ k e a soft
buffer, a foolish pr^ty window, a tinted vveil ^ r n n
me and my ^ '^ h ie s .
I met him when I livedlived in New York. He had read
the ^wk I OTote in the ^ l y ninêen-hundreds and
a{ mseting me he conceived a thinly insistent admi
ration which someway wwent to his head. He at
in^roals since then me Inters fuU of charmed
Brctard llacy mlmttines 77
and salubrious fla^ tteryand of app^ reciationand praise

for and glgifts and qunlrties which I do not
They ap^ peal and cater remar^ ^ Iy to my
v ^ anity—and ^ pl^ ^ m t and and vain and
fatuous and fond and piquant.
He is a clever ^ an and d^ not make love to me.
A butcher's-boy may write Iove-l^^re—and Td
prefer th^ of a buteher's-boy to th^ of a busines
man: they would be more sin^ cereand les hopelesy
But busines ^ an is and
intuitive and me no love. His wife— a
busines ^ an always has a wife— could not rationaly
object to what is in the lite r s, though she would
irrationaQy and naturaUy object to the
the^ mselves. She is unloving and unloved—they
always are—but whatever may be her ^ t e (I know
only that she is ta l and blonde and nnamed
she doubtles would find something su^ perfluous in the
idea of her hushand’s to me.
A I^ter comes from him in ^ Geo^rgia r after I have
written him a brief ddisquieting one a latent
human ap^ peal in it to make ^m ^ think the chief
thing I nêed in life is his appreciation, his a^rtude
toward me, to brace my spirit. Then his comes,
wr^ten in his smaU slanting commercial hand. It
is ^ r a ^ g from any angle and wel tha^ ught. wel
coushed.
78 Bastard ^lacy
In it he ^ tel me that my brain, în^t i l tly br^mnt

though it is, n^ eeds the ^m twilights of other brains
such as his to catch the ssparks it throws off.
Which is a lie. My brain is not scin^^^tly brilliant
and it 'n^ eeds’ nothing. But the lie is to
read. There is a gentle ^ e s s ingnes in its untruth
which fiêelssomeway ^^rnger than any
fact.
And he ^ tel me my chief attraction as an in^ dividual
is my ability ^ urately to gauge another individual
and to breathe myself graciously out to it and upon
it while p^ reten^ dingto be rammed in my own ego.
Which is another lie. I^m^^d in my own is
never a p^ rete^ me, and I have not ga^ — —
in the of weighing and measururing-an—another
individ^ ^ y except to hate it. But it is pi ^ ^ tly
rrestfful to hear that I am thus benign.
And he me that though several y ^ ra have
since he and I t o k leave of one another he
has never forgeran that ^ beca^ it
was like the ^ pasing of a little wweir-woman who
brushed ^m lightly with her ^ ments as she went.
Which is another lie. My ^^Kiation with him was
in brief mectinga at hectic &udio tea-fights and two
noisy dinners at Chur^^’s, at a l of which I frowned
impatiently at his ^ tiresome conversation. And his
leavve-taking with me cous^ isted in his
a Iead-pencil— ^&utifuUy he s^^pened it— for me
to write a telegram with. It was not until
correspondence we es^Îished an unreliable
int i ^ ^ . But to be told I semed a weir-wo^ an
to a hard-h^êd busines ân who could doubtles
cheat a client out of four thousand doUars e s Hy in
a half-day’s maneuvering is oddly inspiriting.
And he toils me he is highly privile^ d to be
to ^ gaze in at the m^ ^ -tinted windows of my soul,
which ^ surely c^^rned the ^ pasing
prol^ ariat.
^ Whith is another lie. He has never remotely
glim^psed my tired Soul in the fofirmly false little
I^ ^ r e I’ve written him. As to its being a privilege
if he had: it is the proletam t, it so happens, who
have c^mce at those windows, which are not
m ^ o-tintod but made of the plainest of plain
But the concert meUow and naif and bromidic
and apperûsing to me, like s creamand raspberries in
July.
And he ^ ils me the most delightful thing in the
world would be to live near me and have a ^ ^ n
of daily meetings— meetings of artral selves upon a
'higher plane’ whereon we should exchange th^
flowers and fruits of the spirit which grow not from
the soils but from the esoteric ^ esnces of life:—
that sort of thing.
8o Bastard ^lacy ro^lmtina
Which is another lie. No ^ posible man (^ ^ ^ t a

Poet whom I loved— or perhaps a scientist— )
could find me delightful for more than two con-
secuutive meetings— 1 develop something like temper
— -and I care for no higher planes except in airships.
As for esoteries— 1 would fainer exchange musings
anent over-shoes than over-souls. And my spirit
^&rs in fertile ^ earthy soil chiefly ^ ^ t l es from which
men gather no figs. But it gives me a warmish
feeling, simim ilar to a hot-water bottle ^ between my
shoulders on a winter night, to read that picturesque
palaver written to me in my sslim scorn by him in
his springy swivel chair.
Thus it ^goes. His ^ ^ de all of sof^&
quaintest lies which I know to be lies the moment
my gray gaze falls on them. A l his premises in
regard to me and his deductions from them are
roundly lightly m^teken. But I like that .fluent
flattery the more ^ beca^ it is so false. I am t o
vain a creature to want to cope often with truths
even though they might be uplifting self-laudingg
truths. My vain pec^lar Weaknes de^ mands as
weH semi^âsional collations of creamed lies upon
which it f^ eedslike a sleek cat on creamed fish. My
humor enters into it, in no obvious way but eerily
like a gay ghost. My humor is a strong influence in
me. It is Wronger than my pride and ^êr and
fear and caution and T erence and self-love—

stronger than most thinings I own.
And it’s for r ^ ^ ns of ^ ^ ^ e and vananity and
oblique humor I let from the busines man
come, though not often, into my solitudes. And
I spend hours of inert t ime-w^ aste conning his
fanciful ideas. And the I^ ^ r e I writs ^m in reply,
though brief and impopersonal and done in my ^ best
false manner, consume a surprising lot of time and
mental and physical force to write. It is the Weak-
nes in it which is so devouring: it eats me hungrily
and about like a bu ^ r i picking my bones.
A spinelesly Weak game. I hate its Weaeaknes more
t^m I like its pl^ ^ m t futility. I hate it and m^ yself
in it a l the time I*m dweUing on it. I hate it as I'd
hate a little drug habit fasteened on my nerves.
Its influence is the ^ same but more insidious t^m a
^rog would be, more demor^îng. As feeling fear
makes one afraid, feeeeling more fear makes one more
afraid.
Stil once in a month, once in a two-month, I feel
the hankering to be applauded for ^ o nd-rate
qualities I do not own, and I give way to it: in a
partic^ a d y Weak way, aêr my self has
reduced it aanal^ i yticaly to sin^ , and r after saying
boshsh! with a l my selves.
telling Me t o that it is a common-^ t ing
82 ^ u tard
^rne. Life is a strange musi^ ^ ^ o r of gold ^ bel
some silent, some far-echhoing. And the a>mmon-
^îng thing ^ cracks a ^ bel-edge.ge.
Then briskly I ^ wct the I^ e t from A^ tlanta-
^corgia and ^ n there comes a freshh sheaf of smooth
vdvîsh lies to pad my way.
There may come no more ifI w writenow should
find its way to Atlarita-^rorrgia. Or if fate or
should in^roene.
But always I know W^ eaknes of me find ways
to work at its losing tradde. .
It is of the dubious inw ^ evitabeside of huma.n nature
— like gold ^ teh and ^ tined salmon and ^ ta r d
lacy valentines
Sweet fiM ^ sweatngs of 83
To-morrow
M
erely from the view-point of outwutw ard
intelect tthis Ib o k of myyselfis eddly ^ fficult
to
My m^fcloved to do and mv harddest to
do is to wrwrite. •
It is ^ hardto catch and hold with mental fin^ra one’s
own emotions and then doubly W d to them.
A fseling is somr t^ ^ without the words and without
^ even the tho^ ught. To put it into the thought and
then into the words is a minuter task ^ thanwould be
the transfecting of a Franîs-Vtlon ^ x m into
Ch^ octaw.
It's a knowing ^ ^ » n who her own em ôns
and a knowinger who what is what. who
is who, wMhichis which among them. I look inward
at Me and I s e an emotion of World-Wearine s and
want to w ritewriteit. I it as nearly as I can. But
when I have done— it’s not World-Wearine s that I
rnwrote but its twin-^tor, Boredom-of-the-Moment,
wWch happened to be next the other when I Ioo^ ked
I am glad to have tra^rcêd Boredom-of-the-
Moment. It is the finer and ^mner and more
elusivusiv of the two. But how and why did I fail of
World-W^rines?
But som^ etimewhen I aim at or Resentment or
8 4 S w d fine r a t i ngs of
Surprise it may be World-W^ earines I’ll bring down

a ^ ing-shot.
I set out to the ^w k-in-my-Eyes it
may be the Feel-of-my-Fiîngers that comes out in
my round w writing. Another time 1 I ^ think I’m
my Bed-Tooth: until I get it when
it t^ ro out to be my li t e Eye-WrinUes.
failed of the tho^ ugh oên I fail of the wo^ .
When I have a ' pparticârly M . - ^ ^^me thought
to ^ p ^ res I n iew the top tier of my
of w o ^ to find proper ones for it. They are ail
very nice words in that to^tier— neatly washed and
and ^ hair-b^ êd and tidied-up, like the
^ children in a smail private sohool: words
and I^ ^ l ute and G rckery and In
convenience and Broth and Apprise: gg o words
and if one’s thought is raêel or risky and
wants co^^rong. I some of them to me and
question them and consider them and ponder a bit,
and deelde they none of them suit. Then I go
to the bottom tier, the unkemp^ & of words in the
untidiest attire: words like ,Tr^^ and Nab and
G f o and Hennery and ^ hapo and Plash. And I
at once reject those as t o ^ d ^ I y bred for my
ter e thoughts to ^ ^ in te withh. (But for my
unco^ ^ ^ ungromed grhay-fared thoughts I ûm
to them.) Then I ^ ance over a tier of m^ m ous
S^&t firw ^ r t i ngs of b^nd 85
spruce but indefi^ nable v^^bend f^ aces:

suth as and Mauger and Frush and Gnurl
and Y^ and Hyîne. They ^ ^ expesivee but of
a kind it’s wwel to use with caution, the kind
may trip up thoughts that would make them their
m^fam and lead to ^ ps ’twixt cups and ^m. So
I dismmis them ^ ith a mental ^^rvation of one or
two to use if I fail to find right ones among the les
m^ ^ r i ous. Then I ^turn to a tier that reprin ts
the virile middl^ ^ ^ in words, the lower^-case
words, the mob and riot wo^rds, the words for
and a ^ ^ ^ t s and prophets: such as Adroit and
Nightingale and Gallows and Guêr and Woman
and Madri d and ^cath. And I say, 'Without
doubt here are my words.’ But I ^ discretion.
I know that tier of words to be of the nat ^ of
be^ mbs, of ^ strycûn^ of a d^^mic force rata& le
all human and worldly s^ ^ ^ ce. They
must be ^ used cautiously and ^ h a ^hand.
With caution one can handle a b e ^ , and sparingly
one can cat ^ strychnine, and one control any
dynamic .force by &udying its tendencies and
kkeing out of its road. It ^ ^ ooves one to
heed those cona tions in br^ oaching the counter
mining counter-^ ^ ^ t words if one would avoid
blowing on^ eself anal^ iyticaly broad^ cast.
So I may have found the right sort of words and
86 Sxw e fine ^ ^ i ngs of
measwod their ^ ^ ib ilitiesies and But ^în:

it’s a neerve-rac^ king task to choo out one word
from ^ e n , , one from five, one from two. I s e two
words which may be the only proper ones out of
ten tho^ nd to ^ bear my th^ ought. The two may
be Echo and tote -glow, ^ h an ^ ^ k n owl^ôd
half-sisister to the other: meaning res^^vely some
thing living and growing and vibrant in my spir^
ea^ and fading and dying and r^^mt before my
spir^yes. But ^ beca^ my sp^ ^ ^ ^ may glow
bright and hot from what they heard, or my spirfr
eyes may sem to th^êlves to ^ gaze a moment at
a soundles sound— an Unheard Melody of Keats,—
I mis the raylike distinction and I ^^CT-glow
when my true word was Echo.
But another time I w writeEcho porfêctlyand âsto*
fuly to my own d^ elight: having meant tote -glow.
So it is. There’s no plain sîng on ^ analyticc
And if there wwere it would be not worth while.
I want no^ ^ & noîn& nothing that comes easily.
^ What comes easily I be it love or
It proves deadêa frruit.. ^ What I suffer
to get I know to be Iife-f^ oodeven if it d^ rugsor
or poisons me. It is one leson I have I^ n od.
Without doubt it is so ^ ith every^ body, a l ôund.
One ^ es only surf^ aces, husks. Anyone Ioo^ ng
eas^ ualy at Me ^ ight say, *How
Sweet fine sweatings of blood 87
easily and smoothly and wwel she How kind

of ^ ed to her so light a task in life. How
comp^cently go her working hours.’ And I looking
eas^dly at^ -oh— Lily Walker sin^ ^ and
swaying and glancing sideways in a gorrgeous Brroad-
way cho^ — I ^ ight say, ‘ How ^ y a task in life
has tthat brainles To work with her ^ ^ y
and not even with the ^ sweats and ^ ews of it like
a ^ ^woman, and not with the farfe stames of
it like a Ior^ e t but with the grace and supplenes
and beauty and su ^ ^ i ons of it. aided by a ^ prano
^ ^ K t and a soprano face— ^ y the effort it
wants to ffing it a l over foo^ ights. And that
^^m e her her live^ ^ ood.’
But whoever ^ marks me writing as one doing an easy
task ^ beca^ I write along rapidly enough considers
nothing of my mental travail for the thought, my
blind grope for the lan^ ^ ^ my nercous
a^îsh of choice among the doublêd^d and
^ ^le-pron^ri words: and the neat concre falure
of the result.
And no. I do not thus comment on Lily Walker.
I have an apprelative pleasure in her and
supplenes and bird-and-butterfly pretines. But
after a bit of contemplation and analysis of her
surface I deduce the unconscious &^^ e it may be
for Lily Walker to be supple on nights when
& S^ t fine sweatings of b^lo
she not feel supple, the thin ^ o ny of being

OTeet when she not feel OTeet, the nep otic
tor t ^ of being seduetive re ^ hrly — by the night:
the more that perchance the stru^le always is
unconscious. Her brain being ^ u ^ ed in her ^ ^ y
it’s to be a s ^ ed there’s none in her head. But I
can deduce a n^ ous red h^ rt ^&ting illogi^ ^y
somewhere in her being pro^cting dumbly some-
^mes ngainst one ir^ng item, sometimes
another, sometimes against a l the items in M is
Lily Wafe r ’s ^ em e of life, but ^& ting and ^& t o g
on, a litle automatic drum wound up ^ ght and
into a maetarom to ^&t ^relf out.
I'd like—like with breat U es ^ ^ m ——to r a d the
analyzed being just beneath Lily Walker’s skin.
Every^ ^ y—every' human being—is wildly R^ :
ra d ^ t and de late.—
With no amount of temperamental sttru^ ^ ^ could
Lily Walker analy^ a p sy^ c emotion of her
own and then find the right word-coînation to
• .. •
write it in.
With no conceivable effort of mine could I
to be supple when I do not feel supple.
So M is Lily Walker and I are quits at this game.
It to^ is up evenly, a l ways around.
No^ ^ y through one Real day— though it be a
• dayful of Real lies— without a demoaineal struÎe
Sweet fine ^ ^ tiings of b^lo 89
of soul or a heavy blow on the personal solar pl^ exus.

And I makke not ^ eventhe intelect side of
which is a Realnes to without sweet fine sweat-
^ ings of bl^ ood.
go /rori^ —-a *first kvu?
To-morrow
^ N G to do a •
I . myway-of-life and my rowing
fmous ^ ^ w e Murder in me.

in it I have a
One near me in my ^ rfy life inj^ ures me and ^ goes on

inj^ ing me in a way which is sco^ ^ g and ^ ^ & ous
and in^ ^ ^ y ^ pet'. There is in it helple s humffi-
atton for — — me self-lo^ ^ proud and d^^înedly
^ u upphant—-and it makra mamadenrng M i r i er
in me.
I don’t know why I do not do the M ^ e r. I have
not in g to lose by paying the kw-^ ^ t y : notin g
but my life, and my life is ^ — —and ^ was
' always by ^ God’s decree— of a l that a
life MCTed or lovely or precious. For long y^ earsand
y^ra, since ^rfd ^ y s . I have ben lost.
I don’t know why I do not do the Mirier: e x ^ t
that I think of it and b r o over it and t^n it round
and round smoulderingly in my Mind. From no
ôice. I have tried to push the f^ & g away as a
common thing beneath me. It is beneath me, for
I am not but someway big. But my Mind
take its toU of a l confronts me.
The hum^tion and the helplesnes to combat
h^^hated in me who a casual prouês
Instinct—a *first law9 91
toward is like a hot eword
and ^ p t f^^ y in my flesh. It makes me
wild to do the M ^ e r. But it makes me b^ TO
over*it til the red act is lost in red br^îng.
There come thinkings.
M ^ e r , any M ^ e r , is in its ^ esnce cowardly, a
din^king meannes. And I am not cow^dly and I
am not m^rn. I am ^wve malce and r^îatio——
a l such impo^rahed emotions.
A s ^ g of my shoulders and they are sat^ e d .
The impure to his ^^k r after a b^ i t wound & not
of ve ^ ^ nce. It is ^înct— -a law/ But
Mir ier is self-acousingly cowa^y and snc a ^ ^ y
human. I can’t get away from that. To away
a ^ ^ n’s life is ^ e ^tting fire to his ho— — an
officiously s coping It’s for me to live my life
in aloof self-sufficience. No huân m^ce should
me in it. Then it’s not for me to out of
it and my ^ go fi^ ngers unpl^ ^ n t rticky
bl^ ood. I am always in a prison of ra^ ance and
gloom.
But the mm ^ ^ it of being a human being is break-
ingly ins^nt— no maêr how many or how few
fraks one o^ us. Neither of my two is a
pro^ ction humiliation. A thin black
gives me to myself a melantholy cold inert
air: but ^mcath the smooth-foing b^ reast of it
92 Insti l —a ‘fint law9
comes t o often a tthrobbing frightful to feel, fright

ful to know, made of fi^ ee anger and ^ îng
I hide it and me in my room and my
hands toother and walk my floor, and a h^riorne
of helples b^ i t trying ww shakes and ^ ra^ es
me. Then Mir ier enters me.
^ What h^ mliates me is an obvious common thing
that to any h ^ an one would mean h m and more
h^ ^ Tho^ ugh I am dêrmn^ y brave I am
seusfcive.
I do not write ^ itself ^ beca^ is the ^ t t k of me
and not of ^&ple.
It is a slight, a and vivid cruelnes. There is
the tie of bl^ oodin it which in a l ways— from a deep
he^^ge—I res^^: and it an added ^^ging
poison in the wound.
It is an injury I do not deserce. ^ What I d ^ rce I
a ^ p t. ^ What I do not d^ ^ e pr^res on me to
hu^^ t e me makes Mir ier in me. R^ ^ ^ e s of
the other one—
— it would be simpler and finer for me to do that
Murder than to keep it in me. So ^ any times in a
week the trembling smothering longing to do that
Murder beats, beats in my thin br^ ^ To be so
owned by a thing so small :— it is grief and des^w*
and fury and wild neôus intolerablenes. It
my flesh— it wrenês my p^ — it blinds my eyes—
I n s t i l ——*^st law* 93
it my tfaoat—
— it would be a smpler and finer thing to do any
M ^ e r than to feel, even once, the ^ ran^ng
^mn^faes remg, remg at my thaoat—
94 Loose twos
To-morrow
T ^ KE it for granted ^ God knows a l ^wut me.
I If ^ God should read

to him-
it would not be news
But his knowl^ edgeof me is not ^ mediate knowl^^

nor ^ ^ ^ ^ t ely in^^&ing to ^m. He knows my
T w ^ ^ d-Twos but he does not ^ ke Fours of
them.
I am formed of Twos whihich wair for ^ ed to
âke them Fours.
I ^can not do it myself. ^ ^ en I’ve tried the added
Twos come out tfroes, seventh nines, twd ves—
a l the mysterious nu^^ro. Never Fours.
Long I derided not to try but to wair for
I j^ uge with temperamental and Tôs
and experiment in h^terfc additions.
But it’s no ^ go my trying to make Fours.
If ^ ed does not teke it up I shall be Twos.
And I sem not greatly to OTe: whenever that comes
home to me I m^ dy a OTefm
Knitting ar plaiting sfraw 9J
To-morrow
HE things I know are ju r ie d and tangled
T
and
into an ind^ tffcable heap raide me.
The t hings I ^ n ’t Know ^ serrated

of their own volmon in long oederly rows
in my co^ mus men^^ty.
The things I know glow with tints and gl^ ^ and
^ wil-o’-^ ^ ^ ^ ts and colors and wa^ m gly
^ ith the b lin ^ g gold-purple ^ lighhings of al-Tune.
The things I ^ n ’t Know glo^ ^ ^ ^ one ately
— with a s^sm al p^^te Iantan-brightnes of its own. .
^ Alsoin my wide background are things I don’t know
and am mware of it: the mas of my luminous
Igaoranco— it shines ^ ith an ^rthy phosphor^conce.
I look at the things I know I get an undetailed
of me like a bird’^ y e view of London.
I look at neat fo^ eal rows of things I ^ n ’t
Know I have a clear loot as if through an unror~
^ ined window into a litle room, at my qui^ ^
self1sitn g kn^ ng or p^ ^ g straw.
I r e kon up and count up and theck up of big
and litle things I ^ n ’t Know— like this, rapidly:
I ^ n ’t Know what ink is made of, nor how to fire
a ^^ im I don’t know how to mê a
I don’t know how to c o k a prairi^hicken, nor what
to feed a ^ w^ easel, nor who invented the srarling-
96 Kniting ar pUiting maw
iron, nor what it is.

I Don’t foow what food people eat in the
Mounted , nor how Lord ^ r w ^ is felt when he
surrend^ ed: I don’t know the color of a chir m ’s
nor of ean^ nor of foh-^ scales, nor of rare:
I don’t know whether an En^ h
n^ eeds ^ren^h of mind or of or both,
or neither.
I Don’t foow how I the true h^ rt of my
foend: I don’t know ^ ronomy nor solid ^ m ^ ^ :
I don’t know what I tthink with: I don’t know what
ooM leather ^ nor who pith ed for the T êrs in
nin^^m-nine.
I Don’t foow a ^ go horse from a had horse: I don’t
know why a hat sleeps head downwa^ nor what
wasps live on: I don’t know how to open o^tere,
nor how to a cow: I don’t know the Latin for
‘ whiskey.’
I Don’t foow w hêr friendship is a ^ ^ h or an
^ Îfoh thing, nor who the m^ fcr
apple: I don’t know what is a jab, ^tocally speak-
nor a punc^ nor a hook, nor a walop, nor the
fittin g weight of Pu kny McFarland: I don’t
know whêr a moth ‘ ^ ^ros' or whether her
are impr ^ ^ ted like a hah’s: I don’t know why a
^^p ^ rfe is called a jack ^ &e, nor what to do
for an ar chingfoot.
Kniting or plaiting sfraw 97
I Don’t Know how is blown: I don’t know
whether is or mineral: I don’t know
the chemical com^rtion of the su ^ ^ vapo^ nor
how to play eu^ e : I don’t know how ^ any
an armored cacares, nor whether a gorila
m^ ^ t o : I don’t know whether I hate or neatly
^knre ^therine and ^ ^ ie de M ^ d : I don’t
know a winch from a ^ in^ ^ .
I Don’t ^ o w where is the cinramon ^ bear’s na^re
haunt: I don’t know how flint is ^ ined, nor if
is made of ^ eel: I don’t know who was the
^ an— Wfflism Wor^worth or the Doke of Wel^
Ii^ ^ n : I don’t know the advan^^ of
v i s i on downward: I don’t know where ex-Praident
go when he dies.
I Don’t foow whether I feel more comfortable ^ with
or ^ without my stays: I don’t know the or^n of the
word *do^ ^ ’ : I don’t know whether a ‘ful house’
is ^ than‘two nor whether a rright m^ er
h^ eart ^îsy is than a wrong contented mind
to-morrow: I don’t know whether rabbit-pie is
r a de of cats in Paris, nor how ^ any has a
sloop: I don’t know what makes a dead ^riy rot.
I Don’t Know how to sh a ^ n a nor
how to roU a cigar^te: I don’t know the ^ al
^ g lish mi n ing of the Frenth noun ‘âncement’ :
I don’t know whether my sex is a maêr of my
98 Knitting or pUiting straw
g e n ^ or^ns or of my mental inw^ds: I don’t

know how to d^rmine the contents of a circle in
inthes, nor how to pronounce ‘ ^ bra.’
I ^ n ’t Know whether ^ gar ^fon Pce is big or
litle: I don’t know how many soldiers fel at S^foh:
I don’t know whether temperament or nat^ or
CTCU^^nce makes one wo^ m ana happy
whore and another an ^ ^ p p y ccruel-h^ ^ ^ nun:
I don’t know how to grow artichokes: I don’t know
what brimstone is, nor how to play the aceordion:
I don’t know what quality in me forro my ^md-
wriling.
1 ^ n ’t Know what-like wwas my Soul in the Stone
^ go: I don’t know whether ch^ ^ is ^ go or
for my health: I don’t know what becomes of
^ & p i^ nor a toth-brush’s ultimate
destiny: I don’t know the ‘ Fra Diavolo’ oper^ nor
whether anyone ever ^ usesthe word 'thwack.’
I ^ n ’t Know whether my heart breakn from within
or without: I don’t know whether ‘g<ood old ^ ^ ie
Uoyd’ of the London *^ hal’ has a brain like G. K.
Q ^ ^ n or a d^terous individusfcy like a
juêr: I don’t know whether I feel spiritual blis
in my knees or in my spirit: I don’t know why I
breathe and go on breathing.
I Don’t Know what became of the ten lost três of
fo ael: I don’t know how to say howô-you-do to a
Knitting or plaiting straw 99
^ king: I don’t know the m^ ing of my

w d d e s^ ^ : I don’t know why I lo——wfy I ever
lo——
I Don’t foow wh^ W laws of ^ u n ce go^m a
spining roul^ te wheel and ivory or whether
^ u n ce is beyond law: I don't know what kind of
^ & 3 e a ^ ra pp shoots: I don’t know how a
ground-and-lofty tumbler t ^ ro a triple aair-summer-
sault: I don’t know whether I rreally am the way I
look in the m^ror: I don’t know whether the R^ ^
has Ro^^rc roots: I don’t know what is
the wild power in ^ ^ r y . .
I Don’t foow whether lust is a h ^nsn ^ ^ ^ ^ e s
or a human finenes: I don’t know why death holds
a so sweet lure since it would take away my ôdy:
I don’t know that I wouldn’t deny my ^ inis^ if
I had one, thace times before a ^ en ^ k c r o w:
I don’t know on the other hand that I would:
I don’t know whether honor is a r^ rty in human
beings or a I don’t know that I. mayn’t be able
to tthink withh my ^ ^ y when it is in its coffin.
I Don’t foow what makes each day a Day of dark
fold and life mo^ r f ully prcoious: I don’t know
where is ^ God: I don’t know how they make tea in
Ir^ n d : I don’t know how to pronounce the word
*^ d ’: I don’t know how to ^ make ^ce: I don’t
know w h ^ e r I a sound or feel it, nor why a
Ioo Kniting or plaiting maw
of thread looks like a S^ po of Thread.

I Don't foow— I Don't foow— I Don't foow,
rapidly, to the end of the m ^ ic co^ mmon-place
infinfrudes. •
— those give me a clear look, as if through an un-
c^îned window into a bare little room, at my
qui^ ^ self s^ i t cutting or p k ^ g straw—
A life-fag low ly ^wd IOI
To-morrow
m E T ING trnes I wonder if it is my defect
F or others’ that no human family tie holds

and warms me.
There is none. I think ^wut it ^ h wisfulnes.
The only ti^f-bl^ ood that rfngs to me is of
my war ning and keeping-alive. And it is very
feeble. It grows more feeble.
It is a maêr as I look at it univere r y .
But as I look at it ^rthiily: there would be an
abnormalnes, a Iostnes in one when the mother
who bore her got from it at ^ best but a s^ mal
^ ^ke.
It me feel humauly lost.
is the shuddering life-long lonely word that
brushes me some nights and noons.
102 Their voices
To-morrow
^ R Y day at half-^ ^ ten and h ^ -^ ^
E
air.
I hear the ingh sM I eweet choric Voices of
hun^^fe of children shahing the clear
A pubtic sohool is but a block from here. The ^ chil

dren rush out of it, a hilKious noisy cto^ ^ for a
few mid-mo^ mg and mid^ fem oon minutes. So
those minutes, from hearing their Voices day after
day, and day r after day, have became lyric to my
inner-^tening.
Their Voices me, ro^ me, s^&k to me with
old vvery joyous, very woful meanings.
The ^children fairly leap out of the sohool-building
throoûgh doors and down fir^êape ^ b a ^
And their Voices ^ at once hurled s^ ^ ttd,
c^morous and ^&otic.
The Sound they make is a roundly common sound
yet ‘în^d/ It is an unframmcled Sound, un
cultivated, only a little
It is world-music.
In it is the note ^ ^ ond cnltê, ^ h er ^ than cwfli-
ution, and older. It is brave as voices of the -
ing winds and w^ rner, virfler. It is Iiltinger ^ u n
bird-rongs and li f t er then r ^ ^ g s of moun^ in
eatar^ te.
Tbctr voices 103
Music of the worldI—
A ^ I e door inside me o^ ra to those Voices.
My li t e door opous at the skiek of the
child out of doors, and I ht t not only the hundr^
of vivid Voices but mo—— their far-off
^ces.
They are the Voices of ^ nl^n, children ^ ^ frheld
in crude cold The eyes of the
are d— —their imp^ ^ and inîncts ^ e their
l i t e foes. They are yet untouched by the ^îne s
and ^ terr and s^ rne and sorrow of h^ ran
beings.
So the Sound of their Voices sw^ ps out resistles
and r ^ ^ dles as the sea or the sun whith ^ ^ es
notU ^ of its own stre^ h or weaknes. And
thro^ ugh my li t e sp^ ^ o o r I hear them, the
poignant common l i t e sweet Voices, echoing,
flying away, fa ther and farther: along the ^ d s :
over plains and ^ hil: through valleys long worldly
distances from here: thaough through stone
buildings and din^ cou^: thaough big rith ho^ ^ :
through homes of comfort and homes of and
homes of desolate smugnes: into lifeles
foyers: into learned places: into law-co^ ^ and
^în ^ rooms of nations: into graveyards and
thurches and down into dead-vanlts: into theatres:
into clinies: into shops: into factories: into dives
104 Their roices
and stews and brothels and at lustful dooreteps:

into ho^fc and on into m^ket-
pk ces and acros battle-fields, round monuments
and in towers and in fo^ and in prisons and in
dun^ n s :— there along fly their Voices.
It is a brave, brave Sound, and an ins^^ t : no^^^
stops it.
It is triumph.
The noise of the noisiest battle dies away in ^me.
The pounding of ^^m-surf on the rocks and of
el^tric thunder in the clouds ^ ^&ing only with
^rth. But brave wild Voices of ^ chil^ n fly
on and on, ou^ ^ to g a million silencing
aeons of thunder, floatog strongly back of the ^ stars.
The voices of men— wrards, monks,
^ ev^^^tho no farther ^ thantheir talking conrete:
even of except as they catch up into their
so^mce som^ ^ ^ to intoterpret a c o l gay clamor of
child-Voices. The voices of women— singing women,
lo ^ y women, angotic honest women— die ^ with
their ^ ês: even of mothers of the ^ u l^ n exce^
as they follow ^ with their own tcho, by drcam and
shadow, the thronging child-Voices as they go.
For the Sound of the ^ ild-Voices is more potent
^ than — it is not cram ^ into thought-forms:
more devotional ^ than monks’ ^ because super-
co^ d ous; more m e ^ ^ ^ ^ than n eves’ ^ because
Tbeir voices io s
^rolute. And it echoes, echoes, rchoes in the

^ttfcet-p^ce ful-tongued, rin ^ & rising like the
^ e when a l the other voices are long
dead-*ileneed: and r after.
Music of the world.
This moment I hear it for it is ^ half-^ after too of a
bright gold day. The air is emotional,
and meUow and yeUow and hot-s^ îng. The
Voês pierce it ^ e a storm of fine arows.
I at once set open my spir^ ^ oor and theough it
come the OTswe sinffl thorus* and the ^ ^ v d echo
and sw^fog and. ^ ^ ^ g away. It
wakes v&on so that I s e —quic^ evil, ternfoly
h^^m, in the dredin^^ da^ rne colors— a l those
Places where the Voices go.
I go to a window and watch the children running
^wut beneath the high tide of their Voices. And
they and the sohool-b^ding and the and
stone wals show in duler colors ^ than the P^ ces
where their foho ^goes.
— ^âl giris ^ with d^ ^ d ^hair and blouted cotton
frock, taler l o wing a hasket-bal, thin-
I^êd girls playing hopscotch, groups of
vmed sês ^ with r ^ w rfobons in their hair,
conf^ used of kn^ i t heaters and fat w h ^
ôchin^d l ^ and shiny leather Wte and anUC.
strap^ d sh<^ and young shoulders and knees
Tbeir voices
and wa^ in—— 't restles and foleid^ copic—

— and confused boy^roups— ^ tle fellows in
misnamed Oliver-T^ ^ ^ ger boys of Mr^Norfolk
^ persuasion, ^ês of the generic knicker^ ^ e r at
once motley and monotono^ ^ ^ the
^ r d y calves of their legs ^ ed in a time-honored
kind of b tak stockings, a l the ^ rne
b r e of ties and and sho^ < rop^ri al
the air of confi^^^ th^ r a lves the most
CTenely of a l
A w e le s conscienceles happy m ^.
It is the Sound of their Voices that inv ite them
the U nifying Po^ er, the ong world-s^ weping Force
as of spirit and maêr the h^^m radio-
not and not ^ go, stronger ^ than a l
and a l
Those I look at must to bo
and must lose their Voices and grow into mo^ a and
^ CTes and s^ ^ ^ women— must into
— ‘ Ro ^ ^ ^ countrymen and lovers.*
But wil come r after those another chorus: the same
chorus: the same Voices.
The brkf yelow melow minutes have ^^sed and
the shout has ben silenced and the hun^ ^
of chil^n, ^ ^ w Hair-^fobons and Bla^
are ^în gathered into the Mcîn ey
^&ooL
Tbeir voices 1^
And my door is shut : that door opens
but for those Voices.
The Voices: their fla ying w ^ ^ here ffies here
into my^ m: and it ttirs me, ro^ ra
to me the old joyous
Music of the world.
My damns
To-morrow
B^ R the detailed ^ ffiction of ^mg a peperson
I a toed
and scorn.
of patience and indifference
I say on Monday, Damn the ache in my left foot:

on .Tu^ day, Damn ^ .t ra^fag window— 1 hate
it: on W^ in^ day, Damn this yellow gaêr— it's
t o tight: on Th^ ^ k y, Damn my futile life: on
Friday, ^ m n the solitude: on Sat^ day, D^rn
these thoughts: on Sunday, Da ^ my ^ o
But I pronounce ^ each day’s Damn in a ^ half-per
functory half-pr^rcupied tone, more from duty and
fitnes ^than from conviction. I intently mean êach
Damn, but the scornful in h erent-patience which is
my spirit^^CTce Ieavera cach one. I swear at my
life’s perversities withh only a fatighed contempt due
^ ^ y to ^ ^ y frÎenes but mretly to a cold
continently ^ U e s m^ ood which is el^êd on me
li e a strong &u^ £ ed devil-feh. In tthis m^ ood I
should murmur the same golded Damn if I found
myîf penniles and foodies in strange ^ ^ ^ : if I
became suddenly deaf: if my Body were being tahed
whips or ra^ d by a Mexican han^ . I should
m^ rour the same worn Damn if I were moment
on a the rope around my ncek and life
were dearly madly pmious.
My famw 109
I ^ mark that my musing I reme ^ bef
in the strong young furies of eighten caeach new day
of my life was filed with ^ pasionate ^ poetic b ^ -
phemy, pro^ ^ and r^ ^ ions of youth. Thrae
were not thed, not a ^ u i^ cont, not indiferent to
slin^ a n d -OTOwss, but ^ ^ - b l^ ooded quick-p^ ted
breathles brave young D ^ ns.
There is splendor in being brave in a fit t i n g attitude,
but in being brave ^ through indifference there is no
splendor.
But it is only toward calamfy and adversfy and
worldly untowardnes that I feel indiferent. Fight
ing bl^ ood is fitted in me if not the hated
things then for the loved ^ things. I could fight and I
could die, and love it, to save ^ poet-lustere, ^ poet-
finenes, ^ poet-^&uty from the world’s flat griefs.
In that, whith I feel warm and ^ real and sparging
in my bl^ ood, in some splendor for me.
—and ^so I could die for my country: and there is
fighting hatred s ^ e d in me its f— —
But in there is nor thing that evokes a lusty
^ ^ r a t its ^ g a r adv^ ^ ie s . Pretry floats
t o high upon its ^ ^ i n g wings. I get delicately
^ ^ nk from watching it t i l l s e the wings’
Gold Shadow touch its foes and magi^ caly split
them into duâtoms.
So then the morale of my Damns ^^îns per-
110 My famne
funstory.
But they are apt and ^ rful. They fit into the
n ^ o u s rhythms of my life. They ^me in my
spirit’s flawwed a ^ o n . I ^ ^ n ^ each day a
Damn of sorts. I end eaeach day with a of
sorts. At midday sometimes it’s, ‘D ^ n the U ni
fying ighorance of people.’ In the dusk a dce^felt
Damn of the blôod. In the ^ h t another. And
at my late eating time a negl^ftle D ^ n .
A wonderful word. Damn. It means enough and
not t o much. It means ev^^hing in life. and
. roundly nothing.
Without Damn my day would ^ k tone. D ^ n
richiy jnstffies ^ eachpronoun^ment of feelf in word-
value. s ^ ^ ^ ^ v a l u e and musical r^nance.
It ^ ^ s no^body and it helps me. It d^teoys noth
ing and it & re^hens me. It d a ^ ^ e s my an
noyances and mends me somewhat.
But—j^rfunstory, desultory, totiredly sosolent, it
would be theiling to think the hot foe would
som^hae be hack in my D ^ n s . Beêr that ^ than
Youth’s faith in my that ^than the
jmne-filk beauty in my ^than even
Youth’s ichor in my veins: Youth's foe in my
Damns—
But there is dêarnes in this m ^ ^ which is indif
ferent and ^ ^ u l and ighhtingly patient, though
My damw Ill
it wants splendor. my ^ mna be always brave,
always contemptaous of to me, and they
be ^ ^ water value thoûgh their kind alter
nC T tf^
112 To G^# care of the whistling
To-morrow
HIS mourning came a Ie^r from a ^half-
T forgot friend in London. She is in vaudevile

and has ^wkked for two monthe in the
Music Hulis. Her Iêtr is of a tenor productive
of a I^ter in turn. But I am somehow not frfre
to OTwrite to friends while I’m living in my
two plain So I wote I^ter to ^God
19th N o w ^ te ’.
^ ar ^ God:
I know you won’t answer I^ter. I’m not sure
you will get it. But I have the feeling to you a
letter,.though it should only blow down the w h ^
ling rands.
I haven’t a to ask of you: no prayer to make.
I am not supp^mt nor humble nor cont^fc Nor
would I justify myyself* as a ^^»n in your eyes.
I scorn to try to justfy myself. ^What I am I am.
If I am a had a ^ r I take the results of it without
plaint. I comment on it— why not?— since cats
may look at &ngs and cach ^person inherits four-and-
twenty hours a day. But I am tendered and
^âught and sad.
The ^best you do for me, when I think of you—
you ^personaDy— is to make me ^^tfdered and
To God, care of the whistling wi^ k
fraught and sad.

But I’ve m ^ ^ ed I could put myself to you as a
proposition to take or to leave as you like: on my
te^re since I do not know yours.
There are some verses— the Rubât— in which you
are upbraided as if you might be the dealer in some
ga^ f o g game who had the long end of a l the
w^^rs and ststil so pro^ ^ ^ his money that be
could not loose however the cards t^roed.— ‘ from
his helples creature be repaid pure Gold for what
he lent him dr^^Ûyed.’— ‘thou who
pMa l and with gin the Road I was to wander
m— . ’
But to me that sems a cheap at&ude toward you,
^ od. I a ^ r t you are fair. If I thought you weren’t
my mind would not vex ite lf with you at a l. I
not make you out a crroked dsaler nor one who
lends out bad money and der a nds ^ go money in
repayment.
But you are ^ticent and cold-tempered and un-
inte r ^ ^ . So it sems. The necklace which you
gave me so long made of li t e c^ ^ , I wear
always round my spir^neck. It oserces some pur-
perhaps, and it answers as a keepsake: so at
I may not forget you whether or not you for
get me. I don’t ask any more of your attention nor
anything more of you t^m I would be wî l to
H4 To rare of the whistling
give you in ret^ro. But I ^ h you would be willing
to attention with me. I am. lonely. I am
te^ffied. I am frightfully overshadowed by m^ yself
and my odd aloofne s and my P ronging
emotions and my mending triv^fcies. I am. always
f^ ing not that I may be wicked or ^ imoral or
aled w ithwith evils— I don't rrealy a tinker’s
^wut that— but that I may be growing popet
and trWM and weak. It is horrible, horrible to feel
that I may be a wearing— you, may not know
how horrible to me. It is like black anmWIation for
a l eter^ty when my Soul longs franticaly, desper
ately to live. I feel weaknes to be the only im-
moruln^ ^ hateful and vile in wha^ ver as^ ^ .
I want to be strong to endure and to live in noonday
lights and to overcome my ^wrnes. I want,
though I’m far from it, to be brave and big. ^ What
I admire you for, though you’re so far off and ^ ^ ^ e
and in^ p licable, is that you are strong. You are
Stren^h, you are Light, you ^ the Solution and the
^ ^ lu te. You'd hardly know what weaknes is if
it did not so crop out in this human race you made.
T his human race is a faSrily ^ .utiful thing: âr-
haming have sung in it: lovely youth has
breathed upon it: happy wild hea^ have infomed
it. But the odd keynote of it a l is weaknes. And
I have felt me tuned overmuch by that keynote
To care of the whutling
— but I won't be weak. I won't ^ I won't ^ ^ God!

^ ^ ^ er you pay attention or not, whether I breathe
only futilenes, I wil be &rong, roong, roong in
m^ yself— — ong if only in my f^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ro ng and
rorong ^în—
This would be your chance me if you to
take it: ^ beca^ I own now just my p^n two
When I grow out of quiet m^ —— (if ever I do:
I ^ begin to doubt it)—1 shal have more
and then I shaU think about them, and the
p^ ^ of life they'U build up ^ ound me, and not
^rnut you. It's not that pretty frocks would take
my attention away from you if you once îmed
it. Once you claimed my attention it would be
yours forever. But p^tty frocks would mean I
am ngain walking in paved ^&pled roads. îng
there without your attention I shall go where my
^m ents may lead me fork f ul of you. One's life
is of the flavor of one's clothes: 'the wine must
of its own grapeo.'
Now feels like a fitting time for you to be personal
me, to give me a sigo that you know I’m here.
I know I am blind and igoorant ^wut that. You
may know a time that s^ hal be more fiting, a time
when mymôod and two dr^res are long gone
and my life is made of fluff and ^htnes so your
s^ er^h into it like a black two-ton metor.
To ^God, care of the whistling
I only tel you how it sems. If you should come now

and s^&k to me I should feel suddenly glad. T ^ day
feels suth a day-of-^ God. The sky is a l wW silver
and the air a thin cloud of gold. I sit writing you by
my window, ofcn looking out my forehêad
the pane. There is an ache in
my forehead, in my in my ^rc^wne and
in my spirit. By stopping in here a moment you
would ^dden me. If you could me, or show
me— where it perhaps had always ben— one true
thing to have always in my life I should cling to it and
ask nothing of it but that it regain true. If you’d
^ ke me one far-off promise of a dawn to come
r after t^rd darknes I would take your word for
it and would walk toward your dawn in a straight
rroad from which I should not ever turn aside. In me
is a small torch glowing though set in ^ uos. By its
light I should keep in the rrad leading to your dawn.
I should keep in it at any sacrifice to my meeely
human self: any sacrifice, believe me.
It isn’t a bargain I would make you. I don’t
like the thought of a bargain with you. I would
rather take the chance and lose honestly: not in
eve ^ ^ ^ g but in matter with you. You show
me the road and I take it for the sole r ^ ^ n that
it’s a true one. I should e^^rt ‘myself to pay the
to—— heavy ones since I’m innately a a some-
To care of the whistling winfc 117
way bad lot. I know, the same as I know one and one
make two, that I’ve only to be in the hu^ an
busines of I^ living to get back a ^ ^ e deal, though
I’H get badly ba^ ^ ^ with it. But it isn’t what
I mean. Some t hin inside me hungere for ^ w er-
ingnes—a Gl^m—to make me know the worldly
^ ^ r a n e s and the battering ^ worth while beyond
themselves: but a details in the game.
You mightn’t gues it but I am ^ ffident about
broa.thing much that may sound ^ e a plea,
so I’ll say no more of it.
But before I close the I^ te r I want to te l you that
I’m not wanting in grat ithde for the ^rcible ^&uty
of this world. I feel the burnurning love-
lines of the life you ^ e the human race.
I want to te l you thank-you for some in it.
But a l that they mean I not te l in words.
Only y^ to d a y a light at sundown Iingeted on the
hill-tops and on the d^ ^ back of the &hool of
^ fo es in tints of O lta and ^ p p e r and and
so delicate, so radiant, so dumbly forlorn that
I cl^ ed my eyes it a l as I walked along the
sand: its alwenes, its realnes, its flawles golden
dradful ^&ee tort^ ^ and twin ed and ^ ^ kenly
inteterpreted me.
And one summer day in & ntral Park in New York
I saw a little Yellow-Yelow Bu^ r f y fluêring
To care of tbe whistling wi^ k
^wve a s^ a l plot of brffli l t Green-Gren Gras in

the afternoon sunshine. To you, m used to the
purpfag splendor of untold worlds that mightn’t
noteworthy. But to me— ^ because I am half-
s^ to to so many triv^foies the Yellow-Yellow of
those litle wings and the weet brright Green of the
velvet Gra s beneath the sun suddenly
fiercely entered in and ^ bea-^ bea W d on my
nation. 0 the âre and the ^ e of ^^t fairy
pr^retess! I shall n^ ever forget that ptaure though
I should one day s e those worlds. It made me think
wildly of you, at the time— e-and ever since
It is there yet in &ntral Park, that particular plot
of Gras, and if not that Yellow-Yellow Butterfly—
happily, happily Yellow it w—— then anotherI
And to-day and often other days I read t— —
‘Heard meWies are ^ et, ^ thoee unbeard are
^ eter9—
— magic words: potent hushed wâr^y of ^&uty.
It opens the doors of a l the Inner Rooms and more
blest, more precious, of the brain of ^m
who wrote it. In ma^ng the ^rn mering Pu^le of
all your worlds, you have not suurpased the
thing you made in the r^ ^ wistful glory of Joha
Keats.
And two nights I went close to my gla s and
looked d^p into my own dark gray eyes, and they
To ^God, care of the whistling 119
were beautiful. Their color is the gray not of
but of stormy sky and clouded ea . Their ^p^resion
is alen and melancholy and they ^ never without
circlings of fatighe or And when I meet their
glance they m^rfy and condemn and con
found me. But two nights they grew wide and
deep $nd brea^^^looking at ^realising me huân
and ulw& And pôsendy I saw, back of therr gray
^ ^ ^ m y Soul: a girl:a ^wilow in
the wind: like a & o ^ ^ g âr at daybr^^: an.
inherent in^p^resible gr— —my Soul of many
And this moment another l i t e memory,
of a tropic ^ r a h a l i t e way ^wk from the e a on
the ^ n d in the bay at St. A^^&ine, as it looked
in the wane of one sun-fl^ried Feb^^ry day. In
the ^ r a h were ta l waving feathery
g r ^ ^ , and l i t e ^wis of murky water. And there
êre sûl-shels and andent b l a d e s and smooth
^&ch pebbles. And bordering the ^wls were rêeds
and and tiny w u - ^ ^ e d death-w^te lilies.
By a mound of wet m os was a slim wild blue heron
standing on one leg and faring ^w ut and prening
its blue feathers. And over a l the ^ rae was a
Pink-Pink Hush. The ^ ^ i n g ^ v e rin g tops of
the long gras were Pink îth it. The ^wls were
dul Pink mirors. The the pebbles, the
death-whhite ffies were as if a tthin blôody veil had
120 To care of tie whistling wiîs
ben flung down on them. Pink touched the heron’s

wings, its bek, its head its gl^tering ^&dy eyes
and spindly l^ . The sinking sun shot a Pink
breadside of ds^rn-dust a l over the ^ ^ h : it
lin g e r and hung and flrotel. ^most I could have
r^êd out my two hands and gathered a bouquet
of Pink Hush. The ^stiless, which was inte^^ was
Pink ^stiless. 0 but it was pl^^nt, pl^^nt,
pl^ût, êd— it wrap^rf me in a of Pink
sw^ness: it ffled my tinrat with Pink honey:
it laid on me a gentle ^ e r quiet covstous Pink
s^ .
No^^y knows how you do it, êd. But it is a l—
Tint, Yelow-Yellow Moth, ^necious So^
P^^tfame— maddening and precious and tortfying
and trausfi^ring to me who live among it. I cherish
it as a lonely one may who l o ^ it with ^^lon and
is never happy in it. And for it a l I ^ ^ k yo^
• *
Y o ^ very sincerely,
I OTOte the on my long-unêd monâm

no^paper to plêase my w ^ ^ and put it in the
envelope and ad^^^d it to ^ ed, ^care of the
^ ^ ^ in g Winds. He may rrafre it— what do I
know?— only be k n o ^ and is retl^ t.
I only know he’U not drawer it.
A forking diaplh a ^ I2r
To-morrow
^ M not Re s ^ ^ ^ le nor Refined nor in
I T^ te.
I u k e a delicate M.-Mac-^ n e pleasure in

those f a ^ .
I doubt if they are an^ a y to me, but they
feel a someway delicious cland^ tine Cff-
ra^ ^ n ce: som^ i n g to enjoy a l to myself.
It is ^ fficult to ^ ^ ^ e any woman ^really Res^tt-
table on her inner side, the side that is t^ n ed toward
herseif alone. And it’s cem in no woman is Refined:
it feels not ^ posible. are yet i ^ n d places
where the word is used in its smug sense and te tieved
in.) And no woman but a dead woman in her cofan
is in complete ^rod T^ te. Every live wo^ a n has
for instance a working diaphr^ ^ : and in a ^ -
phragm there is, in the final analysis, simply no
at a l.
(As for men——^ t mean and
perhaps seien^ ——they are so ungenuine: a r^
of cautious pupa te: w^ ooden dolis who
move as their strings are pulled: with nothing so
^w ut them inside as even outside—what use
to d^ wel upon them?)
Nearly a l women are perplCTngiv in^ r a t o g as
human haings. And I am the most int o n ing
122 A w rking diapfoagm
human being I know: and ^ ith it the most ap^în&

the most sin^ —— in my own f^re fashion, and the
most bes^ ^ n g .
It is mud due to knowing and f^ ing me to be
not nor Refined nor in T^ aste:
^îcularly to being not in Taste
One autu^ evening in Braton I went to ^ e with a
man in.his a^ ^ toent in beacon Stru . He is a
^îng engineer whom I have known since we were
beth children. He had bidden me to dinner in his
off-hand engineering way, but when I arewed at
his Hi^ ngs he was not there. He did not come.
I^ ^ d there was a dinner wait^ & a Japanese boy
to ^rce it, and a ^ ange man who had happened
in. The man had iron-gray a brow
like Apollo, a jowl like Bil Sês and muth conver
sation. He said that he was newly from
South ^ ic a and ^ ^ pt and that in his life he had
ben mamed ^ven times ^ ith ^wk and ^ bel.
Toc h er we ate the dinner, talking pl^ a n tly in
the light of colored Chinese lampshades. There
were litle birds to eat and wine to ^rnk—
sam sbu d^ iled virilely from rice: always a Ilite
of it is t o mud. After the dinner we were ^ standing
by a sideward and the stran^ man was
holding me tightly in his agshist a tage smooth
evening of sh^front, and he was ^ ^ ing my
A ^w teng diapfra^ 123
mouth wrth a ^rat deal of ardor. I did not like it.
I thought of ^ the women he had mmaried and
wondered if they had liked it. And I m^ ed in my
placid brain, ‘As I was going to St. Ives I met a
seven wives. ’ It was the only thought in
my ^ ind as I waited boredly for Wm to have done.
(It’s no g^ ood struîng.) And that incident I
know was not R^^^mble.
And one summer day I was rîng horsehack up a
step g o ^ in these Montera. ^hil. It was hot d^ ty
riding. I came to a moun^ in ^ ram with a beauti
ful li t e whând-blue ^ ^ » de tumbling over a
high rock upon smooth ^&bles below. I got down
from my horse, t o k off my dusty knaki suit and
^ my clothes and under the fall of the li t e
tumbling ^ ^ » de, whM y naked, without so much
as a figleaf s covering. It was del^ ^ ^ le and ^ ^ n ,
what my quaint thoughts as I crouched
beneath the s ^ ^ n g sptah. And I know there
was nothing Refined in it.
And one evening ^ « n nine and ten, a week ^ p .
I was wd ^ g aeros the broad d ^ rt valey ^ east of
Butte. It is late November and the night was
stormy. A ^rong high ^ e swept the Flat. P r ^
ently it rained. I was on my way hack with a mile
or two to go. It rained harder. Heavy shrets of
black water whip^rf and whirled down on me and
124 A ^wking diapfoagm
w apped me in their wet wr ings. I love a l weather

when it is mild and more when it is rough except
when it down t o hard: then I feel indifferent
to it. As I moved along the .road not hurrying
and not loitering I was saying inside me, ‘Why' am I
going to any shelter out of heavy wet rain?
Why am I not a houseles ^ ^ -w o m a n with
nothing gentler in a l my life than November
storm? It is not ^ beca^ I dese^ e gentler th in ^—'
And with a sudden heavy shudder I
‘I wish I were a be^ ^ r-woman 1 I wish I had no
roof to cover me in this cold night-blacknes. It
would be honest: I should be s tu p e d to my d^ ^ t s .
And I ^ h it were ^ ^ this drenching Train,' this
strangfog wind—nothing but this—shelter, money,
comfort, self-satisfaction, however s e m ^ y l earned,
are dishonest—thieved. I ought to be—r^êd
^ ^ a r—bleared ey^ ^ ^ ^ t y petticoats—a foul ratty
hole to creep into—hun— —^ ^ y misery—a l the
portion of ou^ a s ^ — As ^ ed r a y hear me—I'd
eagerly tremblingly change .lives this moment ^ ith
a b e ^ ^ -woman. I would—I would—I' It is a
piece of inside truth ^w ut myyself. And I
know it proves me to be in poor T^ e .
It is a matter of attitude. ^ c h of those in d en ts
might happen to any wor a n —except perhaps the
I have known but one girl who agreed with
A forking d ia p b a ^ 12 5
me in such a f^ fo g . And not quite that fceli^.

She had ^ OTied a lot of money withh a horrible old
gentleman and had wearied of both. But the other
two ep^ ^ e s could re a ^ y belong to any woman of
who might be on the outside both
and Refined: even a woman k ^ e r .
But my a ^ u d e in the incident of the strange iron-
gray ^man, though in a bored way I could have
viciously knifed him, was not a Res^ ^ ^ le attitude.
I was bored and fanciful when d o ^ t l ^ I ought to
have breatU esy an^ . But my b r e a ^ e s
anger is t o rare and ^&utiful an emotion to waste
on ridiculous strange iron-gray men.
In the incident of the s ^ k lin g ^ ^ de my attitude
was shameles: som^ ^ h g of the sort. It is never
reprehensfcle for a woman to take a cold shower-
bath in solitude and health. But my spirit rose and
rejoiced at my ^ bodily nakednes and then grew
nymph-like and figleafle s on its own account. My
^ exploited ^ itself in mental visions, like of
and the Swan or of myself as a slim vilinous & oteh
Aphr^ fce conceived by a bold surprising T ^ n .
And doubtles I ought to have felt timorous in the
vast sunlit mountainside, or like a ^ ^ e s child (or
merely 'hygienic’ like Wiliam Muldoon and Bernarr
McFadden). But the quick charm of the situation
and the heavenly anguish of the icy water, and my
126 A forking diaphragm
lovdy and my odd m o ^ e s musinings wwere

t o infrîng to ^ ^ n d the^ eelves ^maldy.
The wet night road and the ^h:
it is ^ al to me. Though I wear pîn
dainty in a house-— in me, bea^ ting,
pounding down is a cold wild heavy rain: and under
my feet a long lonely muddy road. If they belong
to me— wel. I love Me the more for f^fog them.
And I feel them ^ beca^ I am not yet d^ d and in my
coffin, but alive and a working diaph^ ^ :
whith dinphr^ ^ are in not
^rfsw ife 127
To-morrow
O-DAY in the afternoon I brokly manic u r^
T my finge^ f e , sfoing by my gold-and-blue

window, and I m^ ^ upon Lot’s Wife. .
So ^ anyand incidents and events and
adve n ^ ^ and ep^ ^ es there ^ to m^ upon,
in ^ ie d world dating from when it ^ân til
now. There’s somothing to any m^ ood. ^
me leave the. doors of my ^ ind opon and an^ ^ ^
at a l may flcat in ^ e an OTant bu^ ^ y on a
summer’s day.
It is an en^ ^ i n i ^ world by and tage: a
vaudevile.
Lot’s Wife is to me a f a n ^ y from the antique,
a bit of arc^ c frivol to ^ £ uile me.
When I heard of her, from an acrid aunt of e a ^
tic humor who told me the tale te ^ d y in expi ration
of a biblical print, I was ^ven y^ ears old. From 'that
day to ^this my m^ ^ t w e thoughts have from time
to ^me ^rc^ a r d to dwa l int e ^ ^ ^ y upon
^ rt’s Wife. Later when I went to an Ep^ t t pal
Sunday-school I was ple^ ^ to find ^this adjuration
in a^ rding-toSt.-Luke: 'Remember Lot’s Wife.'
There semed no meaning a^ ^hed to it. It
semed l&e Remember Lot’s Wife in any way you
^ —as it ^ might be wrth a eard on her b^& day, a
128 U t's wife
usele s gift at ^ ristmas, in your prayers, or in

retributive patriotism like Remember the Alamo,
Remember the Maine.
But I remember her ^ beca^ I like her.
There's no name given for Lot’s Wife in the brief
bfclical narrative, so I long named her ^ ela
as expresive of the temperament and charaêr
that have grown around her image in my thoughts.
Poor I ruminated as I tinted and polished my
ra fc. Her life in ^ o m was not entirely satisfying
to her. ^ o m was a town comple^ y given over
to pleasure of the physical and outward sorts. The
dwellers lived in and for their physieal se^ nses alone.
And Bela had it in her to care for the f^ & of the
spirit. Not that she longed for them—she was not
so conscious of herself—but she had it in her to care
for them had they been given her. St til M o m and
its ways were the best she knew and she had known
them all her life. The roots of her temperament had
shot down into the Sedom ûe su^ taata. She
fondly loved the place.
M o m was a proto^ ^ for Babylon or Pompeir,
worshiping the hotnes of the sun in moralles pplai-
sance, with fttes and drinkings of wine from gold
and silver cups, and bathings in warm sented
marble-lined ^w ls, and anointings ofe of olive
and palm, and dwel^gs among flowers of thin
wife 129
bright and birds of '^rid plumage and
fountains of crystal and rainbow, and cater ings to the
sparUe and froth of human emotions, and bro^ ^ ^
amid loves and lights o’ love. & n he won
dered at for growing fond of it al, having known
nothing substantial^? And can she rightly he
blamed for hating the thought of leaving it for
^ ^ b r u s h wilds in the mountara ? She did hate
and that thoughht a l her soul from the
moment it was ^ de known to her that M o m for
its sins was for destruction. She had perhaps
a fortnight in which to dsead it, and a fortnight if
given over to dread is long enough to damage
stronger spirits than hers.
teh a was slender and svelte, with long straight soft
^&utful silken pale red hair and whi^lidded eyes
of grayish êen. She was th^ty-eight—a young
th^ty-eight. There’s an old th^ty-eight w h i^
applies to grredy ôol-teaêrs, gangrenous woman
gov^ m en^lerks, fa^ ding ^ tfd-h^ ^ ^ stenog
raphers, over-rightous woman d ^ octors; to a l
whose virtue is ever indecently on ^ ^ d . But
there’s a glory-tinted sun-^ ^ e d young thirty-eight
which applies to sensitive high-strung generously-
emotional women like Bdla Lot. She had smooth
hands with supple tapering finggers, an i r ^ ^ lar
^ p r w ive-lip^ ^ mouth like a pimpemel-bloom,
130 t o ’s wif e
fam feet and the quivering s^ ^ ^ ^ e w^ te

k n ^ of a w^ ood-nymph. From any angl^f-view
she be blamed for hating to take that ^ u ^ m en t
away from the ^ ty-de-lue whiA was its so proper
^ ta n g and hiding it in the sa^ b rrush?
F^herm ore had a lover in M o m . It is
beyond a sane effort of the i^ ^ ^ tttio n that she
could have loved that unpl^ ing old man Lot.
The ^best and worst that ^ be said of ^ m is that be
was a fit addition to the company of the old P a ri-
archs who were for the most part an exc ^ in g craven
crew. The ma^ ^ the sa^ and es^ ^ a l y the
proph^ had their splendors. But the old
pafrinr—s—The ^ r t ing bl^ ood of aU of the——in
the of mcrest simplest cour— —from
down, would hardly one drop. There are
any number of i^ reasoas—as many as had
—to ^ acunt for Lot's having ^ maried her. But
what she could have s e n in him to make her ^ h
or even willing to be ^ maried to him is a deep m^ ^ ^
to me. It may have ^&n his family. I ^ £eve
^& ed family: she ^ as just a ^ ^ w n. And
was he not nephew to Anraham? But even being
m ^ ^ in-kw to ^ ra^ m hi r a ^ sem s insuffiennt
compac tion for being Lot’s Wife.
The Lots had two young dauugh^ ^ one fi^ ^ and
one l en te n, it might be. I do not know their
^ Us wife
—^ —them Ethel and ^ n e s . But they ^ were
of a ^ calctoant temper and ^ ^ r^ d in their own
raey ^ ^ r a es among the y o u n ^ youth of ^ o m
and they had no need of their mother. besides,
they ^rok af^ ’ their father. So was fain to
outward in of nurturing maêr wheran
to feed her humanness. Had it b e n of
her to play fair with the patr^rch she would have
played fair. But it was not of her by any
one in ^ o m — far from it, and I^ & of a l by the
pafrkrch. She was eight-t-and-th^ ’, and Lot—
he was doubtles eight or nine hun^ ^ y^ ra old,
r after the surprising long-lived fashion of the period.
So found a lover ready and aw^ ^ her. She
would have found a lover in the eircu^ stances even
without caring to. But she quite ^ ed to, I think.
Ev^ ^ ^ in g points that way, and when one re-
me^bere that good old ^ an her h ^ a n d one can
not censure her but only pity her. Be it as it may
she had one— one as ^ real as anything could be in
^ u t town of sparkling froth.
W the lover’s identity—little is known, as the
h^torians say. My fancy as I filed my
failed me on the point. Suffice it to state that ever
and anon as time in M o m the graay-^cen
eyes of were ^ ed into with fondness, affection,
adoration and desire: the white eyelids of f e ha
*3* Lot’s wife
had showers of light ^ ^ e s ^^to wed on them, soft-
falng as rose-p e^k shaken in summer winds:
the tapering w ^ e hands of Bella were carêed and
caresing with the oddly intense tendernes of
physical love: the pale red hair of was ruflod
and fluffed and ^ ^ r a iyed by the fingers of love:
the red-pimpernel mouth of Bella was touched,
b^ ^ ^ clung to by the lips of love: the svelte
whitenes and nym ph-kn^ of glowed as she
br r a ^ ed love’s arra :—and a l went much merrier
than bells. In short, fo lia paid herself
with us^ y for the deaîness of being Lot’s Wife.
And there we have the crux of Bella’s dread of leav
ing M o m and its tempered sweetnes for the arid
^ ^ b ru s h hils and the res^ îvely cold and hectic
companionship of the good old patriarth and the re
calcitrant daughters.
It not be claimed for Bella that any white ^ x t ic
fires gleamed acro^ her soul, that any limning
shone palely from within her. The air of
M o m was not conducive to suchlike matters and
^ ^ a was no finer than her breeding and generation.
But she was gentle and wistful and kind of heart.
She was lovely to look at and ingenuously lovable
in her clinging affection and disarming natural-
ne&. She was aU one could want to imagine in the
word charming.
Lor’s wife 133
Q m e the night set for destruction and the Lot

family fled ^ acrding to schedule. They fled away
in the ^ ly damps of an autumn evehing through
the outer cf y g ate and along a rough road falntly
lit by a dying moon. They had three separate
re^ ns for fleelng. Lot fled ^ beca^ he was a patri
arch and was given to doing craven Old-T^ ta-
mentish thin^ of that sort: ^ ala fled ^ beca^ she
was ^ ’s Wife and obliged to act out the rdle:
and Ethel and ^ goes fled ^ beca^ they had true
patrOTC^ bl^ ood in their veins and had therefore
no ^ rked inclination to re^ main in M o m to be
ann ^ ^ ted—‘safety ' was one of their watch
words. They fled in the van. Lot ^ came after them,
being le s swift of foot. ^ ala behind. She
didn’t want to go. Every way she looked at it she
didn’t want to go. She hated that flight for a
thousand r ^ ^ ns.
The g^ ^ ly moon shed a terror on her with its dim
rays. The ground was hard and ru^ ed with fro&y
mud and bruêd her slender feet through her
white buckskin s a n ^ s .
She wore a loose ni^m gown of white silk and linen
with a gold girdle around her narrow loins and a
gold dasp at the left shoulder. Binding her long
hair, so palely red in the moon, was a white-and-gold
fflet. In one hand she carried a gold-and-enamel
134 mje
1^ b r a ^ e^ a but that a^ ^ o o n from the

lover. Suddenly she stop^ d and cried to he^ df,
‘I’m too lovely for fate-—I'm t o lovely and
beloved—the cruelty of êd—: I'H not go on!'
She thought of the gleams and colorings of M o m .
She quickly reckoned the and decided to pay it.
She was a rare ^ go ^ r t , and a ^ alnt. She looked
back at the doomed crty b ^ ing in bri^^ n e —
•But his wife looked back from behind him, and
she became a p i l r of salt.'—
As I put away my chamo^skin buffer and
^ t ^ jar through my mind floated the pensive
‘Ob, the p p o , ob, the ^

girl9-
po,
burden of a by-gone French song—
ob, the pp o —poor—
She must have ^ ede a beautiful statue, a l in glisten

ing ^ t .
I wish I had a glistening salty replica of it to
set on my desk: a so unusual, a so dainty conceit,
lo t's Wife!
My echoing footsteps *35
To-morrow
H IU 1 I so stil in t this lif^ ^ ^
W while I muse and meditste and

ev^Âing I touck, while I walk,
while I work, while I change from one pîn frock
to the other: in quiet h o ra roiled t umbimg stomas
of viearious unhopeful Pasion whirl, whirl in me:
Pasion of Soul, Pasion of Min^ Pasion of living,
Pasion of this mined world: in terror, in wild
in ^ ^ ules m o ^ u l joy.
I never knew ^ al Pasion, P a s ion-mean^ ^ til
I reached t ^ ^ . It is now I’m at life’s storm ^nter,
youth’s the high-pêd' orgasmic moment of
being
At twenty the woman’s soul and ^îng
pu^K awaken in crude Spring-cold ^&uty.
At forty her fir a either have s^xided to ^m -
glowing or lea^ ^ to ô-positive, ô -s e ring,
tôbvious flames—her bones and the fil^ ^ e s of
her spim may be ^ fte ^ y , b r ite -ish. But at
^ ^ t y her Spring has but c^m ^ri to mi&ummer.
Poesy waits upon her Pasions.
My Spring has bloomed, b^ ^ to mid
summer.
Soft heateOTents of being swing and
s w ^ around me. They touth me and enter my
136 My ecbot y
veins. But the liquid ^ esnces of youth quel

and com^ pas them. I am at youth’s cli^ u —a half-
suUen, half-smouldering youth which is youth.
My r^ of life is fr^ a n t and aglow. Its sweet
pink ^ uncurled and cop ious in the waver
ing light.
Winds fluêr and ^ and rumple and twist those
T^ o-day is a To-morrow of countles unr^ ts . ^ g e

and litle Pasions beat at me a l the blue-and-copper
day. I walked my floor with ^ ^ ^ g stops.
I felt menacing, dan^ ro us to myself, dynamic as
nmo-glycerine: and smoothly drearily ^ e as a
bar of white soap. I at my window and looked
long at the circling range of mountains which s^ r t
Butte. Nothing I have looked at, of ^ or
plain or hil, aff^ e d me like that chain of ^tfren
^ k s . They are arid splendor and pale purple
^ itehery and grief and ^ ^ in g sadnes and deat ^ f o
^&uty and woo and wonder. Their color quiedy
stormed my eyes and blurred them with ^ ^ .
It was a m^ oodin which any color or gleam or tho^ ught
or strain of music or note of sad world-la^ ughter or
any un-sane lovelines of could enc^mt or
flay or transport me to my frayed Ilast nerce.
There is terror in facing death on battlefields, on
sinking ships, in black icefloes, in baaing buHdings.
My echoing Jwtrt^ s 137
But to me no death, for I fear no death, could be

so dreadfuUy pregoant with in-t^ ^ m g woe and
frenry and a l intolerable f^ eeling as facing s ^ k ly
my futile life.
My life is a vast stone b ^ ^ e of many l i t e Rooms
in which I ^ a prisoner. I am locked there in
solitude on bread and water and let to roam in it at
will. And ^ each Room is teran ted by invisible
garbled furies and dubious ^ ^ a s ies. I run with
tchoing footeteps from Room to Room to ^ escape
them: but ^ each Room is more un ^ ^ ^ able
the There are scores of l i t e Rooms, ^ each
its gh^te, ^ each Afferent.
In one Room silent voices in the air a^^re my têd
Spirit of wanton va ^ ^ t ions and ^CTen lack of
p^ ^ ^ and utter w^ ^ w^ aste, w^ aste of ^ itself.
And t ^ ^ ^^& ten death and d^ ^ c tio n . I know
that a^^& tion and I hate it: I hate it the more for
that it’s wholly just. To ^ escape it I run from that
Room along a into another one. In it
fi^^rs clutch my In their touch ^so
is an ^ ^ ^ tion: of selfchnes and w^ aste and want
of som^ hing to ^ » t for: and in their touch is th e .
savor of wild wishes and human Ionginings and
sionate prayers for something warm and simple and
^ real to Trestles and in their pry ing clutching
turbulent touch is a tormenting half-prom ^
138 My echoing
c h a n ^ p ro m ^ no-promise: and the hom ing

inevitable threat of death and d^truction. ^ hat
t o I know and hate and hatf-love: and I can’t
it. So I run out of that Room along a and
into another. I hear my foo^teps echoing as I ran.
—as a child when I ran in the early inght theough
a dark leaf-lined tunnel-like driveway the sound of
my own fl^ g foo^tepo on the herdened gravel was
the only ^ thing that frightened me. I q ^te believed
there were in the brushw^ ood on either side,
but fear*of them never struck to the of my child-
^ being like the unknown thing in my ^ o in g ^ p s .
And it is fear’ I feel now from the gh^fcsound of my
ghost-f^ ^ f c ps ranning, ^ ^ ^ g away from the
litle Rooms. It is realer to me now ^ than were my
child foo^tepo to my long it is more
definite ^ than my hand which ^ this: it is
hideous—
^ t of a ^ ^ ^ g e I ran into another litle Room.
In it some gray filmy t hieads, like strands of looso
cobw^ caught on ceilings, float about. They sweep
gently against my cheeks and hands and neck. and
cling and twine and lightly hold with the half-felt
feeling peruliar to bits of cobweha on the skin.
And it torments my woman-fleah ^ h calefaciant
t i n i l fierce and geading and sweet. There ^so is
the ^ usation, now agaiust my Body; for tisues
My echoing J(^ teps 139
and ^ren# h for ^ e le s fires m^ t to warm

hu^ an ^ s e to life, m^ t to make me fruh f ^
meant to ^ ^ e me ^ bear dear- ra^ b ^ e n s : aacu-
sation for the cosmic w^ aste of hot obj^ tle s desire
for the subtle guilt of a I ^ h iann tendenty, for an
unleashed over-positive sex-fan^. With it t o is the
lowering promise of death and desttuction. It ^so
is j^fc But out of my borne-along helplesnes in
it comes no culpable emotion ^ because of cobweb
and their a r ^ gnment but only a bearing
despsir. I out of that Room in
s ^ r a ^ ^ g im patient with only scorn for a ^ ^ & t of
death, for a threat of d^ ^ c tio n —but ^ with a wild
fear of my own flying steps. I h^ ur and hurry on
from door to door: but it’s no ^ go. In some other
Room my brarn is anathe ^ ^ ted from frowning
w a l as an impish demo^rc power which I use withh
no ^ go intent and therefore ^ with had intent: and
Aîn I shrink and mn away. In another Room ^
a l the lies I have ever told: I have told legiora—
my own ^ u I o t l i ^ gentler on me ^ than to th a:
they ^ und me in the Room like black heavy
winged motha, clouds of them fluttering at my fore
head. They drive me out shivering. In another
Room four times when I was a not-^go-sport con
front me in a row like pictures and me and make
me hide my ^ e s : I’d rather be a leper, a
1^ My ecboing f^ te p s
a ^ thana no^ ^ ^ -sport (for my own precious

r ^ ^ ns)—-and I rush away ^ a in. In some other
Room—
—the same ^ ^ in g tom ent in a l the Rooro.
Wh^ w er I run the ech^^& o of ^ p s there
^ Ab using voices and half-formed Prayer and
uncem in Y^ m n g and violent yet dumb and in-
e x ^ ^ ^ t Pro^ ^ and the unfailing ^haeat of death
and destruction: not ^^& -death but u ^ e ^ ^
death: death and death and death eve^witere
coming on and on: m ^ tf knowing the just note in
it a l and from it grown n u ^ withh some cold and
t restles terror. ^ Also I know no door I run through
with my panio-feet wer set me free of the
bahae except a death door: the ^ ^ U y death of
this tired life—
But it’s from this ma^&rom that the flashing bo n
ing sparkling mad m^ c of being alive leaps' out
briliant and barbarous—and throbbing and splendid
and sweet . A merely human hunger comes back on
me. Then I want all I ever wanted with a hundred
fold more vol^ ge of wanting than I have ever yet
known.
I am all unhopeful, a l unpeaceful, a l a desperate
Languor and a tragic Futilenes: I am an uus^&k-
ably untoward t ^ ^ .
And ^ eady I have ^ be ^ ^ ed and ^^^ y
My ectoing 141
from standing foolisMy near some foolish human
melting-pots.
No matter for any of it. I want to plunge headlong
into life— not i^ itst ion life which is a l I’ve yet
kno^ ^ but honest worldly life at its b^ ^ t and
h^^mest and cruelest and dsmaedest: to be
and scorched by it if it be so ord^ ed—
so that only it’s real^ nes— from the outside of my
skin to the deeps of my spirit.
It is not happines I want— no t^ ^ ^ e it: its ^ e
never since world ^ ^ an.
I want to feel one big hot red bl^ oody ^ ^ ^ f-Life
placed ^^ê and strong on my mouth and shot
straight into me to the ^ back wa l of my
I this ^ » k for my own reading.

It is my ^ ûlate to myself*.
As I read it it makes me clench my savagdy:
and coldly tranquilly close my eyelids: it makes me
love and loathe Me, Soul and hones.
Oench and el^ as I the winds flutter and stir
and ^ mple and myas hey wil :—
I sit hhere totiredly, totiredly
142 A crnif(^bly persrn
To-morrow
HE bluând^pper of y ^ ^ ^ b y is dead
T and buried t this To-morrow in a ^ ô o n

^ H ^ t.
I this moment saw darUy from my window the
so^mber hils in their heavy of pale-purple and
gritf and splendor and sadaes and ^&uty and
wonder and woc.
But their color b r i ^ no to my w ^ e d gray
ey^
The ^ p a s o n ^ ^ ^ môod is b ^ t out.
^ n e , gone, gone.
I fc^&Iy change into the other black t^dres for listles
^ d i n e and a l my thought is that my aMomen
is ^&uttfuly hat and that I must p ^ ^ ^ ^ a new
^tticoat.
I mb a little rouge on my pale mouth and I i&^gly
r ^ a l a dw er and filthy story I once h ^ d .
I laugh I-anîdly at it and feel myself a comfo^^ly
vicious perron.
I pronounce a damn on the fam ily athe in my
belovved left foot and t ^ away from my^*.
I stick out the tip of my forkked-feeling tongoe at
the clock on the s ta ra I note the hour on
it a fainnes in my sp irit-g ^^d to d ^ e a te
Me from that time forth to a big blue ged of N^fa-
A comfortably vicious person 143
nes: N^tines so humoro^ appetmng,
— h^fch To-morcoTO c ry in g in their

pace: they bring in nicenes and they
bring in and they in m^^tion and
and al-around humanness, til I’m a
m m heavy-heeled dubious compeated jad^
1^ In my Mack dres and my stiU r^m
To-morrow
ÂVE ^ of Laûghter a l to myself.
I The world is full of funny things. A l to my

self I Laugh at them. I Ioange at my desk in
the small night houre, and I finger a pencil or a box
or a rubber or a ^ rfe and my c ^ on my ^md.
and sit on my right foot, and Laugh intom^tently
at or that.
Hal ha! ha! I say inwardly: a l my H ^ rt:
relishingly. • .
I laugh at the thought of a mouse I once e n c o u n ^ ^
lying dead—-so neat, so virtuous—though soft and
o'er-Iong dead—with its tail folded around it—in’a
porcelain tea-pot: a strong inimical anomaly to al
who viewed it. It had a look of a saint in effi^ in
a whited û leb er. ^wked at as a mouse it semed
out of p^ce. ^wked at as a saint it was perfect.
I Laugh at the ^recollection of a lady I once met who
had thick black furry eyebrows incongruous to her
f ^ , which she t o k off at night and laid on her
bureau. They were at once ‘detached* and de
tachable: itself a subtle phenomenon. She refiner
to her mind as her ‘intell^te’ and talked îth a
^ ^ in t bobo Iêarnednes, and in reâr^&Ie gram
mar, of the Swede^wrglan d^frines. ^wkedd at
as a ^^& n she was inadûate. ^wked at as a
In my b^k dres and my &iU r^ m 145
conundrum she was glêd and profound.
I Laugh at that ^toa o r ^ ^ tailor in the Mother
rhyme— him 'whose name was Stout,9 who
mt off the ^ tticoats of the l i t e old woman 'round
about,9heralf having r a klesly falen asleep on the
public highway. The tale leaves me the imp^ resion
that such were the s tr ^ y a nomic ideas of the
tailor that he obtained all his cloth by wandering
^ttut withh his shears until he happened upon
slumbering thus publicly and vulnerably.
Groked at in any light that tailor is ever s^ p rising,
ever ordinal, ever rarely dele^ ble.
I La^ ughat William Jennings Bryan.
How Wiliam Jennings Bryan may look to the
country and world-at-large I have never much
considered.
It is a l in the angle of view: St. Simeon St^ t e may
sem rousingly funny to some: Old King Cole may
have ^%n a fro&y dîardto those who knew him
To me William Jennings Bryan means bits of my
^ s h ingest brand of gay mournful Laughter.
The ensemble and detail of Wiliam Jennings Bryan
and his ^ eer as a public ^ an, viewed impersonaUy
— as one looks at the moon— are something hectic
as hel’^îls.
I remember Wîam Jennings Bryan when his ^star
rose. It was before Theodore R^ ^ ^ elt was
1^ In my black dres and my still r^ m
more than a name: before the battleship Maine was
sunk at Havana: M ore La^ty fo b the
hea^ ^ e ight title from &ntleman Jim at & reon:
before aeroplanes were and automobiles were more
than rare thin-wheeled re tie s b u s ies: before the
song ‘My Gal She’s a High-born Lady’ ta d yet
waned: before one ^ m ie Nation had hewn her way
to fame ^ ith a hatchet. I was a shorts^ ^ e d
girl devouringly reading and o^ ^ ^ ing eve^hing,
and I t o k note of a l those. So I t o k note of
Wiliam Jennings Bryan nomma^ d for president
by the ^m O Tatic convention in eighten-mnety-six.
The ^ alous ^m O Tatic newspapers^ refered to ^m ,
though he was then t^ rty -six, as the Boy Orator of
the Platte. Groked at as a grown man, adv^ ting
free co^ ^ of silver at s^ t e n -to-one—a ^ ing
^ ^ ^ g ^ m o erat, he was a plausible thing and even
romantic. Groked at as a Boy Orator he turned at
once into a bald and aged led oddly flavored with
an essence of Dare-devil Dick, of the boy on the
b^ r i ^ deek, of a kind of politlcal Fauntleroy madly
matured.
Long y^ ears later with the top of his ^hair and his
wa^dlne buried d^ p in his past he became SOTetety
of State: and at the ^ ^ e time a Chautauqua
^ c u fc I^ ^ r e r —e n te ^ ining placid satisfied
audiences al^ ^ tely with a troupe of Swis Y ^ e rs.
In my black dres and my Mill r^m 147
or a l ^ things, yêrs. Polities ^ ^ es

feUows and always did. But never before has the
American ^ ^ rtment of State combined and vied
the y ^ e r ’s art to en^âln and
at as a monologist he might ppas if suf
ficiently in^ ^ l a t e d with al-l^ eel and ah-I^ ro !
^rnked at as ^ ^ ^ r y of State he is grîng and
^ w iling to the se^ ra: a frightful fi^ rn q^ te sur
a mouse softly dead in a tea-pot, a of
d^ ^ & a lle fuu y Swedenborg-addi^ ed eyubroTO,
a presumptuously rconornral tailor.
And he ente^sined the foreigh ^ in^tera at a state
dinner, did this unusual man, and he gave them to
drink—what but gra^juice, graa ^ j u ice in its
virginity. Plain water might have semed the
^ ^ ^ line ^ p resion of a r^ d puritsnic spirit.
Budwe^ > bi^cr and bourîs, might have
b en ^ ^ f r le though s^rising. But gra^juice,
se^ ed to s^soned Latin TWes and Gray^ ^ d s and
Gold-Braid, long tamely familisx with the Widow
G iû o t : that in truth sems, after a l the years,
boyishly oratorio, wildly and darkly Nebrashan.
Groked at as an appetkiizing wash for a children’s
w^ ^ ^ ^ e d and pink-^^hed or for any-
^body on a summer af^raoon, gra^juice is satis
Bryan with his soul so u^ ^^ pulously at peace,

factory. In the eareless hands of Wfflism Jennings
i
1^ In my 6kck dres and my stil r^m
the virgin grape-juice beaomes a vitsiolic thing:
a defluent p^ p le rfrer a shing one’s helples spirit
among its rocks and rapids.
—-a ^ m ble American, W^ k m Je^ ^ ^ Bryan.
He is for *^^ce at any price.’ There were some,
long and long ago, who suffered and endu ed one
winter in camp at Valey Forge that
Wilinm-Jennings Bryan might w u Nebrasksaly fat:
and be is v^ isntly for perce: at any price—
For that my Laughter is tin^ d with f^ ^ f o g ha^ ed.
Rich hot-livered Laughter must have in it ^ esntial
love or hat red.
To Wiliam Jennings Bryan eve^ ^ ^ ^ he done
in his polmcal raeerr must sem a l right.
It is a l right, undoubtedly. Just that.
—that Silver-tongued foy frator
those Y ^ e rs
that Pcerles Laader
that Grape-juice—
They come b r e a ^ g into my melancholy night-hours
an odd high- ^ ^ o ned abruptn ^ .
I wonder what ^ Godthinks of him.
It might be ^ God thinks well of ^ in .
But I—in my black dres and my ^ il room—I say
inwardly and wily-nily, and with all my Hcart
and relishingly:
hal hal
Their little s&ra
To-morrow
hT^N in ^ indy autumn nights I lie awake
O in my s^ rfo ^ ^bed and think of the

thildren, the ^ ^ y e d tho^ nds of
^ child^ in this America who work in mines
and fi^ to ries.
^ Whnever I’m wakeful and the night is ^ indy and
my room is ^ k and I lie in alonen— —a long alone-
nes: centuries—then shadows come from far-off
world-wildn^ e s and float and fluêr dimly un
happy around my ^bed. They te l me tales of shame
and tame ^ pety hopelesnes and frying des^&.
And the one that comes o fenest is the one ^ u t
of th^ O r^ E y e d ebildrenn ^ ^ a n ces from here,
but vvery imm^ h a ^ who work in mines and
f^ tories. I read ^w ut them in ^ ^ ^ i n es and
ne^ ^ ^ ^ but they aren’t then one one-hundredth
so ^ al as when their shedow floats as to me in
the windy autumn night.
Once in Penraylva^ I saw a group of children,
vvery Orab in the Eyes and very în in the necks
and who worked in a Their look ^ made its
imprint in my memory and more in my flesh. And
it comes h a ^ as if it were the only t ^ g that mat
as I lie w o eful in the windy night.
The chil&en——co^ raous and s^ ^ g their s^ mal
1^ Tbrir li t le s^&
d ^ yed s ^ e s —'they are foing and p ushed

and need as two m^ d erous
. ^ ^ ^ nes. Their frail flesh and their l i t e b r it e
bones, their voices and their pinched r a ides, the
v^ ^ e ^ chil^ h looks whieir M ong in their fiâces are
and ^ roeired by two ^ ^ n e —
^ ^ eed t i l their OTawny fl^ ^ ^ n g ^ rfes are
breaea^ e s and are ân^rn& ^ w m g
f ^ ^ tfuly for life: and stil are ôwly, a l t o d o ^ y ,
d^ ng ^ ^ « n two ^ ^ ^ nes.
If it ^ weretheir own or their own n^ ——but it’s
the of fat ^rnple and the need of their own
gaunt the two the ^ chil^ ra
meet hom^ f e hideous ^ m . Pu d dly theyâre
eireated and blighted and pUd dly and with
the u taost dom^ tir a ^ .
The most darUing-Iuminous ^rn ut the
Eyed c h il^ n is that they n^ ever ^ we. They
among the^ ^ ves and s ^ e their litle
Grayed s^ es, but they don’t weep. ^ e n they
it’s ^ ith a middl^ ^ ^ ^ & : when they eat
their noontime f ^ ood it’s as grown ^ » ple do, ^ ith
^ half-co^raous a nomic and ^ ^ ^ nomic corader-
atio^ They count their T ^ ^ k ys and W^ h ^ & ys
^ ith ^ c^tion as w o r k ^ ^ which should be
^ childishly wind-^wepdy ^îch is a l of les
weight ^ thanthe heavy f ^ that they n^ ever ^ we.
Their link s b ^ 151
They reckon themselves fairly fortunate their
bits of silver" in yalow enveloper evvery Satwday.
They are to keep a bit of it, êach a
bit for heretf or so on Sunday âfter
noons they lose themselves for pmious hours watch
ing ^hashe ^bapfa. Many pink-fâced inco^^ênt
ûldren whose grants nM ure them and ^ ^ d
them andmisunde^tsnd them ^ les
w o rl^ y lucky. But the pink-faced children ofen
wee^ôudly, foofcMy ^ e puppies and
furry c ^ ^ ^ n d wrt swswe salt of proper
childistae s are round and bright on their cheeks
and tahes. It’s a sun-washed b lta n e s for them:
they’re im ^ e d and aQowed to weep. But the
Eyes shed no tears—they know no r ^ ^ n why
they should. There’s no impulse for soft liqwd
grief in the m^rierons p h il^p h y of ^ o grinding
m ^tones. And there’s no time—the lives of the
work^ h il^ n move on fast. Their vevery shoes are
ground ^ ^ e e n the m ^tones.
—their shoes are heartbreaking. The mill
stones grind âny things along with ^ lit-IM e
shoes of children: of potent splendid human-
nes that might grow b ^ y American in heroic ways
or in sane round honesty: gs^ns that might grow
into brave barbaric ^&uty or waarm wistful swest-
nes: that would grow into lips blooming
152 Tbnr little shoes
tender and fragrant as jon^quils or into înds swm-

ming lyries:—what is strongly lasting and
glorffied in the forlorn divine human ^ —
crampled—^roted forever when mflistones grind
^children’s l i t e sh— —
The young Drab Eyes are endlesly hotrayed: their
vvery color tWeved. There’s no r ^ ^ n why they
should weep.
But there’s a far-blown sound as if ten thousand
and g ^ ^ worldly eyes were weeping in their ttead:
with a note in it comppasionate and jadedly
menacing.
I ^ s e to h ^ it in the wakeful windy night. And
I h ^ no world-music pouring out of tharats
of work-o^dren with wând-joy. The
sound they is a dumb sound, for they never
weep: a gh^fc-wal of ^ rtly ^ e ad children home
lowly a e r ^ world on a âle helish
b r^ ^
The sUty of the fcdead 153
To-morrow
H B I I’m dead I want to Rest awhile
W in my grave: for I’m T m d, T ired

always.
My Soul must go on as it has gone on up to now.
It has a long way to go, and it has come a long way.
My Soul on its journey somewhere in
Asia before the dawn of d e ra tio n. And it has
gone on since t r o ugh the centuries and through
strange p^ ^ of êdy, terrors of flesh and bl^ ood,
suffering long. But it has gone someway on, each
space of the jo^ ey taking it nearer to the jo^ ey’s-
End.
It is the drn-fdt memory of th^ jo^ eys that
heaps the T w ines on me now. Not only is my
spirit T r a l. Through my spirit my hands are
Tirired: my k n ^ are Tired: my drooping shoulders:
my thin feet: my sensitive bac^wne. ^faen I lift
my ^wd in the s^tthine the weight of the yelow
honeyed air ^^rs down and down on it ^ beca^
I’m so T r a l. ^ ^ en I to walk on stone pave
ments the athe of them is in my feet before I set
a foot on them ^ because I’m so Tired. The pulse in
my vera T ires my bl^ oodas it My low voi^
though I s^ ^ hut rardy— it Tires my thrroat. My
breath Tlses my thes^ The weight of my ta ir
154 The sfele of the
T m s my forehead and temples. My pîn fr^ ^

T ire my êdy to ^ o t. My ^ ft ton^ ^ t thoughts
Tire my Mind.
It is not the T^ ^ e s of effort though I strive to
the limits of my ^rength every day.
It is not p^ , R^ tful pain. It is T ^ ed T ^ ^ ie s .
So when I’m dead I wan t to Rest awhile in my grave.
It rouU Rest me.
In the Ep^ttpal they use a mual of
^&uty, ful of R^ tful ^^gs. One of them is the
sleep of the dead. The crucified N^ êne slept threee
days. But a l others of us when we go down into our
graves we to sleep until a Jud^ e n t Day. *Ju^-
ment Day ’ is pr ^ ^ ^ -ous and evily crude: there’s
no judênt til ^ each can judge hi^Îf simply and
^ ely in the morning light. But the sleep of the
dead—
— the sleep of the dead. Its sound by without
the tho^ ught is R^ tful—
And the tho^ ugh is R^ tful.
I i^^ n e me wrapped in a shroud of soft thin wool
cloth of a pale color, laid in a plain w^ oodcoffin: and
my eyelids we cloed, and my T ired feet we dead
f^ ^ and my hands are folded On my b^ ^ t. And
the coffin is nine feet down in the ground and the
covers it. Upon that some g r ^ ted: and
^ttve, the ancient blue deep shcl^rag sky: and
The sUq> of the dead '55
the clouds and the winds and the s^H and moo^
and the days and and cirîng horaons-— those
^wve my grave.
And my êdy laid at its Ienngth, eyes ciêd, bands
folded, down there Resting: my Soul not yet gone
but laid beide my êdy in the coffin Rating.
— might we .lie Ifte that— Rest^g. Resting. for
wweks, months, a— —
Year r after long year, R^^^*
156 Stickily mad
To-morrow
T is ^^m-th^melof-Tu^ntine!
I
alone.
Here I happen on a da^ in me which is not
desultory but bl^^ y t t ong and îve and
The w^ri in my blue-white ^ m has ^ be newly

painted. For a day and a night I inter^^tently
encounter and go to ^bed in a spirit of T ^ pentine.
It a ^ d oûre ^wîve m^ ^ ^ to my
nerves.
I lie wakeful in the dark and try to ^ ^ n out a
looicalnes or in a thing so ^ tfuily ^^chilential.
But I am hysterically lost in it and my h^rt
hysteri^caly in it.
I reme^ ^ the inexp^ resible ingenuity of ^ an:
of white ^ an as aga^& bone-brained savage r^ aces.
Every invented usefulnes feels like dirae w^th-
eraft. A pen and a bottle of perfume and a door
knob and a granite k^ e t and an d^tric light:
I have the ^ of each since white ^ an is so ingenious.
Were I a red Indisn I should have only the awkw^
barbarous &upid tols my race had ^ useda tho^ nd
y^ ears I contrast the two as I lie wakeful, a
of richnes and of detailed repletion and of
materter blestnes.
But at once comes the Smel of Tu^ntine and
Stickity 157
aôunces ^ itself som^ ^ ^ outside that and differ-

m , som^ ^ ^ stronger, oome^ thing ^^fcrfuler
^ than ^ gen^ ty and sav^^ry ^ ^ ^ er. It tortwes
my n^ ^ : it my eyes: it k mes my flesh:
it jerks and flays and garbles my iner ^ body.
The of ^ an has preduced opium and
whichh would co^ mbat and hide it a l behind
a heavy c^tam of &upor, ffects ^ ^ aly
^ ra ^ n g if les geiCTOusly subtle.
The Smell of T ^ ^ n tine is a thing to ^ bear since a l
its counter-things bring only solider Û.
^ The^ rot was put on the w^ oodby a ^rty man
whom I briefly in^^êd as som^ ^ ^ o v e d
from my range of life. In he cov^tiy eyed
me. Imy wakeful hours would be punished
by strong new paint and ^visioned by
men. But it is a l shra T ^ ^ ^ tine a power
s^ ^ ^ in g nothing human nor super-natwul nor
^ in e . Just ^ itself: a goblin virulence.
In a l my Soul and ^mes and M^ - ^ ^ -^rnenes
it is d s ^ -the-Smdl-of-T^ ^ntine as a
mwderous h^ ^
I have an odd fceling ^ God has no more power over
it ^ than have I.
It ^ halfÎs for a differs T ^ ^ntine
I am shaWy mad to^ ght, I ^ e v e , from a so ^ ight
ma^ tter
158 God compensates me
To-morrow
T S a Sunday midaight and I’ve just eaten a
I Cold foiled Potato.
I shal never be able to one-tenth of my

fonda^ for a Cold foiled Potato.
A Cold Boiled Potato is always an unprem ^ ^ ted
epêde which is its chief ^ ^ m .
It’s nice to happen on a of ^Ktry on a window-
sil. It’s nice to s^ prre a square of che late in a
glove box. It’s nice to come upon a little yellow
apple in aûsh. It’s nice to get an un^^^ted
lleêr from Jane Gillmore. It’s rice to un^^& a
r^ r v e fund of silk s^kings under a sofa pillow.
And especially it’s nice to find a Cold foiled Potato
on a pantry shelf at midaight.
I like ea^ ^ e at lun^con. And I ^ e venison at
diner, d^ k and bl^ oody and rich. And I ^ e
c^ hamp^ê bubbling passionately in a hollow-stem
med gl^ on New Year’s day. And I like teterpin
tuttle. And I like French-ânadian game-pie.
And artichokes and grapec and ^&y onions. And
none of them has the odd gnome-ish ^ ^ m of a
Cold foiled Potato at midnight.
I can rn ^ ^ e no circuêtance in w^ h a Cold foiled
Potato would not take p^ ^ d ent me at mid*
night. If I had a broken arm: if I had a h^^md
Cod compensates me 159
dead in the next room: if I were f^ ing abrupt
worldly if there were a bur^ t t in the
ho^ : if I’d had a dayful of dep^ resion: if ^ God and
oppo^ a n fy were kn^îng and ^ ^ o rin g at my
door: I s h o ^ disr^^ri ^ c h and a l some ^ in^ »
a t midnight if I had a ^ l d Boiled Potato.
I love to read Keats’s Nightin^ e in my h^ ushed
life. I love to rem^ ^ r at the M roopo^ ^
sin^ g ^ I^te Alda. I love to watch the
blonde Blanche S^ wet in a moving pir t^ e . I love
to feel the summer moo^ ight on my eyelids. And
it’s ^^^m ingly contented I am a ^ l d foiled
Potato at midnight.
i n t e n t is my ra^& emotion and I get it at midaight
out of a & ld Boiled Potato.
Some in life thrill me. Some ^ ^ e me ^ -
b l ^ y mad. Some uplift me. Some debauch me.
Some &rengthen and enlighten me. Some h u ^ hurt,
h ^ . But I’m not thriled nor maddened nor u ^
lifted nor debauched nor rtre^h ened nor enlight
ened nor hurt, but only fed-up and fattened in spirit
by a & ld Boiled Potato at midaight.
I ^ and in the p a n ^ door lo tting the jamb,
a tiny ^ s s ^t-shaker in one hand and the
OTswe dark pink & ld f o iled Potato in the other.
And I sprinkle it ^ t and I n&ble, nfcble,
nfcble. And I say aloud, it’s ^ g o l’
ifo me
I Ii^ d ^ l d Boiled Potato at four-and twenty.

I liked it at ^ entean. I Iiked it at twelve At
I ^ ^ ^ e d on eake-boxes in ^ r c h of one. And now
in the deep bloom of being myyself I am made roundly
r e p l^ at midnight with a & Id Boiled Po^ to.
A ^ I d Boiled Potato—it ^ ^ e s of ch^ tauts at
midnight, the frost-^ ^ e d c h ^ nuts in the
w^ oods: and it tastes of rain-water and of salt and of
rês: it ^ês of young wilow-hark and of
and of gr^ ^ etems: it tastes of the sun and the
wind and of some nameless relishingoe s born of the
summer hiUside that grow it: it at mi& ight
so like a ^ l d Boiled Potato.
A precious ^&ch-colored orchid, an antique spider-
we^like ^ce ^mdkerchief, a delicate p ^ I e buêr-
fly, an emerald bracelet: I’d sfrfre for ^ h of those
in an ^ ^ r ly casual way. But it’s I&e an ^ e at
m id ^ h t I pounce on a & Id Boiled Potato.
A & ld BoiIed Potato r ^ inds me of the Dickens
in which so much f^ oodis eaten coId and ^ ^ e s
so savory—w en the ‘wiIdem es of coId pota^ es’
portioned to the M rahiones by Saly B ras. And
it reminds me of the Wp Van Wr inkle play—
felow a coId potato and Iet ^m go.’ And it
reminds me of HamIet—funeral ^&ed meats might
include it. And it reminds me of Robin H^ ood’s
mee r men, and HuckIe^^ry F in , and the b anter-
(God cm p^ ates me
bury P ^ im s , and the Son, and a l the

pictur^ ^ e wayfarers. It reminds me of the as
a colorful r^ rn ap^ ri around hungry ro-
^ ance. It reminds me that life is ful of life—rich
and fîtful and evolutionary and cosmic: few things
feel so cosmic as a Cold Boiled Potato at midaight.
It makes me want as I nibble to plant a field of
pota^ es on a s o u t h ^ ^ ^ ^ d hil and hoe them
and ^ them a l by m^ yself: and give a l but one to
the ^w r and Boil that to eat Cold at mi^ ^ ^ t.
I have to he very hungry to crave a Cold boiled
Potato, but hungry no ^ ^ & le morsel of f^ ood
^can so int o t o me at midnight. The same potato
hot is dom^ trc and ^ ^ e le s. The same potato
at ten in the evening Iukewârm wÛn and sodden
memories of ^ diner, is a ^ ^ ^ ent fe rn. At
midnight it is a l un^^^ted m^ ^ etism. At mid-
a night my whole is profoundly co^ ^ u s , w ^
ingly co^ ^ toward a Cold boiled Potato.
If I had only what I d^ r v ed my pottlon might wel
he a Cold Boiled Potato. Intrinsically it is rated low
and I know me to he a sort of But I’d wonder
^ eachmidnight if whoever met e out the d^ ^ ta in this
s^praing knew wwith what I at
it—u^— I get it.
Nor am I satisfied like the meek and lowly my
midnight supper of Cold boiled Potato: damn the
1 6 2 God compensates me
meek and lowly. It’s a satanic dd ight I take in it.

It’s a sly private orgre I make of it: a pimte’s
banquet, a thieves’ picnic, a ^ ^ n Tte , a heathen
rev^ry, a conceit a l and ^ ^ I l o w ^ y my own.
My thoughts as I nfcble ^ set mostltiy on my
vâlnies. No f^ ood I eat br^ ^ me so by road a
lice^ of f^ & g —a ofm—as a Cold
foiled Potato at midnight.
On a Cold foiled Potato at midinght I am ^ h tly
valorous: me a trickster and I’U you a
rotter: me a liar aand I’U you a tr^to r:
me a coward and I’U ^ you another: not p ^ -
naciously but gayly and ^renely.
I am then in my most ^ ^ ^ ^ g m^ d . Anyone
who met me standing nibbting in a pantry doorway
at midnight would be tharmed. I would ^ with
a ^ ^ t y ribaldry and offer to s^ rn the
For shadow-things piled t o n^ ^ ed com^ ^ s a tes
me in un^ ^ ^ ^ d midaights a Cold foiled
Potato: along it a pan^ doorway to ^ stand
in and a little ^ ^ h ^ e r to hold in my other
hand.
The strange 163
To-morrow
F COD has h^ ra n he must often have a
I burning at the eyes and a fulnes at the ^ ^ * t

at the strange Bravene s of human ^ » ple:
their Bravenes as they go on in the daily life. with
a^rn g dumbish minds and ^ ^ untled bereft ^ r f ies
and flattened pinched gnawed heam .
The easy human Pattern way would be to sink
beneath the burden.
In ^ ^ ^ ^ ttple: I and Another and a l oth——
sea^ str^ e s and monotonous clerks and la s e r s
and hou^^w es: sit upright in and talk into
telephones and walk fast and eat breakfasts and
brush ^ hair: a l the while ^ ned in a moras of
sma l wild unexciting Pain.
Of othere—what do I know?
But I might say, *^Lok. I am. not fallen on the
ground, from t this and that—utterly lost and down.
But sitting, drooping but strong, in a c^ hair mending
a lampshade—neat, orderly and at-it in my mism - ’
164 Just my skin
To-morrow
HIS I is a ^ a n g e
So close to fact: so far from it.
* So close to ^ t h : so suroundod by lies.
It does not con^ in lies but is someway s^ o u ndod
by a mist of lies.
A ^ ange thing about it is that it is ^ p ^ resing the
Solf Just heneath My Skin.
^ hat is someways trivM and ou^ w dish and
mentally nervous, flightly, sffly—sily to a verge of
t r ^ r a e s . I know that to be true from a long
aûaintanee with me. It is oddly intr ig h ^ to
read over some d a p^rs and find it s^ ^ ^
Some unco^ raous photoâphy alds my TO^mg
talent.
Some chapters are ^ w ilderingly and m^ ^ iously
^ e to life.
My everyday self that ^ u a l y s^&kn to this or
that ^^& n is nothing like this ^w k. My ^ absor^ ^
self that a Im er to an intimate aûaintance
is not like this ^w k. My heartfelt self that deeply
loves a friend, and gives of its deptha, and
a ^w eringly to other depths, is not like this ^w k.
^ his ^w k is my mere Hidden ^ f —just under the
skin but hid away clraer ^ than the Tho^ nd
Mysteries: never shown to any other person in any
Just my skin 165
con^ ^ t i o n or any ^ ^ ^ tion: never would be
shown: nw er could be.
How Another, any ^ ther, would come out: what
Another would show: p h o t ^ aphed teneath the
S—n—what do I know?
Pe^hance ten ^m es more and incoa s^ p ent
and ^ than Me.
If Another ^ thinks Me someway m a i let ^ m look at
H ^ ^ ^ Just teneath the Skin.
Another every day as he ^ thanks a j^ ^ r
for holding open a door, would much prefer to drive
a long brad-^ ul deep into the jantor’s skul.
P e r ^ ^ ee Another has a brain like ^ ^ h e, a Soul
a humming-bhi a H^ r t a l i t e round nut-
m ^.
What do I know?
I know what I am.
Another may know what he is.
But I can’t te l Me to Another and Another can’t
te l H ^ ^ lf to Me.
I te l Me to m^ yself and it.
Another if he s e Me: but not as I s e Me.
I^ ^ ^ many veil^^ ^ ^ and
^ very darkly.
166 kindly caprice
To-morrow
OR twenty-foe rents and one hour and to d ve
minu te one may get in prs e n t di aled
world a bit of unfor ^ ^ ^ le complete en-
c^m tment.
So I found t o-o-day in a moving-picture theater. A
Cormen, the ^ real Cormen of frosper
glowed, v&rated, lived and died ^ pasion on a
white OTeen.
W a l prrose I know Proper* is the
one—(intimate and senshwely ^ e ^ if I had în
^ .inst his shoulder as I read 'La G ^ ta* and
‘Venus d 'IHe* —he melts into my veins—)whom I
would most ^ e rly s e inteterpr^ eted. W a l fiction
characters—if she is fiction—the poignant barmen
is the one I would most ^ e rly s e ^ realized.
barmen is one of th ^ fictions which are truer to
life than life is. Such fiction-thinings are a l around,
touching every^ d y: the spoken tenths which grow
f^se at being spoken: the thought lies which turn
to truths the moment they touch words.
I have heard barmen sung and seen her filmed by the
lustrous Farar, and I have s e n her play-aêd by
some I^ e s lights. But Binct’s opera, a sparging
music-storm, b eaten a sonant objective barmen, a •
beautiful bl^ oody lyric, remote from M&im& who
kin&y caprice
made a ^ ^ m en inte^rcly to his own su ^

j^ i v e And the ^ ^ ^ ^ en has always ^ n
a ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ m en waiting in du&y draughty îngs for
her cues. It remained for the cinematoâph, which
is a true m^ror of h m n ^ p rresion, to make
^ ^ r a en burst into violent physical life.
But it was le s the scoper of the films which made ^ w-
men a^mate ^ than it was the virile woman who
played her. It was acting—but acting in the of
losing and sinking and saturating and d^w lving her
self1in another woman’s temperament: and by it she
achieved some strong sword keen shadings of the
^m en —to the hair’s-br^ ^ th.
And she toked l&e ^rm en . It was not im p o ^n t to
the vigorous fire of her acting but it made bewteh-
ment in the portrait. No one I have before seen play
men fiêd the elusive points of her d^ription.
‘Her eyes were set obliquely in her head but
they were m^ ^ fficent and large. Her l^s,
a little full but ^ ^ utifuUy shar ped revealed
a set of ^ teh as white as newly-skinned
almonds. Her ^hair was black with blue
^ ^ ts on it like a raven’s w i ^ long and
glosy. To every blemish she un^ ed some
advanc e which was perhaps a l the inore
evident by contrast. There was something
strange and wild about her ^&uty. Her
168 kindly capme
face surprêd you at sight but no^ ^ y

could forget it. Her eyes especWly had an
exp^ resion of ^ ^ g led sensuality and fier^
n es whieb I had never se n in any human
glance. G ^ sy’s eye, woffs eye'—
This (from the Enghsh translation of the story by
Lady MMary Loyd) to a the pit ted
vision of the foreign-looking woman—her ^ m e is
Th^ U Bara—who fluung a f o bbing b armen a ^ ^
the^ with indêrâb le heat and color and
lustor. It was comparable only to the m^ ular force
of the ordinal which that M£^m& n^ oualy
and heavily into one’s tho^hts. I felt it someway
satisfy^gly u ^ êvable—an ilusion more O u a l
^ than d u a lity : a dream which o u ^ r e f o .
I sup^ ^ there’s no other ^ ^ a ^ r like barmen for
^ ^ n g roundnes in a l fiction: filed her
^ eacheries yet purdy true to hêrself, without fear,
. uêrly game: fierce, c o ^ ^ ruthles and r^ U e s
yet wrap^ d in a maddening un^toing pathro:
strong and bold and ^ ely yet capable of
sudden com ply sureender: ighorant and ^ ^ d o n e d
and in every inrtinct yet beyond every
^ ^ e n e s every ^ ^ ^ e s : sensual yet contemptuous
and indiferent in it, a woman of ^ ^ n ^
^ ^ ro en is the one erimûl conception in whom there
is no evil, no papersoual maculatenes tho^ ugh
M s kindly capritt
tre k in g a l the wildnes of her tem per in her tem-

^ ûous days’-jo^ eys. She is a romantic
murderous a p ^ l to human superju^ ^ e n t. It
was isolate quality of her. w hi^ Theda Bara
gave out with mystic She gau^ d the
^ personal odors and bl^ ood-p^ resures of ^ ^ m en.
She slip^ d into Qrm en’s skin and sucked in
and then breathed out the irres^&le menacingnes
and OTaring ruination of her ^&utiful ^ ^ t t lic spirit.
A t o le feverish m ^ i c ran in my veins as I
sat in the ^ k watohing.
'She ^ o wn her ^ an^ la hac^’ says
Don in the f r ^ lated tale, ‘to show
her shoulders and a ^ grea b u n ^ of aca^ as
that was ^ ^ u t into her ^ e m ^ She
another a^ ^ bloom in the comer of her
mouth and she walked along p aying her
h ^ like a My from the Cordova ^ d faarm.
In my country anyone who had ^se a
woman in that fashion would have
crowed himself. In wvery ^ an paid
her some bold compliment on her ap^&r-
ance. She had an a^w er to ^ each and a l
^ ith her hand on her hip—. - "Come, my
love,’’ she^ p in , "make me ^ e n
e l of for my man^ til my pet pin-
And teking the acacia bl^ osm
170 kindly
out of her mouth she it at me îth

her thumb so that it hit me just bemcen
the eyes. I te l you, sct, I felt as if a bulet
tad &rack me.’
^This mce^ng of ^^m en ^with the drngron was
pict^ ed in a brilliant hot-looking pl^ as if before
the cig^^te f^tory in ^îlle. Thish wo^man in
lo w in g the flower at the soldier ^ p r^ re s wonder
fully in one fleet moment, by hand and lip and ey^
the savage sordid ^ ^ r y and passionate fiêdo——
that un^ ^ U y fr^ a n c e — which is ^^m en.
The film version foUoêd the scenes of the opera
rather than the story, which t o k nothing from the
headlong truth of the figere.
But no picturingthe ster^w ity of
M£rim&’s p r ^ in lu m e n ’s death^cene—a thing
of a piercing pathos compasable to nothing I know
in writing.
we tad gone a Ilite ^ ^ n c e I said
to her, “ So, my ûm en, you ^
ready to follow me, isn't it so?”
She arawered, “ Yes, I'll follow you to the
death—but I won't live with you any more.”
We had reached a lonely gorge. I stop^ped
my horse.
“ Is this the place?” she said.
And with a spring she reached the ground.
M s ki^ y caprice 171
She t o k off her mantiha and ^ ew it at
her feet, and motionles withh one hand
on her hip, looking at me ^ e a^ y .
“ You mean to ^ me. I s e that w ^ ,” she
said. “ It is fate. But you’U never make
me give m /’
I said to her: rational, I implore you;
^fcn to me. A l the is forgotten. Yet
you know it is you who have Iben my min—
it is ^ beca^ of you that I am a robber and
a murderer. barmen, my Q r m ^ let me
save you, and save m^ yself with you/*
“J ^ ,” she answered, “what you ask is im-
^ pos&le. I don’t love you any more. You
love me stil and that is why you want to
^ me. If I liked I ^ ight te l you some
other lie, but I don’t to give myself
the trouble. Ev^ ^ ^ in g is over between
us two. You ^ my rom and you have the
right to HQ your romi, but ^^m en al
ways be fre . A she was born and a
she’U die/’
“ Then you love L u ^ ? ” I asked.
“ Yes, I have loved h——as I loved you—
for an in te n t —les than I loved you, per
haps. And now I don’t love anything. And
I hate myself for ever having loved you.”
172 kindly
I m^ yselfat her frestles I soêd her

I watered them with *^tears, I reminded her
of a l the happy moments we ^hadspent to
gether, I offered to continue my b r a n d ’s
life. if that would pl^ ^ her. Ev ^ ^ ^ ^ &
sir, ev^ erytking—I off^ ed her if
she would only love me ^ p in.
She ^ d : “ Love you a ^ n ? That’s not
^ posible. ^fre with you? I not do it.’’
I was wild with fury. I ^rew my I
would have ^hadher look frrighhtened and sue
for m e ^ —but that woman was a demon.
I cried: “ For the time I ask you, W il
you stay ^ with ine?”
“ Nol Nol Nol” she said and she
her foot. Then she pulled a I had
given her off her finger and it into the
brushw^ ood. I ^ struck her ^ c e over—I
taken Garaa’s knife ^ beca^ I had broken
my own. At the ^ cond th^ ^ she fel
without a sound. It sem s to me that I
^can s e her ^ r a t black eyes f aring at
me. Then they grew and the lids
d ^ ed.—For a ^ go hour I lay there pr^
trate beside the c o ^ e .’—
No play-acting could make the sene so
and palphant ^ with humanûff and ^w e in TOion
kindfy capwe 173
as that jewel-prrose of M&im& But
so close as one art may coun^rfm another, by
& in^g-up the fiery spirit ^sence which infoâs it,
so close &d actor-woman com^ pas and consum
mate the ^rong drfdous ^ ^ ra id n e s of ^^m en’s
death-hour.
The sene was as in the o ^ a — -a coart out
side the bul-fighting ^^m en rithly
bejewcled and in the l^ y s^ ^ t-k d y
clothes of the Toreador's But that was
nothing. The ^ ^ y wildaes of the w ^ten sene
was in every insolently splendid ^ bodily movement
and earh fateful lovelines of eyes .and of the
fulfilling T h ^ b Bara.
I ^can s e the dark drocoping-lidded dying eyes.
I Cormen in co^raous c h a ^ ^ ^ of my ^Mind.
I felt her in my therat. It was barmen hêelf living
and breaking near me. the f^ ^ m c ly adorable
^^m en who has haunted the êdge of my thoughts
since I r a d her.
There ^ some odd ^ d e n ^ e s in T h ^ k Bara’s
acting whichh had the efect of making her u n -s^^^ ,
unobvious. They made her humanly vibrant.
And they added a devilish wwistfuines to her barmen
and a surprising feel of genuinen^ to the whole
^ ^ ^ u e.
The factor’s art bringa out the roânco wMhich is
174 God's kindly caprice
in human bone-and-flesL And TOTO. scera

someway aof its physical and sp^ cal
s^tlcties. She ^pr^res the emotion of
^^men by rin^g sligh^& ^îble on
' her own vMe and mobile ^^y: insolence by ^m-
boing an ^bow: cruelty by the ^ ^ h of a toTO:
sensual feeling by moving a knee and an anankle:
murder in the Crating of her waistiine: a fleet
repr^^d anknul tendernes by a posture of shoulder
and breast: a h ^ ^ r a k of in her
vivid lips: the desperate bravvery of that death by
the tilt of her potent chin: the humicane-fiêdom
of &rmen’s soul by lifting her face and her in
the night wind. She worked ^ h an
m ^ u l^ sincerity, as if she strongly gave her best
of brain and blôod and metle to the ^M.
I looked at photographs of her which derated the
lobby of the theater. She looks a ^&utiful and
earnest-seemng girl of a mental rather than a
physical ^ h melancholy dark eyes, a child
like mouth-profile and the dslim patrician hands of a
Bourbon duês. She will ^ e in my warned
memory as the of a l the Armens.
A flôod of life and color ggoes into the ^ ^ ^ g of a
^rmen film: a throng of attractive faces and ^ ^ es
of ^ttple, women and men and lovely chil^n.
move through it in a pulsating gay p a^ ^ t: flowrn
kindly capû 175
and S ^ ^ h p^ttm eses of (^ u m e and country^de
and street and ^ a l ovver it, bright as life:
and sweet winds blow in it and leaves and g r^ a s
wave and fluêr, and the sunshine melts and mellows
the o t —a l as if one saw it ^ ri^ ^ ta g e d d theough
windows. It is not —it is not in îtself any
but a dear del^ ^ ^ le coun^rfert of it, a miracle-
tasteU of the outer-looking madly-^ttpled world.
For me it m ^ ^ t my long-adored Me^m& ^ e n
sudden brief life, the haunting t^ ^ e d into
flesh: a of silent hman-music wMhich globed
and b^ned upon me ^ e ^n tle fire.
fe e n is ^God thus capriciously kind to
1^ A fasciîng
To-morrow
T AM a fascinating creature.
I I move in no stoltifying ruts. There's no real
* yoke of custom on my shoulders. My round
w^to b r ^ ^ beneath their black serge are con
current nothing ^seted or s^^îent or
My Mind goes in no grooves made by other înds.

It lives like a ^tah in a for^^ weaving its spells,
revelling in smooth vivid advents. ^ên I look
at a round gray stone by a radside I look at it not
as a young woman, not as a person, not as an art&,
nor a ^ l o ^ ^ nor an ^nomist, but as Me— as
Mary Mac^me— and as if there ^had not before
been a round gray stone by a roadside since the
world began. ^ên I look at a chair with my
eyes I say to the chair, ‘^What other ^raons may
see when they look at you, ^chair, I don’t know—
how could I know? But I weU know what I s e and
that what I see is uninfluenced by other eyes that
may have looked at you, were they Arôtle’s or
Galileo’s or an archangel’s.' There may be ^ âly
egot&ic viewpoints— in W a ^ T ^ ^ , or Japan, or
Glasgow-^&tland or the Orkney Islands, where not?
I don’t know—I don’t ^ e . What is it to me?
I know my own virile vision and that it th ril and
A fasdnating create
informs and translates me as it racking bright-

j^êd Iighthings broke along my sky.—
It is a mnight of whispering b^&es and trestles
clouds, an endearing night. It solitude a
dcl^ totion. I walked out in it, in the glknmering
moonlight past buil^ ^ and houses and mines and
mounds. My thoughts as I walked wwere a l of Me:
how f^rcinating is Me.
I came in at midnight and met Me in my ^^ror.
I pushed my ^ ^ omered hat bacW ^ off my
head, sloped out of my I^ ^ coat and dropped my
û^ e d gloves. I fatighedly into a
chhair before the mrnor, t^ ^pedthe c^hair forward on
its front Iega, rated my ^ elbows on the b^ ^ u and
my chin in my hands and looked ^^ r ^^ y at
myself. Lovingly, tenderly, diseeraingly, ^^vcling
and a ^ r ^ d and deeply fascinated I looked at Me
in the mirror. ‘You enchanted one!’ said I, ‘You
Witch-o'-the-world! you Mary Mac^wel— who you
are I don't know— what you are I but ^ partly know.
You're my ^mpanion, my F^nillar, my Lover, my
wilding Sweeth^rt— I love you! I know that—
that's enough. I love your ^bled temper, your
aching thoughts, your troubled Hca^ your w^ ^ d
spirit. I know mud, much, much of you and love
you! I love your ^&uty-se^ and your ^rcud
scornful super-sensi^ en es. I love your
178 A fasciîng crea t e
Eyes and your Lips and your ^ bodly Fire andJce'—

—to oneself: apart from a l the world!
One Ioo^ ng at me ^ es a cold-po^ ed young woman,
r a ^ ed and aloof, slightly diffusing ^ ^ e n c e and
inspiring misgivings.
But I looking at Me s e a woman standing high on
flame-washed battlements of her life in whom b^ro
and the spirits and lights and ^ K ^ ^ c o rds of
uncounted toed lustrous ^ ages. I s e me forlorn and
ra ^ nt, drab and briilknt. I s e me OTap^ ped in a
fiery poten^ ^ t y of and ^&uty and love and
sorrow. I hear wild voices in Me like horrid-sweet
wafing of gh^ ^ violins, muted but ^ i n g loudly
in frightful ^ ^ nles vitsl joy and in uro^^^^ le
terror and sadnes. ■I s e Me r^ agd^lothed, bid d
ing, with disordered tangled hhair and bl^ oodshot eyes,
with c o ^ e soiled bands, broken-nailed, like a
criminal's: a woman of woes. And I s e Me wistful
in quiet p^ e g^rnents like one seking light. I s e
Me old as old sin and young as new Spring days.
I s e Me un-sanely sensi^ e and hardened over—
in worldly guarded a n ^ onism round
my thoughts, pro^ r t ing indifference round my
H^ r t , dead silence round my Soul. I s e Me with
brains to know, with prescient mind to grasp, with
mobile sense to feel. I see Me a l futile, a l h o ^ e s ,
a l ^ isorable. I s e Me all I s e Me ail
A Jasanating cretfure m
wonder, mystery and ^&uty. I s e Me!—

—m ud more ^ than that, this Me s^ to g here! my
ddep gray wanton dark eyes: my tipe—tike pink
flo ^ ^ ^ with the i^ r a ^ Ie ^ p r resion: my white
f i ^ ^ ^ ^ I im, ^ ong, glossy-^ uled, alken at the
t ^ . My g^& gives Me back to Me, sitting by it,
languid of BBody, te^ of spirit and Mind, ba^ ^
in witcheries of M f—
1 love my M ^ Maclane! An—J love her!
It is ^ go—since I ^ ’t find ^ God, since I ^ ’t find
way-of-truth however I grope ^w ut.
Every human friendship I for a ^ ro ws me more
completely on myself.
Whom then shal I love but
I know my own hu^ manenc ^ ^ m ents and that they
never fail me.
I’U know them more! I'll love them morel—I’ll
love them in sane madnes lest mad made^ over
take and destroy Me, Soul and bones.
i t o No
To-morrow
Y LI^ ^ m^ yself, I know are notWng noble,
nothing co^ractc t.
There is no ^ so^mce in ^ analysis, but
a l D i s M nce.
Som^ ^ g ^ es, ^ es m^ u lw ly in me con
stantly s t r ays me, destroys me ngainst a l my own
convictions, a l my own knowledge, against
a l my own desire.
It may be true of Every^ ^ y.
I don’t know. I t^ k about it but get nowhere.
It sem s someway unlike ^ ed to make ^ each^ ^ w n a
something a l of cr^&-p^ p ^ .
But I doubt that I am different from Every^ body.
.I doubt if I am a n ^ a y abnormal.
I am very sane.
A match-flame b^ s me the same as it burns Every-
^ body: pins prick me and h ^ .
Yet I look in mysyself and s e , though h arm o ^
dstafc, the D^wnance.
I am dying in a pit.
Blackfr^ n d Wed^ f a y s 181
To-morrow
^ my life I’ve liked the B^& of a m ^ ^ ne.
Some b tak-browed Wedn^ esday I
a magazine, a fiêen< ent one, and read
it tthroough. I read the stories and they deeply
e^^ge or lightly into ^ me. I read the
articles’ and if they tel about flying ^ ^ i n es or
wild birds or hîtals or woman-prisoners in
^îrentiaries they or a^ftrb my thoughts.
I look at the illustrations and try to decide wh^her
they ^ art or raenee or mechanism. I read the
ver e and if it’s it me as if cl^ ed
shutters were opened to let Day into a gloomy Room.
Then I read the advertisoments in the Back and
they do all of those to me in comforting life-
oxygen-furnis^ng ways. foth advert^
ment is a short story with an eerie 'plot’ in it:
^ each is a article full of p^ ^ ^ : each is
fîtful and in my ^ o ^mds I al-but have
and hold those wonderful T Ungs they exploit.
They makke me feel it’s my b^ &day and I’m p ^
sented a wealth of lavish gifts. .
They make me feel it’s a l a world of pla^&ings.
They m ke me feel l&e a ^&y with a rattle, a
and a hoop of ^ ^ .
I like thing in the Back of a m^îne.
182 Black-browed Wednesdays
I like the Revolvers, . ^dsom e plausible short-

ÔTeled Revolvers with pictures of ordini n people
in ^m-lit miîght be& ooms, and ordinary e ^ ^ ^ d-
Iooking burglars cl^ &ing in window— Revolvers
of ten shots and of s&, and of different ualfors,
and a l of them gleamngly myîually desirable:
I like the Soaps, smooth amorous appetmng ^Mps,
some in Iraurious Park packets, andôthers spread
out in blue water and rosy fo^^ splashed in by
atMctic Archimedûe young men and fat s creamy
babies and sslim ^ ^ utiful k di—— Garden
Soap of pungent delicious sent, tar Soap for the
long lovely hair of ghls, austere Ivory ^ttp— it
floats: I like the Rubta' Heels of resilient charm
so ^ ^ ^ y pictured and deso i^ d that at once I
desire them beneath my spirit-hee^^^rin^ and
solid and thick and firm: I like the Tooth-^ ^ ^
and Tooth-powders and Tooth-Iotions in t^ ra and
tins and bottles, ^ each ^ bearing beneficent m^ ^ ^
to the human w^te ^ th of world— one un
failing kind coming Iyri^ ^y out like a rfrbon and
lying flat on the brush: I like the f^— — of mir
aculous spotless purity and enticement— Biscuits
and ^ ^ late and Figs, and Foie-gras in thick
glosy little pots, so richly pictuured and sung that
merely to Ict my thoughts graze in their ^ûrage
fattens my H^ rt: I like the men’s very
Black-fc^wd W ed^ ^ ys 183
W a td ^ and men’s G^tere—no mûl can touch

you—, and men’s fluffy-lathtfered shaving s tic ^ and
men’s frtrim s ^ ^ flawles tailored Suits, in none of
which I have ^ or interest until I fed them in the
^ c k of a magazine—where at once they grow ^ ^ m -
ing and romantic: I like the and boxes and t ^ ^
and of Cold Cold Qcam fit for s^ra
of gedd^ ^ , fit for to feed on— a soft satiny
rnnted snow-w^te elîum of w u and v^dine
and almond p ^ ^ pictêd in forty aluring s h a ^
til it feels p l^ ^ n tly s t a t i c just to be living in
the ^ ^ e world with ^ ^ ^ h in g vâses of Cold
ColdCold &cam——ways bew^îng and
lovely but nevver so notably and festively as in the
Back of a magazine: and I like the Pen^s: and
B w k^ês: and Silver: and J c t ^ : and G^&:
and Gloves: and Sh^ ^ —beau^ ul Shoes: and
Founîn-^^s: and Loather things: and Paint—
sil^h ealubrious Painta, ho^^Painta, and the
pan^îes the——they make me long to own
a spirk-ho^ and parnt it I^rally: and Rugs:
and Vanish: and Gothes— wonderful Gothes:
and Bungalows: and Phonograph— his ^^ter*’s
voice: and Paper— fine-wrouught Paper to write on—
bond and linen and hand-p^êd, pale-tinted— -a
vest virgin t t ^ ^ : and fr a n ^ : and C ^ w e^ ^ ^
a shilling in London a qu^ter here: and Water-
1 8 4 B kck-tnowd Wednesdays
bottles of powdery rubber: and Stookings—patridan

which tske me into reelra of skk-looms
and delicate dyes and slim ankles: and &ndle-
Shades: and ^ndle-Sticks: and countles ^ smeties
—Cromrties of tender colors for the outer woman:
and indêribably useles and J ta ^ ^ e :
and T^ ^ ^ f o ^ uets: and Ivory—smooth Vantine
Ivory toys and trink ^ polished softly bright as
moo^ ight—-and their lily-worded d^ er^tions ^ e
re frained sonnets: and Washing Powd— —let the
^ ld tw ra do your work: and Shower-hatha:
and Evans’ Ale: and Flying Brats: and U ^ rere l:
and ^ ^ e ra s —if it isn’t an it isn’t a k^ ^ :
and boxes of ^ n d y ——eet wildem es of
—their very makers* names have a melting —
^ ^ e t t l , Huyler, ^taen ce Gane, M a ^ ^ ^ —
cloying coumers a l: and Diamond child
^can ^ them: and Veranda ^ e e n s —she look
out but he ^ ^ ’t look in: and ^ ^ t s : and
from ^ ^ t h uskn mon ^teries: and
P ^ u m ^ ^ Perfumes in their maddening-^ swe prid^
Perfumes from Paris, Perfumes bottled in
enchantongiy — each American do^tf
added to their pri^by-thûnce making them
f r ^ anter to my thoughts: and boxes of ^mevolent
M aês, and captivating B^ ro, and f^ ^ ^ ting
^&uring-powd— —a girl on the can ^raing
Black-browed Wednesdays
dire—a l I^ ious temptog t ^ g a in the Brck

of a magazine: and Automobil^ ^ ^ k the ^ an who
o^ wns one: and R fles—simple and formi^ ^ I e and
fine: and ^ ^ u l fot-poison—they die in the open
air seking water: and sacks of Flo——eventuaHy
why not now—flour unusual and piquant in the
^ ^ k of a magazine, flour novel and endearing:
and T^ ^ writers: and Mushrroms: and Monkey-
Wrenches: and ^ ^ .ries: and Rock-salt—
the Back. the Back. the Back of a m^ ^ in e —
There’s no sadnes and no terror in the Back of a
^ngîne.
And it is for Every^ body, Every^ body.
A million ^&ple read a story in the middle of the
^ ^ ^ ^ e and half the million readily m^ its point.
But a single tin of Talcum Powder in the B ^ k—
the whole million note that and mins nothing in it:
it to them both on and under their skin.
Some of the million rÂ a ten-line ^ ^ m in rnrs
lifoe in the front of the m^ ^ in e —and nine-ten^
of their numbor we h^d-put to it: the mentalities
of this hu^ an race being m^ tly shops shut down.
It is something pr^ n a n t and prophetic to a ^ret,
merely musical to a plain pr ^ writer, a ra n t folly
to a telephone girl, amusing nonsense to a butcher,
a comic fantasy to a ^flin er, a form of insanity to
a plumber, an unknown tongue to a milk-^ n , a
1 % Blaci^ fo ^ d We d ^ ^ s
kind of sin to a Baptist în^ r. But to ^ each of

those a ^ an of Soup in the Back of the same
has ^ U y, exactly the same ox-tail-ish
it r ^ ^ es them where they live.
A tho^nd ^ ce ^ with an article about
atavism in orang-ou^ ^ ^ and ten tho^ ^ d more
refute it. But they a l harmouloudy co^ît
sulride the same ^ ke of Revolver— hammer
the ^ m mer— or get rousing drunk to the sam
d ^ ee the same brand of high-pow ^ ^ w ^ >
key— W ^ n , that’s al.
A coun^ ^, a co^^^m and a convi^woân
sum^^Hy ^ pas over the front and middle of the
^ ^ r a ne as containing nothing to their p^ ^ ^
But like jungle denraus at their drin ^ ^ ^ po the
thace of them meet hostilely on the common ground
of a popular ^^H^te feat^ ed in the B^&— a blend
to suit every ^ — — wherewith they un^fo^gly
smoke away half their generic diferentiations.
The Colonel’s Lady and Judy O’Grady anoint them
selves nightly into a state of shining invisible kin
ship from separated twin of the same bew^îng
Cold
I’m not sure myself and M is Lily Walker of the
Brûlway chorus r^^d similarly a ^&uteous box
of Rice Powder: she parlance would at once ^ h
madly into it and powder he^clf o’er with it, wh^ ^
Blachf o ^ d Wednesdays 187
I would fain ponder ^wut it awhile as a tiny ^
viol^ ed adventure But pondemg or powering.
^ ^ aly a ming to each of us is its delicate pale
btao ^ ent in the Baack of a
The front of the magazine may mean little to you
and the middle of the magazine may mean nothing
to me: the fock of it none of us ^ ca^ .
It is for Evvery^ ^ y, Evvery^ ^ y.
Even & n ^ ^ ^ us: they look at the pictures
and over them.
I there meet a &n^ ^ ^ ian on the common
ground of it might be a delicate tran^ rent oval
of P^ ears ^mp, pretry as a jewel of price: perchance
we would ^ each unconsciously feel we wouldn’t be
happy til we got it.
It’s only as playthings I want the ^ ^ g s in the Brck
of a ^^âine.
To me they are toy^ lyries of maêr, f^ oodof the
sen^.
The ^tooi would have no sympathy with my
Io^CTings among their wares. It is a fete of my own,
indolent and fancif^ in c o m m ^
Any article I may put to its forthright use in
becomes an idyHic toy when I find it in the Back of
a magazine* The desirable Revolvers are not
arms with whith to shoot myself and burglars, but
only bijous to have and handle and o t ^ . The
i88 Blacck-foow d Wed ^ ^ps
luxuriant veâin- and violet-^nted Soaps are not

for my toilet, but something to eat, for my
^ body to f^d on— nourishing food they make. The
lush Cold have no m^^îng pe^foiês
in the—— they are for my thoughts to gambol among,
for my meddlesome spirit-fingers to tou^ and fu&
with deliciously, blissfully, fra^rending a l ^ Igar
The men’s thin Watohes mean nothing to me
as Watches: and their Gartere— what's it to me
whether no-metal^ n-touch-you or no-metai-at-all?
My thoughts merely revel and ju^le with them,
picture and Iênd — they are ^^times of my
child-self. The cream-woven Note Papers are not
to write on but wherewh^ to ^mglne how
and smooth they would feel drawn slowly acros
my flushed cheek. A sack of Flour— I feel only
how I'd like to have it spilled out— eventuaUy-why-
not-now— in a thick warm-tinted heap on the blue-
velvety floor of my room that I might roll and bathe
in it and feel it feathery-fluffy on my skin.
So I play with my toys on black-browed Wedn^^ys.
Some Wednesdays even fail to be black-browed
fceause there ^ Backs to m^ ^ ines.
The analyst
To-morrow
ÔN T know whether I write this ^ beca^ I
I w^ - two plam or whether I wear two
plain d r ^ ^ ^beca^ I it.

My life fell into a lowering m^ oodwhich calk for but
two ^ ^ e a : whiA m^ ood com^ ^ me to write out
these tthings that ^ in me as in^âbly as heavy
gathered clouds come raining to the ground. The
môod having overtaken me I not k^p from
^ming day after day, more ^thanI keep from
b^ hing my ^ hair every day, and eating lumps of
f^ ood every day, and pic^ king' up tiny w^te specks
from my blue mg.
I love ^wk and I fear and hate it. I love the
^rting of it though it is a finical unobvious task—
more so t^m it looks. And often I fear to read it
over lest I hurt my own feelings. And I hate it in
ways. I am a particularly sane woman when all’s
seld. And ^ any things I come to in me ^ grating
and inexplicable and incongroous.
But ^so I love it. It is my companion ' when the
world is gone.’ I am as so^^ty as if I had no human
pl^ in ^ rth. My days ^ as silent as if I
lived in it alone. The few voir a that bespeak me in
a day or a week stop at my ear-^^ms and ^ im-
me^ ly alen. At ^m^ for weeks on end. I am
190 Tbe analyst
quite alone in ho^ and the silence then ^has a

depth and a hollownes. From it I feel not alone
in a house but alone in a world: and more when the
family is in the house.
And it is what-should-I-do if I had not a writing
talent to e^^nd me upon from day to day, and so
^rest me. I feel ôd around some comer but that
f ^ ng is no rer but only an odd ^ terr which wants
the di^ A y of terror.
Times I wonder if I shall have ^ this published afterer-
ward for all to read and if So what colors it paint
on my world— -and what ^se may befal.
But it’s an ^m and remote now. I wearing
but two nunlike and face to face with me,
have nothing to do with publishing and with
the ^ûtiful noisy world and its befallings. It is
easy to believe I s^ hal nwer again have to do with
any of that. ^This may be my death-mood. I am
very tired. The w ^ ^ t of being a person is heary
on me as weights of lead. And I know if I
suddenly bloomed withh ^&utiful frookn and went
out ^morrow to lose myself among ^ » ple, ^ » ple,
^ » ple I should at once achieve a veneer of the
utmost frivol. I have an odd frivolous ^mlhy full
of an ardor and ^ ^ ^ h , with all of my mental
mê t in it. Âlso I know if I did that now it would
be but ^tponing analytic reekoning. Which
The conscious analyst 191
would confront me ^ ^ n with the more rancor, the
more futilenes gathered into it from having b e n
put off.
and the two d^ ^ e s are my p^ ^ t portion.
If I could ^ escape them (I am not quite sure I want
^ ^ but——Z/.^—h would be of no They
would come hack ^ ^ n in an une^ ^ ^ e d ripones
of time aand demand a bearing: an exquisite n^ ous
t r ^ c hearing. '
They are suA etuff as the conselous analy& is made
of.
But though I’m the conrcious analy& I can’t quite
ted whether I '^write the ^w k ^ beca^ I wear- two
plain bk ^ or I wear those ^ beca^ I write it.
Eye wbm I m n
T-m orrow
it, and it’s a surprising .
It is not what on the surface it looks to be.
I do not what my dear Mind may want
to say to the white blank paper.
I do not what my thoughts are saying to me.
Those ^ ngs ^ f^ ile, ^ rnformed— flat mental
pirtês, the writer’s craft.
I what voices of life: voices triviaUy fright
ful in their socrrt pettlness: voices of all my life—
mcr^ foing— say to my ancient Soul and my
young present Bedy and what they two may ^ w er.
I am in some sort a wonderful person— and in places
I do that, nearly perfectly.
I am ^so thtired and someway whelmed by self-
c o ^ ious desp^, and of a talent im^ rfect
and i d dususte to the radiances and shades
my being perceives: and in places I fail.
I fail remarkably. I write Eye when I Tooth.
I Fornicate when I m^ ^ ^ ^ . I write
Wine when I mean Blôod. For no reason
^than that my wrhing hand is not sufficiently d^ter-
ous: the little flashing shutters open and shut so quick
that the ^ second ones are shut and the ^^d
to open before I have got w ritn the I saw
through the ones.
ûly not always.
A wild mare 193
To-moorw
I am ^ distisfying to m^ yself.
My tho^ ughts smother me: they ^ ke me
from life.
I am a hun&ed timLes more in^ o s ^ ^ ive
^ than most ^&ple, most women. Most women, even
conventional ones, we lawles—the more conven
tional, the more lawles usually.
And so most women ^ » t me to life. ^ ^ ere they
yield to an impulse the moment they feel it—I,
^ beca^ an impose ^ ^ f is adventur^fabric—I feel
of its q^ ^ y , it for defa ts, wash a l i t e comer
of it to s e if the color wil run— -and conclude not
to ^ it.
^ hat I gaze inwwd at the garbled biograph of Me
k e p s me from several som of violent action.
I have violent a^ o n in me, chalned in analysis.
Most women ^ êreely lawles on the old plan
inaugurated by Eve—of inclining to do anything
forbidden, of h u ^ n g e v e ^ ^ g they we ^ ^ u ^
to hug, of deto ^ in edly kiugng over the
when ^ r t e d t o much. The is the thief
abaction. . .
It's but litle like that me. There would be
point and pu^^rc in my Action. But it is kept in
rtupor by analysis.
I am malcontent about that, though I live upon
A mare
analysis. I hate the faction and inartis. that foUow

on its h^fc.
I could be an a^ ^ ^ . I condemn but
not as I condemn Me. I would me more
were I this moment prisoned in a ^ real ^ ^ r f e for
having stuck a ^ go ^ ^ e into a had kingg. I could
feel, no matter how foolish and ^ ^ te ken in ^ itself
the act, that I had done the strong and brave thing
at sao ifice of my ^ ^ t t nal selves. The dry living-
death of the prison would be com^msated for ea^
day when I said to Me, 'I t was a needful honorable
act and I did it: for once in my life I was a
Peran/
There would be a nourishment in being able to te l
that to myself. There would be warming f^ ood in
owning one so brave remembrance of myself
But, my Soul-and-benesI—at the vvery moment of
Ûng the ^ go ^ f e a thought would come: 'How
is king worse than another? ^ What ro^ en
r^ ral mghtn’t rise in his place?’ And on with a
lightning-trail of analysis til my pale ^m d drop^ ^
inert and the knife in it har^ e s as a Iily-petal.
It isn’t that I haven’t the guts. I have.
I am a wild in foal: and unfoining.
The mwf 195
To-morrow
E M USE I am to myselflf someways
B satisfying and e ^ p o rating often thing

I write is ^ distisfying and ^ ^ ^ r ating.
It is a true a^ unt of what is inside me. 'The wine
must taste of its own grapec.’
It would be easier to make it an untrue ^ count,
for fiction is the most effoês of writing. So I
have found it. And I am very dever.
I could write m^ yself as a prrety dainty harêssly
purring one—the leopard with ^ w s dip^ ^ and
fangs drawn.
When my dynamos I am like that, doubtles.
But the w^ ears andof breathing and the in
fluences of varied Iifêtails and of clothes worn and
food eaten stert me moving devilishly.
P^ e s of a score of ^ ^ w ns, men and women, come
to light in me.
To be one human being m^ ra to be mon&rously
^ ^ ed.
I write me out not as I might be. nor as I should be—
whatever that may be—: but merely as I am.
As, Just beneath The Skin, I am. *
So my written account must come out someways
^ distisfying and ^ raperating. ^ g r caly d ^
satisfying and divinely and cthi^ caly ^ ^ p e ra ting.
The mist
— -a in VergU tetel of a Mist that is a l ovver

and ^w ut this world from the huân ‘t^ s that
f^ alg, falling, f^fog always.’ Something, and
it may be that Mist, makes one’s view of eve^ h ing
—ev^ ^ h ing in life—a l i t e blurred. It may even
blur one’s view of oneself. So it may be I do *ot
s e myself with entire cl^ rn ^ ^ —
I only know I write me as clearly as I s e me, con
sidering the
A white Ivm 197
To-morrow
O-DAY <^me the Finn woman and cleaned
T
CTêntly.
my blue-and-white ^ ^ ^ m .
She comes now and again and cleans
I would ^ e to clean my room myself but lack the

strength and s ^ to do it weQ.
But I stay ^with the Finn woman and show her how
and I watch her work and muse upon her. She
would be called in England a charwoman, but in
America of the vast monêl heterogenesis she is an
un^clasified ^laborer.
I like to watch her and talk with her a bit and dwell
on her ^ked poten^^toes. She contrite f^d-
natingly with me.
She is a human being and so am I, and beyond and
with that there ^ odd paralels and simîties
and distinctions ^ êen her and me.
Her name is Josephina and she looks as if it might be.
Mine is^Machane but I don’t look entirely
like it.
She lives a lonely life and so do I, differing in sort
and circumânce.
I am middl^^^ and ^meri^^ of Canadian
remin^^nce, and early-thirty.
Josephina is Finn and Iower^^ ^with a ‘ fore^ ’
1^ A white lim
look. and she is fo ^ -fo e and looks sa ty and is

twelve y^ ra out of F^ in d .
I am ^ i s h and and weigh nine wavering stone.
The F in woman is short and solid and we^ha a l
of a hundred and ^ venty pounds.
I am slender of ^m k and ankie, ^^row thao^ h the
loins and bony at the Moulders.
The F i n wo^ an is thick everywhere, broad of
girth and deep of thest like a Percheron stallion.
I am darkish with dusky gray eyes.
J^ p hina is d^ty-blond with pale narrow blue eyes
like a chi n doU’s.
My sct f^ s to me like a m^fcrious ewectne s.
Josephina’s sex looks porcinely obvious and un-
inte^&ing like her foge dubious b^ ^ fc .
I am. inwardly ful of ^ ong-flavored emotions.
The one positive outward feding Josephina ântf^te
is a dul but comprehensive hatred, peculiar to her
nationalty and station, for everything Swedish.
The F in woman has a hu^ nd now and had a
diferent one formerly.
I have none and never had.
Josephina is elemental primeval woman.
So am I but ^rcifitally qualified by compl^ ^ ,
incongruity.
I have white smooth fim ^ ^ utiful hands.
J^ p ^ m ’s ^m ds ^ ^ parti^ darly ugly' and have a
A white lim
merad ng look.
I have quick in^ ^ ^ n ce.
Josep^ M is &upid.
I live in a quiet d ^ bungalow.
J^ p hina lives in an unus^ ualy filthy u^ ^ r f ul
house.
I own two whose ^ ^ nnel altere a t in^ rc ^ .
Josep ^ M o^ as one un^ ^ i n g septic
ma^flate and re ^ ^ ent.
I have a of humor vivid and intr^ ^ ^ to
myself.
Josep^ ns. has no more of humor ^ than a flat-
fron.
I bathe foamily icily each mo^ ^ .
J ^ phina would ^ s e never to have ^had a hath.
She cleans windows and floors and rags for ^ ^ t y *
live cents an hour. She would it as a fan^ ^ ic
w^ fc of time and ^ p to cl^ u h^ ^ t f for no^ ^ £ .
I own in a ^ stil flawed life one p^ hase which is an
endles measure of ^&uty and power and
and light: my love for John Keats.
The Finn woman o^ ns about the same in a
life which may be more ^ stil and flawed ^ than mine:
her love for ^ ong drink.
There begrns a curious line of similitude ^ ^ e e n ns.
I feel oddly joyous and light of h^ r t on a
veranda corner with the John-Keats ^w k
200 A wbfa lim
open in my lap.
And J^ p^^ ^has ^ » n found many a time by
Butte policemen sming alone joyous and very
in aleys with empty pint bottles strewn a l
^wut her.
In my un-Keats hows I am mostly mournful. And
J^ p hina sober has a l the melanôly of her race
withh an added gloom, as if the acetylene had run out
of all her lamps. That my melancholy is more 1 ^
trous ^ thanhers I lay to her native dullnes as agarat
my native bralnines, and to alcohol's having rottlng
effe te on huma^ n mental ^&ues: whilst Joha Keats
to th^ who drink his is a savior.
I like to think there’s the same ambrro^ f^ oodin the
^m on Rum for Josephina as in the Grecian Urn
for me.
There sems no other pleasure in life for her.
The limit of her ^ ra ry pursuit is the ^ ding of a
four-^ ^ Finnish newspaper full of obituaries.
The opal^ cent enchantments of her inner being
mean nothing to her: she wouldn't know her entity
from her duodenum.
Her ^ ^ y bring her no delight: there’s no Iight-
nes to it, no no feminine c^^m, no conscio^
nes to make her love it as the Dia^ love therc.
A sunset above the w^^m is les ^ than a
sun to her.
A wbhite Urn 201
Her is m^ d y her fodder.
love and Romance ^ pas her by. She and the h ^
^md vie ^ each other for so^^ry ^ ^ ^ s ion of
their l i t e ho^ . And her ^^wnality is not
conduc e to lovm*
She ^has nor thick nor child to mother. *
Her idea of a life beyond vale is ^ de and un-
coô^ ^le. She went two Sundays to the Finnish
church and had a surprising lu&y doctrine of et^ al
fire rammed down her throat: she took the Finn
min^to’s word for it and the fold, preferring
to live this life unhampecod by haming anticipation.
A l her mater^ treasure she works for with mops and
sc^ ^bing-brushes at t^rty-foe cents an hour.
foher roads being thus blocked it is sing-ho for
Alcohol in pint bottles.
Josep^ ^. is what is ^ôd a w^te kner. Whith
means that she has ^ ^ nk so long, so muc^ so
regularly that whiskey, rum, gin and brandy have
no or negl^ftle eff^ ects upon her. To achieve her
intoxicating aim she must drink pure alcohol.
By the same token I ^thew many a ^rne ^poet:
I must have John Keats.
^ What the of John Keats does to me I know.
^ ^ at the w a to of her choice do to J^ ^
phina it pl^ ^ me to ^mgrne while I wa^ her
d^ u my w a l and floor and window
202 A white liner
She works Wrongly, r eadily, ^ e d y til I pronounce

the room clean. Then she stops, carries the poifa
and other things downîts to the ^ ^ en, removes
a big bras pin from the of her din^ s^rt wWhich
had held it W k and doubled ow her
^ peti^ t, r^ on s an antiê rain^ Mt and hat,
ties her clinking silver into the comer of a d^ d ent
handkershief, bids me ^ g o ^ rening with a grave
blond Finn bow and goes out into the dusk. She
takes her way t r o ugh alleys and sho^ ^ t s to the
side door of a 'Finlander’ in the F in
of the town. And there she lays out her
day’s wage in the pint bottles of her delight. As
many pint bottles as her few dol^ra wiU buy, so
many she buys. She venture her a l in the ^ rae
of pasionate t^ m taking no thought of the morrow.
She then seks out some aUey with a ^ k doors tep
and there she does her drinking. It would not do to
go home with her alcoholic wealth ^ because the
h^ ^ n d might be there who, like the alp^ ^ ^ c
vintaer, would ‘drink a l hi^ eelf.’ So she drinks
away in pint-bottle-ish siting alone in the
gloom of the alleây door-step, in her limp ^rain
coat and bad hat and her stolid Finn self-sufficience.
Becaue I like Josephina it chasra me to ^ thinkof the
. happines that must be hers as she sits emptying
pint bottles into he^ ^ and the w^ te strong fir^
A wbfa lim 203
water to work.
be fore having her înks she h u n ite d and unin
formed a co^ re coldly d ^ f r ffied by a ^ rage
ha^ ttery. As the and & inks on she
6u ^ ardly as the way* is ^ ith her r ^ —
but w ^within The that come to ^ pas in the
heavy ^ ^ n of J^ oeU ia as the w^ te ^rnes wash
down her ^ wall
Into her dull vûs p o w a her h alted
copper and it beats her knes til the
^wws the &as knes and that they are white and
^ very beautiful: and it beats her lep and her
and her til they glow with the do^ ^ glow
of an Ap^ ^ ^ te ’s in a rd uânt Adonis’s ^ r a :
it heats her eeyes and temês and ^ ^ * t til she
fîs a ^ ^ ^ t girl: it heats the m wn of
her h^ d til she fceb something like a brsin there:
it heats her h^ rt and til she’s filed with a
gay for life: it beats her imagination til she
^ even i^ ^ ^ es h^ ^ tf in love ^ ith her ^ hard F i n
h^ând since he is not by to ^ » t her and so
the fancy: it heats a sesense of hraor into her til the
lau^ suddenly and h ^ ^ y at some f^ ^ r a
^ n in e s that în long fr^ n in her memory:
it heats a hundred li t e hu^ an w b ^ n in her
which send a ^ rathe of vapon up into her
^ being to flush it with ^ misty golds and blues and
A white liner
m a sons til her do^ ^ t involun^ tary soul

awakes— a thing of oM mellowed ^&uty, it may be
— and is w^ ted on warm pretty vapory far
from alleys, far from mops and scrubbing-brushes,
far from thtoy-five cents an hour, far from door-
^ — — to fair OTswe Isles of the Blest!
Nearing the of her pint bottles she r ^ h «de-
ways on the doo^ tep: her hat ^ uts forward:
she sprawis ^ » ut. The policeman on that to
whom in ^wt she is a figure long familiar
^ oUs toward her late in the night and looks at her
a lacUnst o eye. But Josephma is physically
unsw ^ of all this world. Her pint bottle is
gamely emptied, her inner sun’s chromosphere burns
^ e ^ d— but her ^body, unable to cope with the
virile del^ tetions new-risen ^ ^ i n it, limply ^ e s
way.
A ^ ^ t picture, inte^îng to dwwel on: her thick
bathles ^ ^ y laid low in the darkened alley,
the empty pint bottles ^ ^ ^ e d on the paving-stones
beside it— but her astral shape, lit by the subtle
fires of alcohol, lifted high, high to remote elysiums.
The policeman the ‘ w^ p n’ and. Josephina is
taken up by several ungentle hands and into
it like a sack of coal. They take her to the city jail
and lock her in a cell. The next morning she ânds
jaded and morbidly intoxicated before a police
A wbtie liw 205
judge who glances at her for the
^ eral-hundredth thne and says five days.
The days not he pl^^mt days but Josephina
a robu& spok ing spirt. She gives not so much
as the shrug of a shoulder either at going into jail
or coding out of it. A black eye from her husband,
a broken arm from a drunken fal, a fflthy sojoUm
in jail: a l one to her. She >ts them as the
a^ p ts a l of her lf e an ^ ime^ psychic
But she takes Wrongly to drink to t t ^ l a te
h^self* out if it. And let her drinL
I know how she f^ eels for I take to John Keats.
I don’t myself* mush for ^rong I dri^
a of it at intere^, but, by and la^&
I dri^ without ^ lat. In mountain altitude
whiskey makes me sick, c^ ham ^ ^ e makes me d^ iz
and gin is a pungent punisinent. One
r after rea^ g of Josephina’s w^toline ^înction
in a poli^ ^ urt column I some alcohol, but
it bad a v^^ h flavor and bad stra^ ^ g efrcts on
my It ^ made me at J^ ^hina’s
prow^ . I ^ e ^ inthe in its b^ i t ^ren#h m^ dy
^ beca^ to sit sipping it f^ eels r ^ fully forbidden
wine is a brra^h medicine, I bate the ^ c^ e s
of co^ ^ ^ and a I chiefly to contem»
plats. So much for me and strong ^ nk.
J^ oehna on the o^ ot ^md does not for J^m
206 A white liner
Keats. I sounded her on in some of its

there wwas no^ ^ y at home. Her own ^
lightened n o ^ c o u n ^ has some of
iron and brain-brawn and ^ a uty: to J^ ^ hma's
w^ ooden intelect their ^w ks are y
But the ^ m o n Rum a heated fl^ oodof
upon her, w h i^ I ^ can but vision and not
I am inca^ ^ le of ^ro ng d r ^ ^ even as
is inca^ ^ e of Joha Keats.
We are there.
I look on m^ ^ as the more fo^ ^ u te.—J^m Keatst
A woman so ^ u nk as to fal and ^raut is always
an a ^ r a ^ y shameful ^rng. And when I think of
how she’s ^ ^ e d into the w ^ n—to mention but
one
But it’s a maêr of the hu^ an ^ ^ tio n . ^ u b t l e s
it is a l rrelative. The Finn wo^ an is not aware of
how she is ^rnut, and if she were she w o ^
not it ^ with; any of my So what
maêr? '
A ^ ^ l e and is
A so strong fine busineslike worker, a so thoro^ ugh-
bred a so splen^ and as^ ng.no
odds of ^ od or ^ an. In her stotid F i n f^ Uon she
likes me as she has pro^ ^ and I her tho^ ^
she me feel inferior.
—it J^ ^ ^ r a could and would t o in e r
A^ lim 207
^rcld of the^^te—the of her one
homd ^ r n l would be a hok. A l
rad roher w d b r ^ ^ t l y
t ^ ^ y b a ^ ^ s : d ^ ^ y sa v ^ ^ y ^ ^ y
h^^w.
It would be a ^ »k savo^^ not of whte alcohol
of the salty Têars, the . ^ ,
of
208 Beneficent bedlam
To-morrow
b e n so long ^m e it would he gay and
sweet and rrestmg to go ^ d.
I would I could go Mad.
To a Mad-wo^ an a ôor is not a ^ rn r. pro^& ly:
a ^ t is not a ^ t , M ike: and To-morrow is not
To-morrow at a l—it may he wwek-hefo^ ^ ^ it
may he next year. it may he an ex^ isite fo e
ân not te l wbrt it is.
It is the ^ ng one by going Mad: Monotony.
It’s a l ^ n ^ ^ t bedlam.
A deathly pathos 209
To-morrow
LOVE the ra -^ ^ ion which is in ^Âing
I ^ Body of me. I love to feel its po^nt grow

and ovver me, like a dic in g vine of
tiny red rês, in the ^^ttional dusks.
It is no shame or shadow or soriidoes: but ^ u t y
and sw^tae s and light.
no token of sin: a token of virtue.
no thing to ^ ush: rather to nurtê, to ^roer.
no thing to for^ : to rem^^Kr, to think about.
no flat weak drawn-out prrose: ^ e potent dip^ d
heated
not common and I^ ^ y h ^ n : rare and divine.
not fat ^ I y soup: în^ng wine of life.
not valueles ^ beca^ born of nothing and nowhere:
^ ^Îe, prieeles, a under lock and key.
^ x êsire comes wandering in dusk-time and gulfs
me as in a swift violent ^ ^ ^ ^ meUing whirlwind.
It ^ goes away sudden-v^ isnt as it ^ came, out of a
^ io n of hot quick shadows.
And for that, for hours and days d, oran^
and apples look brighter-colored to my eyes: ham
mocks swing easier as I sit in them: r^ feel softer
to my feet: the black lend the^ eelves gentler
to my form: pencils slide faciler on paper: my mice
' ^ speaks difcultly into tel^hones: meanings
2 1 0 A deathly patbos
sound super-^rant in Keats’s M es:
pinês of granulated s^ ——are s ^ ^ ^ r ,
in my to oat.
And ^ Godgrows les remote And my coffin
and d e p wet yeUow clay grave move a long way
^ back from me.
—a l from fl^ ^ n g ungratifiedof dy sex-
tis u ——
^ Alsoin it, and in my life from it, I deathly
The necklace 211
To-m^row
HE w H d ^God long hung
T round the w^te neck of my Soul is com-
and semi-p^rious
of little-seeming like p^dous
They are polished smooth
as if by as if by wot, as if by and as if
by brisk ind^taious robbing.
The is at once beautiful and ^ y . The
are in »Ior cto^y blues and —^ —
gra^ lavend^ drabs and mauvves. But m^dy
blues and êcra. They ^ ^ e a of s^mal
stones ^rnng at short intere^ as if on a ^rong
thin gold p^ret
dants hung in front. ta e of the pendants is my
f ^ e p^rn of Wraknes and the other my ^ d
encompassing FoUy. The staler stones are
in number and ththeir names and are
^^:
the is makes gh^ts of
my life.
the ^rond is ^hard and genuine stone,
wU^ me from bebeing al-ways sin^cere êven to
anyone who knoows me and whom I know: who Ioto
me and whom I lo w
the is Fear w tid m ata me who al.
Iro^ e ^^ge and rnwl for trffies of life
212 The necklace
inêdftly ^rfe.
the fo ^th is Sensu ^ fy which b^ ro and b^ ^
my Mind, half-mising my Bedy.
the fito is Amiety, strange flawed ^rc n stone—
by it I w o ^ , tortured and wildly wavering, ^w ut
the ^ pasing hours of my life: where they are g o ^ ,
where they are taking me. -
the s&th is ^ mativenes ^ f r aordinary drep-tinted
w^m f^re gem—it makes me love someway amor-
o ^ y some peperson I meet and fancy: an int^m te
tra^ d y, ^ c k l and triv ^ .
the ^ enth is Fa^ ê of the spirit ^ itself, gray sad
stone, meamg ^^fcle s e c tions of age in my
young flesh.
the eighth is Incongr^ty, the ^ se and fedeelingof it,
round blue stone— it what might be art and
cons^ ^wenes and exênce in me.
the ninth is Aûi^rcnce, worn dul stone— it ^has
kept me a l the ^ ages from the Ovation of heated
I^ mnous strife.
the tenth is ^ raMvenes pale-toned stone—by it
the fin^rc of life touch me t o suddenly, t o s^ ^ Iy ,
t o tensely to do me the ^ go they might.
the elCTenth is ^ u b t, frail opale s ^ t stone— by it
my delight in the sunny Spring wind ^în& my
elieek is ^ ^ ^ ed dubious surprise: by it I
half^ ^ ^ eve in moon and and in long coun^
The necklace 2 1 3
s tt^ d e d out lovely, drenched in

s ^ e t.
the twelfth is &lf<^nsoiousnes, blue-and-green
stone—it robe me of the comfort and self-res^^
of feeling any motive in me to be un-ulterior.
the ^ ^ t e n th is Intros^îon, ^^ utiful-^ûtiful
blue-green stone—it pays for its pkee in ^&uty
but by it I lose the building the s u ^ to n ^ the ^mater
of living.
the f o ^ ^ n th is Intensity—t o vivid vision, t o
vivid tasto for some d ^ a ls of life— hot-looking
^wl-feeling stone—by it I undervalue and overvalue,
dwell upon surfaces, mising the serene feel and
^^^& ion of precious solidness.
the fiêenth is Isolation, pale purple stone—it makes
me feel n e r at home, n e r at belonging
—a subtle insulation—in shelteted ^»pled
World.
the s ^ te n th is ^m ld^m ent, mixed-tinted stone—
by it I wonder what is ^ t h truth seming tthat
moment f l u ^ g soft-plumed wings at my throat.
the ên teen th is—it ^has no name—the Feek>/-Me,
bright blue-êen stone, lovely and loath^m e—
by it I've lost my way, I’ve felt a l and only Me when
I might have groped outward, hand and foot, and
found a wind-swept path to go in: I was always
bluêd by Me.
214 Tbe necklace
A Necklace, a l dul and unrn^

finely and Wrongly and beautifuly on shining
gold. Thee w swe Soul drra^ a wilted Hy w t e ’
weven its w e ^ t. Sfrong fine huld it
and the w ^ ^ t of the two
^ ^ tio n ^m^m^stones k ke it ^ ^ ^ u ly in pl^^
My Wed and lovely Soul has worn it theo^^ the
âges manacle, stacUe.
How long m m —^ — may know but does not tel ^
It’s only a And my Soul is a Soull
Even undo* the frail bueden of the the
Soul of me to-morrow could off ^wt N c o ^ ^
and ^ ^ ^ Ie it to airles n o ^ ^ .
It does not: but '
Slyly garbling and cross-purposing 21$
To-morrow
i T r i n t e n d s comes my Soul to visit me.
My Soul is light sheer
* ^ My Soul is like a young most beautiful
ghl m^ked and worn by long cycles of time but
not anyway aged. She comes in someshing
gray-wtote de-soie musfo or fine-grained er6pe
s ilt a loose-Wted frock reaching to her anUes.
My Soul is unmoved by the world and the flesh and
their feeling as b e te a Soul. She Ioob on me with
a Achil fa&y-ish contempt as b e te a Soul.
The q u ^ y of her contempt is of w e ^ undeÛnd-
ing and is like a
In the dusk of y ^ to d sy came my Soul to visit me—
a dusk of a deep beauty. The glow of the sun
lay along the and a l was gentian blue.
I leaned a g a l^ my window-pane watching it, and
beside me sat her P rin c e . Her f r a n c o rakes me
feel wonderfully gifted: it is mine, Soul a l
Îden-Silk and Silken-^ld!
We talk on many topies, of many ^ n ^ : I in worldly
neroous ighorance and with a wishfulnes to r eac h
and compas and know: the Soul pora and
swrty of attitude, a wearied patience and the chil
OTswe contempt..
She ^ w e rs me from her old tranquil view
216 Slyly garbling and cross-purposing
point, which is near me yet remote.

We talked of some bygone I have ^ b e
some s h a ^ she wore.
Said the Soul: ‘harly in the s ^ ^ n t h ^ t u r y you
wwere a r a ^ ^ R ^ k n p e ^ n t girl ^ in g in ighoranco
and fflth in a hut by a s w a m ^ ^ ^ . You had ^ m n ts
foth of whom your ^ ^ y black-and-blue from
your b^yhôod. And at eighten you were a
^ftrened hardy w en^ tending a drove of pigs and
on the sunny ^ ^ p o . I was there you as
p r^ n tly as now—as sentient, as perceptive. But
it is a question whether you or the litle you
Aove were the more ^ ^ t l y &upid. You and they
wwere ^ u a l in outer quslhy, in uncleanlines,
^ ^ I y covered ^ h vermin.'
I have no ghos^memory of that ^me, but as the
Soul told of it a n^rent feeling came on me, as if
some of my Mind felt its way hack to that.
I warmed to the thought of the P ^ ^ n t Girl. I was
quieseent to her filth and ighoranee.
Said I: ‘Was she brave and fairly honest?'
Said the Soul: ‘You were a ready I——you lied your
way out of ra.ny a ^ t i n g . But you were brave
enough. You fated the roughnês of your life
unmnging, and you died
Said I: ‘How did I die?'
^ d the Soul: ‘You were ran neatly ^^m gh the
Sly ly garbling and &ws-pu^w ing 217
^body by the short sword of a soldier whose lust-

desire you had had the hardin^ ood to refuse—and I
fled away upon the instant.’
Said I: ‘I half-knew it—she died a violent death.
You—were you glad to be quit of her filthy fles^
her surround^ ings, her ôrance?’
Said the soul: 'Glad? Sush thithings mean nothing
to me. Your ^ body, be it sweet or foul, has no ^ bea-
ing on my long jo^rcey. M oês—motif—back of
your hu^ man acts make me êd or s o ^ at leaving
you.'
Said I: 'T e l me about a time when I ^ m ed some
way fine, h u m ^ y fine.’
Said the Soul: 'In London, near the end of the
sovente n th century, before and during the period
of the Gordon ftots, you lived in a way of ^^ce.
From when you were fou^cen until you were twenty-
nine you lived alone your litle lame half-sister
whom you eared for very devo^ tedly, very tenderly.'
My little half-sis—— Until the Soul spoke of her
there was no vision, no i^ ^ ^ like her. Then some
thing of me rem^ b e ^ .
Said I: ' ^ What was she like? ^ ^ o were our parents?'
^ d the Soul: 'Your mother died at your birth,
hers at her b^ &. Your father was at
Tyburn for forgery. The s^ter was pale, fo r^^y ed,
Iong-^ ^ ^ OTppIed from a d&^ ted shoulder and
2l8 Slyly garbling and cross-purposing
hip. ^ ^ en you ^ were twenty-live she eleven

a ^&utiful frail child. You lived in two ^w ve
a linen^lraper’s and you suppos ed the two of you
by weaving and ealend^ ering cloths for the shop
keeper, and by illuminating and ^ an^CTipts
when you could get that work. For a very po r
w^ , but living was sheap. A l the time you t o k
zealous OTe of your s^ to. Your heart was bound up
in her— you adored her.'
^ d I: 'I know that. T el me what we did—how
we lived—how we loved e^& other.*
Said the Soul: 'In the s^ ^ er even^gs you oên
walked out along quiet London ^ ee——the
som^ etimes a andyour armarm^ w ut her,
som^ etimes in a ro^ ng ^ chair, whfct you walked ^
side her pusking it. Your father ^hadeducated you
in an eratic fasinon. You ^had a deal of desultory
knowlîge—what is s caled knowl^ ——and you edu
cated the yo^ ^ s^ter in the same ^ ^ m er. CTten
it was of the—hatin, Engiish, I^han, and of
^ stories and fen ces and —what odd compre
hensive bits you knew—that you two talked as you
sauntered in the bright late Engtish sunlight. Or
you talked of the little details of your joint life.
Sometimes you sat together—you holding her cloose
in your aras—by a window in your ^ ke^ng front
rrom, and watched the ^nldren at play in the com
Slyty garbling and cross-purposing 219
mon op^ ^ ^ and con^ ^ e d and ^ were
happy. You wwere mat e ^ ^ and the ^ child was a
mature old-fasUoned yet childish inn^ nt child.’
• My —long gone— Would that I
had her nowt
^ d I: 'T e l me what we ^ d . ’
Said the Soul: 'You said to her, ''^ u r po^ t y ’and
even our deprivations, d^ ^ t , whith for your
I feel deeply would not matter, not the to me
if I could s e you we l and strong.’’ And the ^ child
repl i ^ “ Sweet, just to like tthis in your
eath twilight makes me rith, rich—— rich as the
s^ ^ ^ ^ ladies in P i^ d ily .’’ And you ^ d , “ Wth
reminds me, D^ lin& we s^ hal have four e ^ a shil-
^ ^ ^ four bright silver sh ffli^ —at the end of this
^ eek from the ^w k-seler. So what s^dl we pur-
for a ^ eat? There’Q ^ if you like, prawns
and crum^ te for tea, for days to come—or if my
^ hild prefers o r a n ^ or pineapples onee—” And
the child replied wwith her theeks quite pink at the
thought, “ O S^ter-love, let us have the pines, just
one day, and let us m a^M ieve to be ladies that
day, and comport ou^ dves ladies, and take
our tea—— like ladies.’’ And you p^ ^ e d her cl^
to your b r ^ t —you both wore caps and kerchiefs
and rtuff-go^ ns in the fashion of the lower-middle
a r t^ n ^ clas—and showêd gentle ^ ^ e s on her
2 2 0 Styfy garbling and
chceks and eyelids, and prov e d her the pineapples

and the tea like k&es/
I I^tened to t this with vivid It felt
like endearing fulfilling life—a day of tend^ ^ ^ .
And oddly fa^ ^ ^ .
Said I: ' ^ What were we in the habit of having for
our tea—that pra^ wns and would make
us a treat?'
Said the Soul: ‘Your tea was chiefly b^ -bread
and cr^ or perhaps lettuce, a stone mug of
milk for the c^ d when you could aford it. The
London of that day had no I^ roies for the ^w r.
And having had none you none. But the
populace lived in s^CTinng ^ ^ ^ . The r^ b le
and ralied to the Gordon as it would have to any
one who ur^ri it to rioting. You were f r o ^ân ts
but you r^ ^ e d him as a wearing visioray.
You watched the rioting in the
fear, but the Iinen^ a ^ and a l other sho^kepers
kept haned doors. You ^ o were ventu r ^ me and
were yourselves of the and when the mob
stormed Newgate prison you both wa^ ^
many other ho^ holders on the outsk^te of
the crowd, in terror but ^cretly in sympathy.
You were safe enough from the rio^ rs who were
intent on t reking the gaol and freing the ^ ^ tes.
It was chalroteristic of you as you were then to be
Slyly garbling and cross-purposing 221
out looking on at a murderous night scene with
inte^&, carefuly pro^cting the child from contact
the ^ ongs.’
^ d I: 'How long did that life
Said the Soul: ‘Four y^ ^ after that your s^ ister
cban^ ri from her bare l i t e to a coffin and you
went on alone achingly suffering her Ios for long
y ^ ^ . You lived to be seventy, a thin old woman,
working latterly as one of the night n^ urses in a
public hospital. You lived an a^ temious outwardly
self-êrfficing life and died alone, from ^ hardened
arteries. one autumn ^ ^ t . ’
^ d I: 'And was there an informing ^&uty for you,
for you and for me, in my life thenT
&ldly said the Soul: 'You were ^ self^ mtered, for
a l your self-^ ^ ffice. You rekoned it your duty
to eare for your sister. It was your r e s istible
delight. And ^ te r her death you took self-sa^
faction in self-sacrifice: smug— smug. For me there
was a laming d^tortion in it al.’
^ d I: 'T e l me some other life.’
^ d the Soul: 'You were once a l i t e thief in the
of a later London. You picked ^rckets,
you stole bits of f^ ood in & vent Garden market,
you pilfered sho^tills, you s^tematically worked
the w^ t h y tinongs as they came from the ^pera
at m i^ g h t. You were known to the police as the
2 2 2 Sly ly garbling and
dever a t child-thief in London.’

It wa rned my van^ to think of m^ yself as cleverer
in so theatric a role as thief.
Sad I: ‘How did that life like you?’
Sad the Soul, with a shrug of her delicate shoulders:
‘I had to do ^ ith it and that in a n a tiv e way.
My ^ part in you was to keep up your h^ r t in hu^ ^
hunted days. You were neither a ^ go thing nor
a bad thang: perîngly pasive. And you were
dead in a potter’s field before your s^^rath b^ A-
day.’
Said I: ‘How did the l i t e Thief look?’
Said the Soul: ‘ You were s ^ d e n tly ^ Iy— -an
undented form, a g^ i n face, b ^ to d features.’
Said I: ‘And I d ^ ^ y ^ o ra n t? ’
Said the Soul: ‘Iôrant of ev^^&ing rated
hut wise to the under-sides of human nature and in
the sordid viciousnes of London slums. And
s^ ^ a r l y shrewd— what is ^ e d philosophic.’
Said I : ‘Pray te l me another life.’
Said the Soul: ‘An ^ lier time— Paris, some ^ tury
before the T^ ro r saw you a sslim fi^ d u-parx, a
pr^ ^ u te of a low ^ e a p hut with more brain,
more of what is chara ^ r ^ than you have
ever You w^ ^ to - -
mination. From havving b e n at ^ en^ te most
o^ renely of the you were at a won-
Styfr garbling and cross-purposing **3
d ^ u ily grand co^ ^ ^ : no in what are

caled morals but possessed of very m u d iner and
out o and I^ uster. You ^ were cbae-ai^h to
men of bîn, men of impo^ ance to the
whoe ^ were shaded by your influence. And
you unusual wealth chiefly by the p o ^ m
and stratetees of your You in the
^ ^ ^ e of I^ ^ r y of that time and of your ^ ——
a de ra te I^ ^ r y , ^m ost ^ gh-bred. You were
wanton in amour, ^ rng physically ^ ^ ^ d y
& ona^ but ^ûrably ^ ^ g h t forward and ^rong
in ^ each m ator and as^M of your life.’
^ d I: 'You her?
^ d the Soul: 'I was ^rene and ^rodly ^ within
you. You ^ were in a l w a^ simply and compl^ ly ,
an honest wo^ an, and for the only
^ d I: ‘ How could she be h o n ^ since she lived
by exchanging of mush ^ ^ nal a nomic
value for sheap shea^ ^ gold, tr^h, and a ^
smashed name: and a l through two so ^ of
^ d the Soul: ‘You were honest since you made no
p^ f e ^ of any kind to yo^ ^ lf. You to k no
gold that you did not I^ ^ ^ y, humanly or sha^^
fuly ^ earn. You ^ wereco^ d ously and unco^ d o ^ y
^Mve a l ssh^rf^^ You wrought no nor
^ror nor ^ k n e s upon your own spirit or any
other. You dÔTed neither you^ rself nor anyone
224 Sly ly garbling and &MS-p u ^ ^ n g
^w ut you. The tone of your life wwas of sw ^ ^ i n g

simplicfy and d ^ ^ e s . There ^ was no in
you. You saw your way of life before you and
it without dâdation, a of
It is as if my Soul’s view and mine wwere M u te ly

so^rate from being ^CTowiy perralded. The por
trait was m^ to^ caly familiar: but not by her ^ ^ t.
^ d I: 'Was she beautiful to iook at?'
Said the Soul: 'You êre beautiful in a paffid ^ in t-
iike French ^^m er—an un^ ^ i n of ^&uty
which fatigue or dep^ resion t ^ ro to p l a n e s.
You had but litle light charm of prm ine s . But
you what counts for more ^ than ^&uty: the
nerce and v ^ e of attrartivenes, the force and
f^ ination of physical being, the fra^ a n ^ the flair
of the deeply-sexed woman. In one p^ ^ you were
co^ ^ m tly preying and pr^ e d upon, but
vaiors of atteck and endurance.’
Said I: 'Did she live in ^&ce—had she no ^m es of
suffering?’ ‘
Said the Soul: 'You had hours of violent b^ i t
suffering. Paris has always a^ pted ^ without coun
tenancing the proporous And ofen you
were infamously insulted at ^ re t^ o s s in gs by
soldiers and OTgea ^ ^ -w& as you diove out in
your s^ mal bright-colored carriage. And you were
Styty garbling and <Tcros-purpwmg 225
haled ^ with opprobrious appropriate names by the
raagd p o p ^ ee as they picked up silver pi^ eces
which you threw among them. Such were
r inging brands and tahes to you. But you bore
^ withen^re courage. You gave muth money
to thurches and charities but looked on such a ^
in yo^ ^ ^ rightly as some ^^ t weaknes whihich
would, however, bo of benefit to the ^ po.
I can not you could grasp it— the
the ^ ^ ^ ion, the freedom for me in ût life and
in that attitude.’
The outlook of the Soul throws over* me a
veil of wtafuln^^ bewild^ es, freedn^^ I^ taes
which hides the ma^ûl moorings of my life and
me a& f t on brcad clouded âs.
Said I: ' ^ What was the end of that— how did she die?
Said the Soul: 'You died exq ^ ^ ^ y, of
drordere. You were som^^ng forty, ^ ^ y
broken— your looks were gone, your friends were
gone, your money was not gone but it was of Ilite
^ to you. But you smiled rermcly and lived up
^^ttnally and mentaly to your smile. A sur^ n
and a fat mus^ ^ ed old woman saw you die in the
beginning of ^^t ^ ^ ly rot— the just portion of
the ^pasionate whore— one sweet Spring with
birds tw^tering in green branches outside your
window and a grcat gold sun dowly b^ ^ ^ ^ the
226 Sly ly garbling and &^ - p u ^ ^ n g
mist. Then for once I left you with relu ^ n ^ I

clung to you. The of me was on your
fainting brain and your f^ ^ ^ ling h^ r t . For I was
leaving, in an ^ p ny of my own, an bo?b p erarn
And I knew not what îght be my nen
prron.’
Said I: ‘What was my n en life?'
Said the Soul: ‘ It was not so as were some
others. You were nen— i— ut ^ ven ten -^ y— -a
qusint ^taemely common ^ ^ & n. You were
apprentited as a ^ child to a mîner in ^we^ rol,
^ w d. You geew out of that and became a
dancer in a dingy theatte— a cheap ^ bed^ êd life.
You were a cheap and ^ bed^ êd young woman.
You wore odd gay tawdry frocks, hideous sh^ ,
r^ ^ d raveled silk hê, surpraing bright b era ^ .
Your mind was a s^ halow ffled ^ with tales from
s ^ ing shockers and penny dieadi^ in which you
^êved implicitly. You were mentaly d ^ nera^
org^ ^ ^y a fool, a wonderful snob. You wanted
only wealth and p^ce b^terly to dedde and brow^&t
the low clclas to whi^ you belon^ d — not from
of h^ rt but ^ beca^ you it to be the
proper ^ ^ ^ atic maMer. And what you wanted
in mind you made up in temper. You ^^êled
you came to blows, your fellow^n^ra in any
of a half-score of s^ r f elfish ^rfy dispute . Q ever-
Sfyty garbling aand er^ -pu^^ n g 227
n e s among you cons^ ^ in gaining any ^ îble ad-

van^ tage over the others and in ^ each other
n^ e a . ^ Also in maneuraing bits of money— —
mud as might be— from unpl^ ^ ^ men who hung
the play-ho^ ^ ^ holidays you ^ were
invar^ l y half^rank.’
Said I: 'And wh^^ was she not ^ pety?'
the Soul: Tou ^ ^ eved in yo^ ^ tf. You
not a doubt you belonged in worldly high pla^ but
^ were kept down by the ^ alce and depra^y of
h^ran nature, ^ » ple about you. And you lived
up to your vulgar ideal of ambition. There was a
simplicity, an enlightening pathos in you then
whid was lacking in the linen-draper’s I^ ^ r .’
In my flawed way I saw that, but obj^^ri to the
bygone U ver^wl lady from many an a ^ e .
Said I: 'Had I no life of a sweetness and gentlenes
and with it something that buoyed and bore you on? ’
Said the Soul: ‘ Never once. You were ^ ny
cenfrries a Grek girl of the ar^êratic ^ clas
bred in an inteleetual life. You read the phil^hers
in therêats of an olive grove. The mental
knowlêdge you have now com^êd to your I^ ^ ^ g
then is a tangle of ighorance. But the Grek girl
had no h^ ^ no human flame, no aîve bl^ ood of
Those wanting I ^ reed. The ^wer-
^ po in her w^ ^ g virile bore
228 Slyly garbling aand &cros-pu^^ng
me vastly farther on my way. You were a Grek

woman in a earlier ^me— of a which
murd^ a l simpli^ty. Your ^body and mind were
haunted by porf^vid imagination and both aêd
the weight of it. You were made of
foes. I ^ w in that day: gsw burden^y: ^ w
dlsto^dry /
Always those Grek visions are my ‘half-familiar
gh^te.’—
Said I: 'Was I som^me a ^maried woman?’
Said the Soul: 'You were— in four soporate
Which brought you and me sin^^tf solitude.’
^ d I: 'Was I always woman?'
Said the Soul: 'You were once a young iad of fierce
temper and were at a madman. And dred
mad. No male body and brain could wktatand
and outface merely the emotional m inings of yw .’
Said I: 'When I went ^ d , what of you?’
Sald the Soul: 'I fel asleep, and knew no r e r but
dreamed.’ 1
Said I: 'Of what?’
Said the Soul: 'Things I always dreamed in your
mad iap— — seêd very copious and very
hot: the material Color of the Sunshine: the musical
Softness of the Dawns: the pulsing Thoughts in
Girls’ Throats: the ^ n t of Water-Fals.’
The Soul has an airl^ voice which tetel her mû-
Sfyfy garbling and & w -pu^sing 229
inga, beside her wor& and in their r h ^ ^ .

^ d I: ‘^What do you, and how do you, me
now?'
^ d t h e Soul: 'Igrow tir tire d y o u . ^ ^ ^ w a te d .
desperate As if I t o wore flesh. You ^ a d e a ^ y
prron, a to rtê chamber. I C T^^here and
nowhere at a l. You ^re me—you w ^ me. I w ^
I stay. Yet I move.'
She looked lovely. my Soul—-and quite in and of
biter-ish lovely world in its blôody bitter wrapping
of bone and flesh. Freund her neck was the Neck-
she wore in a l the showing ^ rc ra h in a
dusk of genmn blue.—
A l of it slyly ^ b le s and e r^ ^ p ^ ^ ^ e s me a
bit more ttan usual.
I ^ h I’d besn bom a Wild ^ ot .
230 Not quite voiliL-tout
To-morrow
HE dear^ %hts on are s^smal
T salent ^raonal f a ^ and items ^w ut

them and their ways of life.
To know that a woân is ‘sensitive’ is to have but
a b l^ e d conception of her as one êasily imp^êd,
easily h ^ . But to know that she think
union-saitish underclothes and uncompromising
coton is to know m u d ^w ut her: by
t h ^ tokera she is pîn: she is &upid: she is smugly
vrtuous: she is ^w r: she is narrow-thoughted:
she lacks ^^grnation: she is prâlc: she ^ a
d e f ^ ^ e sense of humor: she is catty: she is 'kind’;
she catches cold: she is a thoroughly ^ g o woman.
To know that a child is ‘bright’ is to have no drfulte
knowlêdge of the child. But to know she ffies into
rages and b ^ » w^k-brooms, h t t and her fragile
grandmother is to have a wide-beamed far-reaching
spitit-light upon her.
That I am ‘thoughtful’ m ^ s little or an^îug or
no^^g: that I love the odor of ink. that I hate the
rtinga of consaience, that I never lounge untidily
^w ut the house or in my room but am always
cgrcom ^ '—those te l me to m^yself.
Here for my e u l u l ^ ^ g I write a garbled ^ of my
items and fate:
N o t quite 231
—I n^ w s e a soft new y^ ^ ^ k e ^ without
to it for the ûbrious f^ ^ ^ of the tinfoil
b^ ^ in g farfely and the yeast o o ^ ^ its odd
^ y j uicines ^ ouugh my
—And I never s e a shiny. w^ ^ ^ n ^ an t
^ without wan^ tingto bite the leaves p^ ^ ^ y and ^ tin-
tily with my ^ rth .
— My Iunêon e a ^ late midday is made of four
a c k ers and a of water:
an an ^ o ^tin fi^rt whith I eat with The
r h ^ e I m^ rour with it is: 'what do you ^ n k .
she fo es upon not ing but vict^ uals and drink.'
—Whenwer I look out my window a t foe in the
a^ m oon I s e a neat ni^ Ioo^ king strange
woman wal^ king And the ^ ^ ^ -wo^ an glances
casually up at my window and ^ es me. We are
unknoown to one another and have ^ ^ k e as much
and no more in common as if we êw on ^ e re ent
planets. But the ni^ ^ r-woman and I are someway
dimly I&ing each other and d ^ y knowing it.
—I s e n t my belo^ ^ ^ Cuntly with H o u b ^ n t’s
Quelques Viol^ e t ^ perfume.
—I like to ^ ^ t a box of matches a t a ^ rfight
window-sill singly and by twos and thrr e and l i t e
bunches, and hold them till they burn out, and watch
the little flames, and drop the burnt ends out the
window: a ^ r n e inherit from my ^ child^f.
232 Not quite
—— ^ n g creatures that I know I most hate ^ k -

roaches.
—— inanimate things that I know I most hate a
loose shutter rattling at night in the wind.
—While I smoke ^ter-dinner cigare^^ down-^^re
I put fa t round black ^records on a red ^^son
phonograph and I curl up in a leather chair in the
dark to Iên to the music whith is soft and deep:
‘Che êlida Manina’ in a ^wistful tenor, and
'Refrain Audacious Tar,' and ‘An Quel Giorno,'
and ‘^ n e s ^ t a t are Brigh^ ^ ' and others and
others— ersntalining, taw ^y, artistic, cheaply pl^ ^
ant, luring, whatnot. And by turns it makes me
lightheaded, lightheaded, emotional, romantic, rest-
Ies, evilly It is p i^ ^ n t dâuthery. Music
sweetly poisons me. .
—My bureauâwers I keep neatly in order—
lingerie and other articles arranged convenient to
my hand in white rows and frageant tidy piles:
with the exception of the upper left-tand drawer
which is a bit of terrific snarled chaos. In it is an
inky handkerchief of an old vintage: in it are ^ e r a l
un-mated crumpled gloves: in it are some olive-pits:
in it is an empty sticky liquid cold-êam bottle
with tufta of eider-down power-puff stuck to it:
in it is a tangle of smudged r&bons: in it ^ two
piês of pink rockândy: in it is a spent yellow-
Not quite wi&-t^ 233
silk g^ ta r: in it is a tom sponge: in it are blackened

pi^ es of chamo^skin: in it is a broken so^rors:
in h aretw^ e d r^ agd black-net veveils: in h
is a bras c^ ^ ^ ring: in it is a broken s t o r e d
of coral ^beads: in h is a lump of w u : in it
is a pi^ of kno^ ed twine: in h are l i t e bunches of
cotton-wool: in it is a spiled box of powder w^ te ning
ev^^& ing: in h is a spilled box of matches: in h
is a jet bracelet broken into s^ all pi^ es: in h is a
broken hand-mirror: in h are some ^ ^ & ed c^ a-
r^ret: in it is a ruined blue plume: in it is a w^êd
leather p^ urse: in it is a da^ ^ ^ lump of red finger-
Mil ^^te: in it is a of gum arabic: in h is a
b ^ u e k e ^ ie defiled by w u , ink, powder
and r a k ^ n d y : in it are some ^ i t y melted :
in it are other bits of rubbish: a l in wildest ^sorder.
Why I do not empty the &awer and b^ tt the rubbish
I don’t at a l know.
—I sometimes take one or two of the nefe^wrh^ ood
chil^ e n to a piet^ ^ h o w .
——metimes as I lean at my window I al^ ^ ^ te
Ioo^ king at the distant deeply-blue mountains by
Ioo^ kingat the near-by women who chance to ^ pas on
the stone pavement below—the sma^ y ^ a d and
lighth^ ^ ^ -seming ones. I look at their ^ go
shoulders in ^ ^ el-toned silk and at their trim silk
ankles and proud flaring s^ r a and insolent ^ ^ utiful
234 Not quite voiltt-toxd
hats-— the buânt worldly ^ sou^nce of their

ensembles—as their owners walk along on happy
erands. As I look I feel Me to be ^ ^nd pran
looking out in pay^ c jealou^ : for
a time when I ^so went thus buoyantly on happy
worldly erands and an odd r^ ng silent impatience
for a ^^me when I may ngain. But it t o the
wag ing a^ ^ ^ cence in analyti^^ ^ ^ ^
— ‘ pusy-caat-micow, ’ I ruminate, *^ ’t have any
milk until her ^ t i ^ t’s mended with silk 9
^ ^ e kind of man I impatiently scorn is the kind
that looks bored if I mention I ^ n or cerames or
OTilration but is inte^êd ^ stantly, al^ tly
if I mention my ^ ^ ^ y I abhor the
that me my own private p^ ^ » of
amorousnes: not those who cond^ an me for thOT:
not those who d ^ ke them in me: not those who
deplore them: but who be^ Wge me th^ ^
— Always I come up .a ^^roay soWy. Always I
close doors softly. I make no nore.
— The ^întert chhara^r I have met ^ ith in fi^ o n
is HucU^ rc^ Finn’s father, looked at as a father.
N m in qusintnes I place ^ l y Bras, r^^ ded as a
hu^manbeing.
— I like a gla s of very hot water and a of
pr e s s ed damson pl^ us on a s u l^ A^ ^& day:
and another of ^ h on top of that: and another
Not quite m
of ^ each on top of ^ * t.
—I like the word addle: I hate the ward
I would fain have my ' wrongs’ ever addled ^ than
merely for the word prejudice.
—I would rather that ulmost any physieal ^ ^ t e r
should M a l me ^ than that I ever ^&OTe an
domen. • When an ^ d omen comes in at the door
life’s romances fly fast out the windows: so it look
to me. May death ov^ teke me haply M ore the
menopa^ .
—The pi^ r a I have crowded on a s^ mal side-wal
two feet from my eyes as I sit at my desk are:
Th^ la Bara as barmen: the late Qu^ I^ ^ l a of
Spain: Marie Uoyd, loved of the London p o p ^ ce:
a velvety-Iooking black-and-or^ ^ print of a
Ico^ pard: B ^ c h e Sw^ ^ loveliest of film ^ tors:
John Keats, a small old print: Ethel B ^rym o ^
a pen^ drawing made by herself: N el a
p h o t^ aph of a Loly p o rtr^ : Warn’s 'H <^ ’:
S ^ l ey K ^ h e l, dead middle-weight ^ ^ ter : 'Jane
E ^ ’ by a Polish Fanny Brawn, the sol^ ^
^ ^ m t silhouttte print: Ty Cobb: two îldren:
Cor& y in the de I’^ h a y e : S^ n
B. Anthony: a Coinese ^ y : del ^^to:
Qu^ and Math^ ron.
— I am old-fasWoned in ^ any of my ^ ^ ^ ~ in a l
my and I do not
2$6 Not quite
writere: they make ^ calous in a p o r ca^ ^

And I do not like foun^ tain-pens which someway m m
su ^ ^ le only for busin^ ^ l^ ters, forgeries, ^w k-
keeping and ^ de c^ sory love-l^tere. I like a
pen in a fat glosy ^cen enameled w^ ood pen
holder with a thick pl^ ^ m t-f^ fog rubber sheath
at the lower end.
—I wo t ^ ^ la y a modest frook of black slik:
beneath it a light silk petacrat: beneath that a
white p u ^ - ^ wilow silk ' envelope’ and a pale
^ c to w pink silk shirt sh^tened by ^ any launder
ings: no stays: thick white silk
^wve my k n ^ by eireles of mild mauve ^ ^ i c :
on my feet e r^ ^ ribbened bright-buêd black
shoes: round my neck a jet neckince:—a l of it a
cestume that might be of a conventional woman,
a plain-living woman, a ^ go woman, a wal-bred
woman—saving only that beneath my left shoulder-
blade the smooth new pu^y-wilow slik has a j^êd
two-inch rent where it caught on a ^ wer-^m dle:
and the rent—in lieu of neatly mending it ^ ith the
^^& d and n^ ^ e of woman’s c ^ to m—I ca^ ught
up any way by its j^ agd e^ ^ and tied ^ ght in a
hard vicious heathen knot: the note of spiritual
fornication, of ^ ^ - y-^lac-Lanenes: always there's
some involun^ ty p ^^n touch to undo me, to O T a ^
me, to ^ to ay me to ^ od and to my^ self.
Not quite roi/d-fou* 237
—I foe-and-a-half A-^& sh^ : number

^renty-one snug whalebone stays: and weigh a
hundred-twenty-four poun&.
— I am fond of and diamond
rings.
—I violently to a Iitle chharloê-r^^ ^ h
a fork: it ^ es me the same feeling of lawles ^ eet-
fiery lust which must belong to a Moslem soldier
when deflow^ ing a ^ inistinn vitgln: and
no^ ^ y.
— Sometimes when I’m dresing in the I
glance down ^ ough my window and s e two
elderly Butte busines men, one a Ia ^ er and one
a banker, going by on the way to their offi^&
And I wonder at how frightfuUy ^ ^ ^ ^ ble they
look in their tailo^d clothes and repr^&hles gloves
and ^ perf^ tly celestial-looking hats. I murmur:
•Robin and f t âed were two pr^ et men who lay
in ^bed til the el^ & ^rack ten.’
I keep on my desk a litle doll îth fluffy s^ ^ ,
blue eyes, pouting lips and curly hair and named
Uttle Jane after an adorable child I have s e n
in moving pictures.
— I am foe feet six inches tal in my h^ ^ h h^ eels:
— I wo t n^ ^ ttr six gloves: the calf of my leg is a
shapely thing.
— The six ^tent ^merirans I most ad^fre are
238 Not quite
Tho^ ^ ^ d et Mom ^ ^ ^ ^ de Ath-

^ ton, T h ^ o re the remaining W^ right
Bo ther, and ^ my Lowwel
—I ^ m k I'd I^ earn to be a ^ k, a prof^ esnal ^ k,
if I were le s ^ U y fatt e d .
—I love the sound of the of two
w^ te day p^ ^ one upon the other.
—I crack nuts my
Voill! .
But not v o ^ to u t.
A damned spider 239
To-morrow
O-DAY was one of the To-morrows of en-
T com^ pasing ^ dis&faction when

al a world and a
A Spider drowned in my bath-^ fr
life. '
It ^ was one of those Iong-I^ ^ d spi^rn. It ^ as in

the tub when I went th— —a «msm al ovalish dark-
gray ^ with ray-ê I ^ as of an evil
lying flat on a w^te d^^^ It
incon^ûbfe that any ^ creature should nat o a ly
have an odd n^ ^ w of I ^ : we a r e a l indu^ ding
spi^ ^ laid out as ^ withrule and com^ pas. Perhaps
it is incon^ ^ ^ Ie. But Spider ^ en I^ .
I coun^ them while I knelt. blue-^ ^ o ^ ^ ^ id e
the ^ ith my ^ elbows on the ^ edge and watched
the Spêr and w ^ ^ for it to go away.
it lost a I ^ or one t o many, or its kind
is no^ ^ y ^ made like that: those I vaedly
âbout. In eitherit s e ^ ed a m
mud worse Spider. It did not go away so I tout ed
it ^mtly ^ with an obIong of ^ p. Thm it
mo^ ved and ^ ^ n to walk up the «de of the •
But the ade is smooth as and always it ^ p ^ ped
I ^ mt to my ^ m and f^ ded a
With a ^ ^ ^ ^ d newly from I the
Spider out of the hath-^fe. Then I âled w d and
240 A damned spider
Spider to the f^ thest ceiling comer of the rrom.

Then I drew the tab one-^^d fuil of tepid water.
And there floating in it as if brought down by
was the ^ren-l^ ^ ^ Spider, drowned and
ruined. It spoiled the ataosphere and antiâ-
tion of my mo^ ^ g tab. I shudd^ ed ^ ^ ^ y.
I puDed out the plug and water and Spider
washed down and away into the dark sewer-w ^ ^
of Bu^^ into the beweis of the thro^ ughthe
ga^ways of hel, I hope. I to k a shower
^ witha flavor of long-l^ ^ d Spiders in it. I
and co^ ^ d and coifed my ^hair, ^ with the clouded
tho^ ught in me that throonghout my life I shal in-
ev^^ly encounter by law a Iong-l^êd
Spider from time to time. I know there’U be no
evading it. Those who know doabtle s
could tel me how many Spiders I s^ hal encounter in
so many or so many years: the
even to the division of a wcek and the or the
of a Spider. There is som^ ^ ^ ^ ^ n -
certing and tr^ c in the thought.
The drowned Spider’s ghost pursued me a l day
though its memory faded.
My breakf^ though it included an ^ seed
antagonistic, hostile toward me as I ate it. It made
me mclanaboly.
I watehed from my beck window a sslimbey painting
A damned
a porch and singing in incipient tenor a rhythmic

lu^&y ^înning ‘go to sleep my d ^ k y ha-by.’
He s tinted silently for some minute and then
his b^ h in the tin of paint. Whenever
he left off painting to dip the brush he sang. Once
he faled to sing when he dip^ d the brush but in-
^ ead burst forth it in the midst of
a long m^ ^ d sêak on his porch.
that would not have mattered to me since I am
^ nately keyed and pitched to the galvanically
un^ ^ ^ ^ . But ^ ^ b y it made me rac^ ^ y
neervous.
In the rfteracon I went for a w^ L Down and
down, ^ n t e from here, in a quiet
n^ ^ ^ rh^ ood a ângo wo^ an me. She
^ was pole and s^^rfy and quite diunk.
She ^ d , you reme^ ^ which of these
comers I was to meet a friend at?’ It made me
feel annoyed and bowild^ ed and sad and silly.
^ Whn I came back I read awhile— a story of Guy
de Mau^ ^ ^ t’s about a little dog named P iw ot,
whose owner loved him much but loved money
more and could not bring heêrself to pay a t u of
eight frano to make Pi^rot’s ^^tence l^ ^ . So
she him into a pit. As heartbrea^^ a tale
as even de ^û^ ^ ^ t ever It a l the
lo^ in world feel terrifyingly sordid. It made
242 A damned spider
me ^ ^ p p y .
Then I found a ^ ^ - b o k and read ^rnut the
BI^ ^ lin in g out from the gold bar of
hraven. Alw a^ by her lov^me s alone, she s ta
me to mydeptta of ^ ra . But t^ o-day the
song made me feel over-brought and tfe-wora.
To-^ ght I out to a
of the town, a very pale, very gray d^ ^ ^ with a
OTswe wetlikee d islvin g ^ » ris OTatWng it.
The ^ ffion p ^ d looked down, ^mote and
as if eath one newly foraken me. It
made me afraid and cold u ound my h^ eart.
Here I sit and n^ ^ g in a l the world is pl^ ^ m t
or ^ ^ wing. .
^ht Spêr.
To wander and bang and float about 2 4 3
To-morrow
Y d a ^ edest da^ ^ ^ & q^ ^ ty is Wavermg
M —Wag i n g —
I might say I prefer the dawn to the
Ii^ t or the twilight to the dawn.
Neither would be true.
I love the dawn—I love the t^ ffight.
^ftat I unco^ ciously prefer is the long n ^ ^ve
Wav^ ing s p a ^ ^ f ^ y ^ ^ e e n the two.
I might say I prefer heaven to hell or ha l to heaven*
Nether would be true.
My garbled nat ^ , u^ ^ ily of be^
prefers to wander and and flrat ^ t t ut betwcen
the two.
I ^ ight say I prefer to ^ ^ k n e s or weak-
ne s to ^ re ^ ^ .
Neither would be true.
^ ^ a t I prefer is a h e ^ h hover^& an endles tor-
t wing Tenterhook ^ ^ c e n the two.
And that Wavering preference is my wwil
my my ju ^ m ent,
my and I ^ i n ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ my life, my w ^ ^ e ,
my ^ TOtron: a ^ ^ ^ the dear of my
I know I work intently and ind^ ^ o u d y at the
^ t l des of my d a ^ u t ion in the Waver— —Waver-.
i——
244 To wandtt and bang and f i f i
I know it would be better to die at once: fa ^ ^ that,

to live but to live positively as a a whor^
a tinef or a mffliner. Knowing that, I know
I Waver: I know I prefer to Waver: I know
I s^dl co^ tantly Waver.
I am. coustant —I am. remar^M y profoundly
coustant —in my Wavering.
In the mo^ ^ as I dres I draw on a ^ stocking—
a long black or w^ te ^ ^ te ning ^ stocking. I know
I do it only ^ beca^ the ^ ined big world, which
ref^ es to Waver, is pushing—pushing me. I would
ch^ e if I could—though loathing my choice—to
stay my bare foot and my ^ stocking in my ^m d,
Waveting. between drawing it on and pausing
bbarefoot, Wavering. I prefer not to draw on the
booking: I prefer not to be ^ ^ o o t : I prefer
Wavering—Wavering—
When I’m hungry I ch^ e : not to let f^ ood alone:
not to eat it: to have it by me and Waver, Waver
emptily. Not to enjoy its anticipation: not to
contemplate it. No——! To Warn/ I reach and
take the f ^ ood ^ beca^ the world in its pu s ^ ^
pushes me.
If the world stop^ d pushing—
One r ^ o n it wil be pl^ ^ n t to be dead: I then
to longer Waver.
Worms wil eat me unwaveringly. Or they may
To wander and bang and float about 245
then do the Wavering. But I shhal no more pause

a foot and an empty a & h of
fôodand a jaw in g midriff
Here I sit as and Wavering.
The Wavering is not the pale ^ cast of tho^ ught: rt is
not my way of analîs: it is only Wavering—
Wavering—
Wavering is not among the blu^ ^ c e n Stones in my
antique necklace: not by that ^ rne— not as one
Stone.
It is 4 m^ked and hateful and h^ elh gift of
pr^ nt Me who ho^ my Soul.
It is of this Macclane— who is I— : and
I know.
I am co^^mt alone— noti^ ubly te^ ^ y co^^mt—
in my Wavering: and les co^ ^ t in Wag ing
^ thanin the ghoîsh preference.
An odd and subtle doom.
24/S A thousand kisses
To-morrow
1 ONG my other I own W anton
nes. In prrof of which I am wishing as
I sit here for a Tho^ nd OTeles ^ ^ e s :
eleven o’clock of eve^ng—a Tho^ ^ d
A wonderfnl, wonderful at^ b u ^ Wantoanes:
rieli in the co^ raous temperament whieli owns
it, a Gifc^ ^ g delicate and gor^ » ra«
By it I want a Tho^ ^ d a Tho^ n d—made
a l of Wantonnes.
come in kinds and only one is
Wanton.
The of a lover has an in^ ^ cosmic the
of a mother is tender foêring food: the
of a friend is van^ tage and gr^ of frien^ in e s : the
kira of a child is of sno^ ^ ^ e s and
spri^ ^ m e leaves.
And the of Wantonnes is not of nor of
f^ ^ nor of gracing van^ e , nor of ch il^ ^ ood
—but is t restles ^ ^ n c e of hu^ ^ m e s and
worldlines and mere shm 1 I^ tie s encom^ ^ ^ ^
born of sweet 1^ , alen it ^ might ^ and
^ e redy ‘unatttaed,’ but warm and fond and
p re s ^ : ^ w ering the pathos of ^ ^ te jejunenes
which flow, flows always in red hum^n bl^ ood.
the r^ rides a long &ead wistfuln es
A thousand kisses 147
made of and lies and the barbaric and
p tfa l of w ^ d a y ’s jo^ ey: a crying ^ h for a
cup of wa rned OTswe ^ ease to it a l a
moment away: but a moment away.
And through a l the is the measureles
purling and mantling in its bowl of flesh. hath
human one is ^ ede of the sun, and ^ ede of the
moon, and made of the four ^ inds and the ^ seas and
the pink ^-foam on the cr^te of the
waves: and ^ ede of ^ t and of s u ^ and of Io ^
some ^îng of loons and quick song of skylarks:
and made of sword^ ^ ^ and of money and of dolls
and toys and painted and ^ ede of
r a Ue s shuffling of dry aut a ^ leaves, and of n^ r o
and of ilusions and of broken f^ oodand hes^wce:
and made of Mother-^^ra rhymes and of
ashes and of raveled silk: and made of layers and
layers of mined-up ^ pasionate colors and of
rakre and of straw ^^ro and of temperamental
orgasm and raw silvery onions and ^rning and
dancing and minute -by-minute inconsistency: a l
velled in a thin gold veil— all in a ^ n gold vell.
the w ^ uine s and the — —Wlas, what
c^mce has the human ^ pation, unsought, un-
w ^ ^ unc^ênged of ^ Godto he straWy
No
Happily no c^m^
248 A th^ a and femes
Thus I, ^ ^ y so cop ious of Me and

want a Tho^ nd K^ is at eleven
o’clock of a stil evening.
No spirit-hands of Love are laid soft on my drooping
shoulders in the ^ pasing days: no Love— no Love—
in a l my life.
No ^kacle Wonder and Contlenes in and
my H^ rt: myis strangely d^ d of a
Realnes, known and felt but unachieved:—
no Love— no Love in my life.
And I can ^ h for no Love, for the l^ e s Hêart
is ^ Ie s ly dead.
I ^ h ratead, in h^ astening p^^nt clock-tr^^^
moments, for a Thoônd prennt-w^ armed K ^ ^ : a
Tho^ nd in Wanton r^ ^ ^ to a Wanton ’Ieven-
o’clock.
Do^ mating waTOg washing w^ armthof Wantonn^^
com^ pasing me at eleven o’clock.
A Thousand ^ ele s insou^ ant a Tho^ ^ d
gorgeous delicate K ^rai a round Tho^&nd.
From what ^ ^ —whose ^ ^ —what do I know?— :
so their are a Tho^ nd.
From what what do I — : so they be
and live and tenderly false.
— —me some of the Tho^ ^ d glob ing on my p ^
^ s , and my w^te fibers, whi^ were relM—
— —me more of the Thoônd, and my r^ d
A thomand 249
tho^ ughts ^ w and p^mt and n^^-

^ le .
^ -come more of the Thou^ d, and my knees and
the in my bones are gently aware of most
I^ eel opiate ^ — —
— -come more of the Tho^ ^ d , and my mi& f f is
full of cream-and^^ i a te casualnes and my
smooth ^ ma washed down ^ with of ^^to m.
— -come more of the Thoônd, and my ^ en se^ nses
to melt at the
— -come more of the Tho^ ^ d , and the ^ ^ s of
my hands w u m^ ely pl^^mt-feeling and the soles
of my feet fatly -coô^ ^le—
^ -come theof the Thoônd in a OTirling silly
lovely Iightly-i^ ane show—— and I feel ^Kedy ilke
a woman in the next street who ^ goes fo^ edd in
m^ ^ ^ -and^tfra ^ with a d^ ^ h black-and-white
Valeskn-Suratt per^ I: and more— mud more—
I feel the way she lo ——
For Wanton-thing is not amour but psythol^ ^ :
in it I am Ies the ^ s rad ^ than the phil^pher:
les the C^rian woman than the M^ *
I am a deeply ^êd woman.
I am not prone on my -couth, fray^ fr^ azed,
^ e d ^ w n in spirit from a day of frightful
and
I^ ^ d , ûr-fr^îshly WWe, deflate desire
250 A thousand kisses
h ^ y moment in my ^ ^ u t: the ^wish

for far removed from and
Graves and C.Offins: ofp^^nt d^&-
ûseles, meaningless, — oh,
^ r t!—
— in n^^rc, a Thoând: in Wanton
A fl\ûtng-^ b w b 251
To-morow
WISH that ^ God would come ^ ^ nafly to
A s e me flu^ ers in my thoughts ever and

anon a ^ ^ e s motin
I am. in a p^ron-m^ ood and coldly content to be in
it. For how long content—content is not the word:
^ ^ ^ - ingly a^ ^ ^ r e n t —there’s no word to ^ p ^ res
that—I can noway te l. But now I live and breathe
aloof and stra n ^ m ^ ooded. And with it I withh ^ God
would visit me a moment.
It is not a ^ o ng wish. Yet and ^ ra ^ n t .
I want to be f r e from m^ yself and away, l^ ^ d in
the broad big ^ r o w World: but and
more I want ^ Godto visit me.
I want people ^ ^ n, those away from here who are
my frinnds—some glowing-spir^ ed ones who ap-
p r e inte my Mind and cater to me: I want, 1 thin^
a to love me some unobvious maddnes:
but first and more I want ^ Godto ^ i t me.
More ^ than I want ^ e ^ h of spirit and f l ^ , more
^ than I want a fat mental more than I want to
know John Keats in ^ ar-spaces: more ^ than I want
my dream-^ ^ d : I want ^ Godto visit me. .
More ^ than I w h this ap^dling tir^ ines would
leave me: more ^ than I wish this I write to be a
^ ^ r a tion, a de-fait p o p a rt of the thin-hidden Me,
252 A fluttering-motb wish
my more thann I want to be

of my two b^ lack and ^ back in the ^Me
frool of v ^ ^ ^ red clothes: I ^ want ^ God to
visit me.
^ God must know a l ^wut that. He must have
known it a long He dr a not coê.
If he would come and te l me one one
thing, it would be eno^ ugh. It would show me a
^ ^ ta on and I could kwp on in it by m^ yself. If
^ God would te l me ^ even a sh ^^& maêr -of-fa ^
for rare-— ^ What O’Q ^ fc by his time it realy is:
that would be a from whish I could build an
^ e r ^ fire for m^ yself. Fo^êr r after I could
^n% ^ ith ^ Godas a
I am str^ ^ y weak. Strong of wwil strong of
^ ind, but weak of p^ ^ ^ : damnably, ^^medly.
I never be able to in words one one-
tho^ ^ d th of the dr^ amatic dr^toc w ^ n e s wUhich
is in me. But I hate weaknes with so dcep and
strong a ha^ ^ and to know one
thing would be so roundly ^ restul, I could then go
on: I could van^ rah the ^^mt whith
me.
I do not want from ^ God a ^ ^ ^ rt, a saf^& nduct
into heaven. I don’t want to get into heaven.
I don’t know what it it, but the word has sounds of
fi^ ^ y , as if a l ^ inds, sweet n^ ous ^ ^ - ^ e n
*53
winds, had stopped blo^ wing fo^ er. For cycles

and centuries to come the Soul of me be t o
t restles to where winds can not blow.
I love the jo^ncy: so that only I might have one
torch to go by. I love the p t f a l and dtoh——
a l the ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ b lack^ haded w^ & and w ol^
and lonesome p^ ra and briery patha, and very
wrt ^ a m ^ and strong whîng ^ e s which chill
me: so ût I could feel but one tiny bright.bkded
truth, and ^ without, pricin g and w ^ng me to
^ ^ ^ e on ^throûgh it a l til I might em^ go at
a h^^m rather ^ than in^fferent
and inanimate a jaded w^ ri-nymph in ^ ^ ^ y
pl^ ^ n t
*54 T^^fy i w t e of aj
To-morow
OD might come to v h h me on a Monday
^ternoon.
He would come in at the door of my blue-
white room which ben left ^rout twenty
inthes ajar: for I ^ o not ^ ^ ^ e the aloof
and reticent, opening a shut door to visit anyone.
It is as tf ^ God p^ ^ ^ d y lacks a l in ^ to e . If I
wish to meet ^ God I must suffer dcepa of ^ terr
and ^ pasion and Ionelines to make the m^ oodthat
wants it. Then I mu& train my life down to two
p&n frocks. And to crown a l my roomôor must
be left ajar on the day he happens to come or he
not come in. Tbrt sems ^ m in: but for
twenty inches of ajarnes at my door he will not
come in.
In it ^ God is quite fair. I do the rrea^ ^ ^ -out and
I live out the despairs: he furnishes a fact to go upon:
I go upon it, in some angoish doubtles: but then
mine, not God's, are the lights and the tra^ lated
splendor. It is a 'gentleman’s game’ ^ God plays.
It is ^ beca^ I feel that to be true, more thann for
that he is the ^ ^ er, that I would have a word
^m.
On a Monday afternoon—
He might come in the figore of a pr^ ^ m^toe-
rn bes of ajam^
lokingig old punîous of and b an

ner ^ e an English duke on the ^ ^ . He ^ ight
o^ ^ hel^^gly co^ eet ^tomoon att^
spats and a moneele on a wide ^ ben. It someway
^ls my tr^lai concepts of ^ God: m^to^
seeming ^ beca^ he is the ^ God of the d^d d^ ty
h^ts of Ict^ and punîously medera
he is ^so the ^ God of new-^ ^ ^
Now. A ^ God ^ e a druid or like ^ Uddin’s geme,
suth as I fanded as a thild, or Jovee or Vul^n,
would ^ s e an mad^ ^ t e and ^Ku^ ^le ^ God.
^ Whatwould su^ a one know of the shape and fÛ on
of my ^ o plainand oOmy shoes. and my
and the charmed surface joy in the
of a magazine? to be ^ God to me, must know
a l those t ^ ^ .
And if he only t a peke me in thunderous preludes
touching souls” triumphant apet h ^ ^ —— Id and
intoler^le ^âsies beyond heaven’s last peighan^&
door— it would be not ing to my p^ ^ ^ . Those
my ^ ^ b rnn r a ke for me if I wish. But Td
like ^ God to ^ p lain me the lit e frightful puês
which thrive a l around me in the wide daylight
of this knife-and-fork-nes.
^ God might come wu l^ g lightly in and perhaps
^ t fotidiously in my ^ chair. He
might ercros one knee over the other. He might
2f 6 of
adjust his moneele and ^ ^ d me it

Iatively or or pol^y-w earfly. I should be
ouârdly talm but I ^ ight feel an in w ^ ^ ^ c :
lust he go away again without haTOg told me a fa ^
I ^ ight say to ^ God: ‘ if you s^sm
al
blue v ^ on my window-s—— I s e it and I touth
it and I low it— you tel me, you who know.
is there a blue vare there or is there no vare?’
And ^ God might merely glance at the vare theoûgh
his and daintily hold his white handker^ tf
^ ^ pled-up in his gray-^ o ved and might
mêly say: ‘ M^^me, you have eyes ^ with whichhich
to s e the v^ and ^mds which to toud it
and sentiments to lend it for you, no doubt.
Then why not let them inform you as to its ^
And then I might say, a ÔTin^ to

^ God’s: ‘ My se^ nses are pl^ ^ t— they are —
but they do not inform me. or they inform me
roong. they don’t plainluly te l me whether
it’s a Blue Vare of a Blue Shadow— just for that I
burn ind^ron^rting hel-fres, and vul^re-
thoughts wwith and talons come and ^ tear me
in the night, and I ^ ^ e and d^ y and
my life is a fla ^ h ruin and a ^êle s darknes and
a slight sûlow death, a death in the s^ hine—
I am fed-up wwitha of ^ beca^ of pr^^ng
T^^fy iwhes of 2S7
do^ te as to my blue v ^ 's ^ ^ e s . ’
To ^ God might reply his head
tilted to one ^ anquil and im^ ^ nal: 'As to
that, thrn may be les death in d o^ t
^ than in ^rnut your v ^ . You ^ ight in
it t rover’ in yo^ ^ tf no right wha^ ^ v
to the — no right to ^re in it. no right to
die in it.'
And I ^ ight some ^solent f<^^^:
‘ I thould ^ wishto t rover' the fad ^rnut it it
pro^d to me I don'tand n^ OT ^^ted— that
I'm a dust on a moth'sand at that ^ —
not belo^ ^ ^ th^ ^ *
Upon w^th for what I know, ^ ight only
^rog-^ ^ ^ ould^ .
In that & n ^ ty he might ^ ^ ^ -^ ^houlders or
b^ ^ -the-world o^ u p o ^ t pkrafrle-
n^
But I ^ ight try ^ ^ . I might say: 'One ^ thing
feefe ^ realer ^ than my blue v— —>îs blu^^^-^ ^ n
w^ th my Soul ^ ^ n . It is rare and re
but my ^ûtiful Soul is ^ very from
it. W il you pl^ ease un^ u p it for me?'
And ^ Godmight say, dep^ eatory: ‘ ^ a y, ^ ^ m e ,
do you consider what portion of the ^ » uty you
mention may be in the Should I unâsp it
— — is do^tful whother you would your
258 T ^ ^ ty iw bhes of aja^ ^ s
. soul ^ without it.’

To which I ^ ight ^ w e r , more insolent feel-'
ing: ‘ I don’t know an^ W ^ of that and I don’t
for it. I only know I want the N co ^ ce off.
To it makes me ^ ^^ id and freraed and
worn— fuU of wild ^^ded ûenes and the
to go violently mad.’
And ^ God îght answer: 'P ermit me to my
for those ^ ntiments whi^, I should add,
I ne ther concur in nor refute nor deny nor sha^ *
There I might be: conventionally w^ ^ ^ wed.—
^ God is full of works of ^ » uty, OTene and
Ious: Gray Lakes and Blue Moun^^
and beneath the Moon. Those have ^ etly
ravished me many and many a night and day— -and
w il ^în, and & il ^în, in To-morrows.
But I ^^ ’t tell What O’Oock it is by them. And
if ^ ed were by me and I asked ^m the time the odds
^ a l that he would look at the toy-^face of my
ivory toyÎock, which on my desk where I
^cans e it myself, and tel me the ^me by that.
But though he is thus ^ I ^ g he knows the b right
^me and could tel me it.
' For that restlesly I wish ^ God would me one
brief visit.
I wish that tho^ ugh he should so ^rfily ^ ^ e me
and divinely bore me.
A profmndly del^^M 259
To-morrow
T is minx es a t e * one on a summer
I night. And if only I felt a bit hu^ ^

is what I should wish— -spread out on a ^ ^ ^ k
cloth before me in a few gold-meda lioned Chinese
^hes, wwith no forks or ^ OTes: fi^ of a l two thin
Jo^ ^ as sandwides, four ^ tfed s^ rfs and maybe
a ^lite ^ a lto r ^ pear: on top of thê. two truffles:
on top of th^ ^ two slim onions: on top of those,
two tthin talted b^ ^ its: on top of those, a bit of
Q m e^ r t ch^ ^ : on top of that, two c ^ ^ ^ e s:
on top of a l a hoUow-^mmed gl^ of sparUing
Burgondy.
I’m not hu^ ^ , but it is comforting to think how
delightful that supper would if I were. F^ ood
is a so rid gusty gift ^ bestowwedon the human
race: and is besides a profoundly delicious Idea.
I to ^ ^ ^ e than even to eat. If
I were hun^ y I think I could obtein that chaste
supper item for item, and eat it: swalow it down
magic and al, and thus vanquish it m ^ c and all,
and there an end. So I am glad I am not h u n ^ .
It is much more del^ ^ ^ le to sit here and think
that if I were—
if I were—
a foUow-rtemmed GIlas of Sparin g Burgondy.
A pnfmK^ty &a
two
a Bit of
two ^ Thin ^ t e d B^ ^ ^ .
two Slim M ons. -
two T ^ ffles.
two ^ Thin Fo^ G as ^m dwiches: Four G ^ e d S^ ^ s :
and maybe a ^ We M ^ t or Pear.
If I were a bit h^ ^ ^ : oh, the idea of a sup^ r!
It would then be bl^ ta es, ben^ctio——fruit of
the very ^ ^ e n of Par^ ^ l
A ^wrtebank's cfatk 261
To-morow
^ M so C^ ot. I am the
I I know.
I have tho^ ught my Qevernes an outer ^talh y,

a moun^ ^ m k’s and as suA not b e lo n ^ g in
this ^ » k of my own But there are no outer
^ a iities. Ev^ ^ A i ^ in and about me is my own
self.
My Geverne s is of high q u a l^ ^ ^ ^ supematar^
I have thought—and is of unohvious tenors.
To any ^sentially false nature, su A as mine, a
quick and ^ hwe G ^reroe s is its needfulest
^ resowt t in coping with pushing world. To any
un^nely sensitive nature suth as mine Gevem e s
is its fencer h^ ^ m encoun^ re and on
slaughts.
There is no Qev^ e s in I w write. There is
s ^ and my dead-feeling genius. But my
G ^ ^ m e s is beide those points.
I use Qev ^ e s when I encounter ^ » ple.
Som^mes I like ^ » ple and wish to imp^ res them.
Always I am vain and som^mes I wish my vanfy
caters to.
And I can get from ^ » ple whatever tribute I ch^ oose.
I m^ tly ^ ^ ooseto ^^tfder and ^ hair-f^ ^ ^ te whi^
is e a s^ : I talk about an^hing. notW^ ev^^îng
262 A moutofato’s
a têel-bright compl^ ^ y w h i^ cap^ ^

average intelttts . And even very Qever ^ » ple
^ s e not Qever to me ^ beca^ I feel so
Qever to myself. I am a more intuitive, a
l i t e f^ser, a ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ûicker ^ than the most
m ^ icaly antic mentalities I have known.
I am a lady with the ^&es, a wo^manîth women, a
higUy inte^^nt with a
with the feh: being a l the ^me notto ^ but
my own self*, u^êa^^ly inconênt. ^ v ing
never found anyone remotely matching me in
haric and dev^ tating inco^^^ty of nature I ^
in huân encountere whal e r p^ hase makes the
^ ^ ion most gently ^ £ t me. I cater, or I
some dul brrain, or I grow roundly versatile:
a l îth a sudden co^^^nt Q everae s whi^ is not
in any of Me but is my moun^ ^ ^ ’s ^ r let
el^ ^
But its ca^ and r ^ ^ n is not vanity nor a
fanty for pi ^ ^ t trickery, nor the wish to try my
superior in glowing hu^ an atmospher——
the preponderant impulse to fly ^ beca^ I fly.
It’s none of those, but a need of pro^ rtion, of a
bright ^ m or to kesp other ^ » ple’s superficialities
from to u tin g me. There’s a hu^ an effluvium
which I feel from ^&ple which would to u ^ , wrap,
enclose me in a harsh vapor—-a half-fro ^ half-sting
A w untebanks clwk 263
ing worldly cloud. It with ^ clnes like
a corroding spray of acid on my skin: unles I ^ d
out the sudden air of my own Q evernes to kep
it off and away.
It is long months amce I have encountetered ^ » ple
with any impube save ^ hastily to avoid them. But
if I should m^^ w with an ^ ^ ^ ion of m^tle and
m^ ood, some woman or man or little group of human
sorts (except cchil^n of and for whom I have always
a f^ and a I should then suddenly be
and haif-f^ ^ a t ing and phosphor^cently
glowing and i^wlent: ^being inside me h^^^d from
solitude, w ^ u l from a beseftnes and a ^ » uty-
suffereringand
An, I’m n o ^ ly Qever!
I a l^ e t of Q otct delicate surprisingoes—
it is the only Qever w r ^ g I do. There are twenty
^&ple, now long outside my life, to whom a ^^ry-
Mac-Lane l^ e t is the ^ ^ ^ ly-vividest thing that
could come into a day. The I^ter, whith is an un-
apperent cater, is not ^ al Me who am someway a
strong and contemptuous spim— but ^^cad one
f a ^ . And it makes people— people! ^ » ple!
— and defer to me in a subtlest h^ a n as^ ^ :
an un^îng an^ gonis& It stays me,
buoys me for the time.
I am. profoundly Qever in that I who am in ^îty
264 A ^rarteba^’s cfak
so futile, so waver^& so sensitively lyiningly^^& ie,
stil show m^ yself ^ ^ ^ ively Qever to other
^ ^ ns. I being be Qever in order to
get by.
It is at its ^ best a tric^ fc r’s and so mud the
more am I Qever in s ^ ^ d ing it out over my shaded
life a strong bright clrak-of-mail.
Just to be M a c ^ e — who am. of a l my
own self!—and get by iti—how I do that I
not quite make out.
I’m by odds the Qev ^ ust hu^ an I ^w :
more ^ thanlikdy one of the Q evûst who ever foed
in world.
A familiar sharp foist 265
To-morrow
Â VE—-a Broken Heart—
I It is nearly a year now.

It feelsis Grange to be writing it. What is one’s
H^rt? But it is a plain fact of me.
I have not had a Broken H^ r t in the y^ ra before.
I have had sily fan^ ^ —I have w^ ^ r i the outer
tisues of my H^ ^ and it has b e n and
hat r e d . But no^îng pierced deep enongh to
b^ a k it til t^ .
My Broken H^ eart is the ou^ tsnding inner itsm of
my life: and it is a very smaQthingeven in my own
reckoning. It tort^ ures me minutely all the minuter
and moments and hours. And yet my all-round life
moves on ^ besde it and often it on the read.
My Broken Hêartcontributes nothing no cause and
no urge, to the writing of this song of my Soul and
bones. It rather is a handicap. It ^ ^ e s me sit
and b r o . It makes my eyelids heavy and my
h^ eaddsoop. It makes my shoulders athe. It makes
me sit Ionglsh half-hours with my head on my lonely
hands. It me with foolish wasting despair.
Its foolishnes is the foremo& thing ^w ut my
Broken It is not a foolishnes of worldly
r ^ ^ ns nor of outer c a u ^ but of all the surprising
folly of myself crowded into my H^ eart and into that
266 A familiar sharp
whith Broke it. The foolishnes would not be so

noti^ ^ l e if the Brokenne s were not so hideous
and genhine and and m arar-of-co^ ^ It
was foolish to lay myself*open, who am humanly
to the B^ ^ r n g of my H^ r t
and doubly f o o ^ to let it be Broken. And
left in p e ^ ^ ion of a Broken H^ r t I feel it to be a
^ ^ ly foolish thing: but com ply and
^ rolute and natural.
I am so oddly a
The proper price for suth or suth a thing in the
^ ta k et ^ ight be on^ and-^renty drops of red h^ nan
bl^ ood. But I headlongly pay for it one.and-ninety
^rcps: ^ each one touthed fire. shot purple.
tin^ ^ ^ ^ with hon est spi t ^ ^ ^ n ce The proper
payment for Love is to pay ^ back value ^ —
whihich is eno^ ugh. But I in ad^tion ^ my w^ te
foot into red world-and-heil ^roes by way of
qro o tic bonus. ^ ^ en other emer^ from
Love the old-fashioned ^ ^ ^ to med wounds
and I emer^ ^ ^ des an imm^ ^ l y
futilely ^m ed foot.
It is wildest foolishae s. Not merely foily. Foly
is something pietu^ ^ ue—a bit ro^ antia
I am. oddly a fool. It is ^ u t co^ raousnes that
rushes over me wwith ^ each sad b ta k tho^ ught of my
Broken H^ eart.
A familiar sharp twist 267
My Broken Hêart—it ^ half-f^se to m^ yself as

I write it. And the wrhten words look half-f^se .to
my eyes. But it is realer than my fin^ ^ m fe :
t ^ ^ my ^ than my rching left foot.
My Broken H^ ^ besides being a is a
m^teke, and ^ pas in time do^ ^ e s but is long
about it.
It is one thing I do not dwwel upon in ^ t t k of me.
A Broken H^rt is s^ harply imm^ fote ^ e a newly-
b^ i t to^ ^ e. It may bleed at a touch. To
dwel on it conna te me strainedly with the world
^ und, and the world is ^ a ly gone from me.
^ » k is I as I breathe alone. I eacanot
in it the silly shadow Breaking of my Bro^ n H^rt.
w r ^ g is I Just beneath My S ^ . My Broken
H^rt is beneath bones and flesh. And though my
M.-^ MacLane h^rt in^ ^ is wildly in^ i d^ , my
Broken H^rt is m^ dy human: made not alone
by me and not alone by ^ ed. Its pkrc in tthis I
write is ju& outside the m a^n s.
At times my Broken Hêart f^ eels far off while I’m
feeling it hideous and wan inside my b^ ^ ^ Myself
is Me, and much of Me nothing to do with my
H^ r t when it Broke: though I loved ^ ith a l of Me.
I loved ^ ith a l of Me one who lives in New York—
and I lost and a l the way. There was mere
hu^ an ordinariness about which I built up a
268 A f amiliar sharp
strangely sinceree ^ m pl^f-grace which I looked

to s e shed -light on my life the new
^ » uty of a Day-break I gave the ^ best I keew to
it, from the ^ ^ n ce, and I lost. The day was a
little day and broke at only likee my H^ ^ A l
was broken wwithout so m u d as clas^f-hands.
I am rreales^ stro ^ ^ ^ ppasionately-sincerust in my
^ esntial known f^ ^ n^ ^ —
It was a l foo&h and and someway but
I felt foolishly and shudderingly that I could fo e
no more. But I am singuta-Iy brave from life-long
custom. I have no pl^ and sumndemga in me.
I shudder but live on.
One Thu^day I felt suddenly oppr ^ res and
and something in my tharat cried out to the ^ ^ n t
^ God to help me and guard me. ‘ .
It was som^ ^ b g in my t ^ a t w hid shrieked it
dumbly in the deafening silence in my room. It
was not I m^ yself: for I am unsuppliant toward evvery-
one human and ^wine though there often come suth
Th^ ^ k ys.
Harder than Thu^ days are Fridays and some other
days when comes a familiar s^ harp ^ i s t beneath my
chust-benes without the cognizance of my remem
bering thoughts: and when though I strive a ^ ust
it my Broken H^ r t makes me sit Io n ^ h ^ half-hours
my head on my hands.
A dark Inigbt fa c e fire 269
To-morrow
^ M Lonely. I am so Lonely that I feel
I myyself rattle inside my life like one live ^ se

in a hollow gourd.
I am on fire with Loneline s.
I am living month alone in ho^ . The
solitude isôors and ôor-knoha and
and Tables have silently come in it
and have taken on identities likee those of ^ m ed
wild
I do ho^ ^ o r k —I dust windowsills and water
flo^ m . I gather up n^ ^ p e ^ pers and brush the
floors wwith a d^fcmop. I wash my dishes. I ^ » k
my breatf^ fc. I .look out of ^ indo^ I li^ r
at ^ran<<Ioors.
I the tel^hone: I say, ‘They're not at home.’
I c^^go my fra k and put on a hat and a elrak and
gloves and go soMy out the door and front gate on
an ercand.
I meet ^ » ple on the whom I know, whom
I may to, whom I may avoid: who may speak
to me: who may avoid me: for I am at ^ best well
hated in Butte.
I come hack ^ ^ in , softly unlock the door and come
in. I come u^ t o ^ take off the o u ô o r th in ^
give a siânance in my and go down-
2 7 0 A dark Imgbt fierce fire
I readd awhile. T ^ a y I read an old-fashioned short

rtory whose soft wondrous prose cadences fed my
—the Parable of the Pr^ g a l Son.—for t this
my son was d^ ^ and is a lve—was lost and is
found—.
But I am very r ^ Ie s and cannot read long.
I am on fire—dark bright fierce fire with Lonelines.
I move about again from room to room. I look out
of windows and linger at doors.
I close my eyes and open my eyes.
My Soul-and-bones! I’m afire with Londines!
It is Lonelines not made of the Empty Ho^ and
the tamed wild Door-knobs and Doors and
and the Lonely Ereands. Those are its s^ mal-fruits.
Itself is my ancient daylight Lonelines dating from
Thr ^ Y ear^ I d when I first bebon whis^ i n ^ y
anal^ ^ g things and finding life-items to bo of
a fierce b^ter impomnce.
If I were living among ^&ple, friendly ^ » ple,
then the Lonelines though unchan^ ri would bo
and v^ ^ d a padded muffling power—
f ^ e, belike, and a mistake (but eve^thing is
and a mistake: only there are wrong ^ ^ ta kes and
right mistakes)—-but made of the world-stuff that
lets a human being get by in this neroous life.
But it would bo of no use now. I must f^ Lone-
A dark b ight fierce fire 2 7 1
lines: and outface it. I do, and no effort:

for I am Lonelier ^ than Londine s ’s self. So it feels.
This Iocked-in m^ ——^ —1 it may be wom down
and ouôw n, and the husks blown away in the
în&.
But may come r after it a wilder Loneline s of ^ being
fê, fearfuily frce: flavored with the heavines of
rain at night and dr^ ^ ednes of ^ ^ ^ -women’s
skirts.—
Meanwhile bright and b^ k among ôors and
ôor-knobs and C^ ^ r a and Tables bums the
fire of ^this Loneline s with strong, strong flame.
It is my&ic ^ p ny. There is no thinking in it. There
is an utterly irrational wish, an ^în g y^ ^ m g for
people: not ^ ttple to s e or listen to, or to,
but—hu^ annes I could feel with fam^ a rity.
I wish for ^m ds and ^ ^ e s near me: breath for
mine faintly to mingle with: the feel of their human
^ m e n ts in the room around me: the feel of the
p ^ in g bl^ ood in thelr veins remotely v&rant in the
air: the feel of minds and spirits and tinoats and
rich w^ m virileof hu^ an heads keeping me
w ar^y com^m y. I have h^ d one may step
xareded out of ^this ^ ng-pince into the Fo^ th
Dimension, where one feels eve^ h ing without the
eforts of feeling, and knows eve ^ h ing without the
weights of knowing. It might be that I grope for
2J2 A dark fright fa ce fire
in this black b^ h t ^ ^ ^ h.
Yet I feel eardy rarefi^ heavtfy w o^y
rarefied in living-place where Lonîne s b^ ra
me in strong fire and where I my life
a hoUow gourd and hear the eerie ra^ fo g sound
I make in it.
^ e aft^^rn 273
To-morrow
TT ^ ght as I slept I fram ed a w id
C I ^ ^ m ed it was late ^ ^ r a oon and I was

Ircked in a condo n e d cel, sontenced to die.
I would be led out and on a gallows the fol-
Io^ wing mou rning at day-brak. I ^ ^ r n ed I sat
beneath a ^ otow window in the through which
shone the ^ ^ t of the waning rfto n oon. The ^ ^ t
was very pale, as of s^Khine long d^ ead I ^ ^ r n ed
I held on my knces a s^ mall bl^ & of paper whihich
had a ^ half-inth blue border at the top to ^ mark a
perforation, and in my hand I had a red pencil.
And I dieamed I had theated the galows and was
wr^ ^ a l i t e ^ bald ^w ut it in sudden rhymes and
rh^ & ra quite alen to my wa^ng fo^ ra. ^ ^ en I
awoke the song was ^&ting time in my brain.
And with my black awê-time pencil I wro^
exrept for two words, the rhyme, title and aU, as I
^ ^ r a ed:
They’fl think when I through' that dw r

To-morrow in the dawn,
I’U then be going to my death.
It's Fw already g^ .
274 Late afternoon
They’D w a ^ me walk CTenely out,

S til-n ^ e d and so^mber^y^
‘So strong,’ they’U say, 'to meet her death.'
T ^ ^ it is I disd.
There’H he my qmck life,

My white sêet tinoat, my breath:
But flesh and hone are a l ^ i l hang.
This ^no I met my d.atb.
For days I dwelt on death—
1 raved at death—I OTore—
T il ^ a ^ y death waired the date:
And came this D^-Be/ore.
. From heing loured thonghts
My life ^wrtive grow.
From broached in ^ i d môod
My faatb afated to .
Tomorrow they’H remark my eel——
No f ^ , no fright, no OToon.
They’ll kill a wench »morrow dawn
Was fend to-daay at nwn.
eddnês are in that dream:
that it is true to life in that I in my lightning Mary-
Mac-Lane-nes wouM m anê to cheat a Îow s.
that it is untrue to life in that in s ^ d of writog of
2 75
it in the ^ e of my own s ^ d e n t prose

I wrote it in the shallow trick-phrasing of rhyme,
a s e ^ ^ d e to the ^ b e t .
that it catches and holds my Shadow-self who lives
not inside me but feide me: the ^ s e ^ lin g
se^lingg shadow I when I ^stand beêen the
daylights or the actual world and the q u ittin g ^m s
or the ^glon of d r ^ ^ . —
My owned my^vies theive apare, They are
and ^&uty and Io d in e s yet they brum and hatter
me and split me to atoms. Withal ^ terrtfyingly
su^rfluous: they violently kil the wench to-morrow
dawn whodied ^ ^ a l y ^ ^ h y at noon.
An a w ^ M witcb-ligbt
To-morrow
I am someway the lesbian woman.
ZA It is but one p^ ^ ^ ^ ne whith slightly
* *> touthes each other p^ hase I own. And in
it I am ^ * tlc and imaginative and worldly and
amorous and gentle and ^ e and ^ o n g and weak
and ardent and shy and sensrtr a and generous and
morbid and sweet. and fine and
The ^ ^ bian sex-strain as an effect is rakoned a
prenstal influence—and, as I conceive, it comes also
of conglomerate i n ^ nstions and their reactions and
flare-backs. W some thus ^^to wed it makes
^tfd highly emotional indefinably vicious women,
turbulent and brilliant of mind, mystieaQy over
borne, ov^ wrought of heart. They are ^ ^ v els
of ^ ^ erse barbaric ener^. They make with men
varied ffinty friendships, but to ^ h other they are
friends, lovers, vi^^ra, preyers, ^ ^ te rs, ^ vves:
the flawed fraits of one oblique se-inherence.
&cept two br^ds—the rtupid and the ^^rowly
feline——I women have a to u ^ of the ^ ^ i a n:
an ^ ertion a l ^ go non-analytic creat^ ures refute
with horror, but qufre ^ e : there is always the
poighant intensive personal the flair of in er-
in the tenderest friendships of women.
For myself, there is no vice in my ^ » b ian vein.
An ancient xvitcb-ligbt xn
I am t o f^ tidious, t o temp e r^ e n tally

^honest, t o ^ r ily wag ing to walk in
repeUent roads of vice even in finest m^ ^ . There
is ^rtead a pl^ ^ m t d^nereacy of aUitude more
d^ u uching to my spirit than any mere
frainant vice would ^ And a f^ ^ n a tion in it
tem^ ra my humanness with an evil-f^ fog pswer.
I have lightly ^ ^ e d and b e n ^ ^ e d by ^ b ^
lips in a way which filled my throat withh a sudden
subtle ^ ^ n bl^ ood-flavored ruinous and
contr^ u nd: breath of ^CTildt t ering demoniac winds
smothering mine.
^ b ^ ^ ^ n ce is of mental ^ ^ f t y . There ^
a ^ e s ively endowed women wh^ minds ^ so
bent that they ^ ^ in tt^ e ly nm ure any element
in themaelves which is b^ ^ ting and il-omened and
^ ^ ^ tous in efcet. There are some to which the
natw al inhibition of their own sex. is and
lenge. There are some so sol^ ^ by deetiny and
gro^h that the f i ^ woman-friend who comes into
their adol^ cence with sympathy and unde ^ ^ d in g
a ^ pasionate I ^ h isn adoration the dcepsr for
being u ^ ^ u ed. There are some so ro il^ y gift^ y
incongruous in trait that they are prone to c a ^
and hold any additional alo at in
human aireun-ents.
^ c h of th^ influences bi^ es the Mind of me, whith
2 7 8 An ancient witch-light
is none the le s a d ^ ’-visioned mind whith rates no

thing a truth whith it knows to he a lie: thoûgh it
b a ^ n on the lie.
—ofen here and there around human wrold
the and ^ ^ ^ ^ e d and strongly f^se con^pts
are the strong actual w o r^ g facts and the straight
roed is —m ^ & ^ ^ ^ ^ n t but in visio——
I don’t und^ând why it’s so: I know it is so.
Not only so with. me: so^milions w h ^
jangled.
Not always. But often.—
The d ce^ y ed ^ b i a n woman is a feature whoose
^raibfoies are over-balanced: whose imagination
moves on mad low-flying wings: whose brain is
^ g o : whose predilections are who lives
always in ^êst: whose inner wwal are ^ ^ k e d
garish heathen p^ments: whose copious Iove-
^încts ^ an odd of malice and
l^rare.
Its effects in me who am straight-made in nothing
but Wrongly ercroked, is to vrnfy tenfold or a
hun&edfold or a tho^^dfold in my surfed roion
the w o^^m es of any woman whose inner or outa*
^&uty ^ e s ts and stirs my spirit.
I s e in some woân, some girl, any who astr^te
me—he she a casual aûalntance, or a V ic to rs
^ ^ t dead fifty yeare whose and p o str^
An witch-light 2^
or an actor in a play, or a friend, or an

Old s e one s u ^ as if a l her wwere
newly painted and plated n ^ me shining wet ^with
ddieate freah paint. It is to look at:
it has a d e p tedu^we fr^ a n c e of smal: it is
l ^ w ^ t l y ^ m a tic to a l my knowa
and two ^ ^ o w a flrat from my d^pa and
at it. The S f ra n ^ dromes a d w ly po^^m t
fancy to over, My Friend t^ r o into a w i d
ggoddes w h ^ and I would touCh tenderly
my lips.
of it a pale but p r ^ ^ , leaps
from the d^^la of life. In s u ^ a môod-
adven^ture a window-shuêr blooms: a ^ ^ - b ^ h
gloows: a sor&d floor has g i ^ ^ upon it. These
^^tfdering frightful ^ûtifulnês in life—.
—w h ^ the same inherence wWhich makea me some
way ^ b l a n ^ k « me the floor of the sun
—strewn ^with overflowing gold and êen v ^ra of
Fire and Tuûo——a sly and pier^ng a n ^ fc tio n -
of-^&uty, wondûl dev^toting to feel—-oh, blight
ing b a t i n g to feel^-ok deatUy lo ^ y to feel!—
It is the obti^êa that ran away with
me: ^ n d , gnaw, eat my ^ e huran h ^ r t likee
bright potent ^friol.
What ^God means me to do with such gifts and p ^ ^
1—I don’t and don’t undeÛnd. I never get any
28o An a n wi t c b - l i g b t
where as I think it out. I don’t know shades of

rights and wrongs since that ancient witch-light has
found more t^ e n e s of hu^man feeling in me than
has any simplicity my life knows.
It ^ ^ w , they say, with Sappho and her Hrammg
students in the long-ago vales of ^ ^ ta s. It may
I da^say. I know it did not stop there. And
I know that—Greek, FrenA, Scotch, Indian—Welch
—J a p a n s —all women s e ^ its ^ h t lyric to u ^ .
For myself, I know only it is part and parcel in my
tangled &ed coil.
I don’t know whether I am ^ g o and s^swe in it or
evil and untoward.
And I don’t w e .
The gray-purple 2 8 1
To-morrow
at the edge of this Butte is a
r i^ ^ of Rockies that is sudden
and big and breathing-loo^^, bbarWously
touched ^with v ^ in g g t f ^ color-môods
and glowering morose color-^pasions: at the south
the snow-topped H ^ ^ n d s lie long fa£ty so^^ty
miles away, at their su^m te by thin soft
sun-rings and sun-vapon of ualmon and ^ ^ n
and turquoise and mauve: at the ^west a gray-
shadowed b ^ ra red-gold in the sun
and in ^î-and-ashen ^ stiles under md-
night ^stars: at the north smaller spun of the range
break into f o o ^ ^ and blrfs and guides, restful
w^tea of lonely stones and bluêd raliences of
tawny ^ d : on top of a l the r n ^ e d air of these
plateau h e ^ ts re fra ^ the light into hot dazzling
prisro at any vagrant ^ h of sun on a fr^fog
stom-fringe. Butte is capridously d e ra te d
swswe b ^ ^ n t mâltic oreses of color at any
time, a l times, as if by whims of ^ ^ n geds lightly
^ r o k and lightly mad.
St. Paul-M inn^ta looks a ^wulier-pretier town:
the ^ n o n looks vastly more f^rfu ly
^&utiful: W ita ta - f o ^ ^ pro^&ly looks more a
town: ^ r o n ^ h io doubtles looks more
282 The gray-purple
Americanly ^ ^ u rin g : Rome-Italy must have a

more ‘^seted’ look: New York is m u d ^ g e r and
m u d bririghter-looking.
Only Butte looks deeply and ^ ^ ^ y like B u ^ ^
Mon^tana.
Its ra^tent is ^ ^ t it goes on strongly re
sembling îtself y ^ ^ te r year.
There is love in me for this Butte.
I am profoundly lonely in it: my life-tisues are
long-fa^âr the feel of it: its mournful ^ ^ u ty
has entered like thin punis^ng ron into my Soul:
and my love for it is made of those ^ n g s . For no
reason I feel love for this Butte.
As much as for the m o u n t s in their m o v in g
intimatenes I feel love for a l the outsides and sur-
fâces of the town i^ tf : the stone fa l of
hocuses and shops and stores and brick w a l and
laundry-w^^ns and pspersons; the vaeant lots where
boys play ^bal: the sohool-brf&n^ whith for
^ e n ty y^ra have needed the same green
around them and the ^rne playgrounds for ^ o o l-
children to play in (and will go on ^renty y ^ ^
n^îng them): the mines in u n ^ ^ ^ ^ d mid
town blocks with their engines and ho^te and
^ ^ o ld s and g r ^ c o p ^ ^ dumps: the big înes
on the H il busUy working day and night, a b ^ ^ in g
citadel of smoktstscks and ta l building ^w ve the
Tbe gray-purple
t^ a s ^ ^ & ^ and tura d s that come down honey

combing the town under its and ho^ re and
yid d up wealtha of m o n ^y ^ milons: the d e la te
^ ind^ m p t cem^ ^ on the ^ t : the Butte:
the ^ ^ ool of ^ foes: the Brophy gr^ ^ ^ -window
ful of at t r ^ ^ e the St. A u d ens
statue of Daly: the few sweet grren on
North Montera S^ eet by the cou^ho^ : the
^ edge of W^ ^ ^ e: f r ^ u tor Q ark’s old-
fashioned d ^ ed ho^ in Gr ^ f a S^ eet: the stone
Ep^ropal Ch^ h the memorial windows:
the surprising ^ step Idaho S^ eet h il: the old
Reduction Works rem^ ^ren t of the bygone Hd ^ e
and the bold bu^ anCT^ days: the M o n ^ a
S^ eet cem^ ^ at kempt and n^ ^ ed ^ n
as feloit-W^ronsin: the rooky ^ ^ r o ulaa
gulch: the North f r ^ feior S^ eet n^ ^ ^ rh^ ood
where I wrote my ^ vil and Gray-dawn ^w k: the
Butte High &hool where I stodied and m^ ^ t e d
youngly: the old ^ b r^ y where I ^ used to get a
variirty of ^w ks in my ^mgfag girlh^ ood: the d ^ fric
ore-fr^ s going to ^ raconda: the v^ ^ ^ le China
men: the P^ ^ ^ ffice N^ ^ ^ and: the Mcti^ u
^ ^ a l e t raders in the early night: the sweet ^ re n
and other ^ rc nnes in m aple’s yards garnered
and therished in a way which would ^ to nish Toledo-
Ohio: the brf fl^ t sparkling look of the town from
284 The
far out on the Hat late in the e v e ^ ^ like a mam

moth broken âra of diamonds, ^ in k i^ £
points of blue and orange and cori^ and v io l^
fired and flung a mountainside of ^xk
v e lv ^ —-an intently Butte: the ^co
m ^ ^ its le s summer nights: the ^ ^ ro n d a Ston
e d : the sulphwous smoky deadly-cold winter
m odngs: the C o^^h and Irish and
and F in miners: the litle slslim green onions in the
^ a r k ^ : the nora and color and morale of the
crowds on a ^Miner’s Union day: the ^ a r k ^ on the
afternoon shade side of West Park S f r ^ ful of
cr^K and Io^tera from Seattle and s ^ in g &h
from ^ a ltfo ^ ^ and m ush^m s and frogle^ and
^ u ^ and h o th o ^ t ^ n ^ from h e r ^ ^ ^ :
the Parrot smelter: the Cinese gardens at Nine
Mile: the Italian vgege of M e a d ^ ^ e : the fo^fted
battlemented look of the town at the of South
Butte: the mystic fâliar sand-and-^^rennes—
M of it has a feel of som rting aloof and m ^D ic
and ^înrtive and gray-purple and Bu^^Montana.
Gray-purple is the color of the town, its spirrttone.
Its odor and fascination are gray-purple.
This Butte is ^bodily a young rith p r^ n ^ d s y cfy
of a hundred-thousand population, a l told: miners
who bulwark its foundations: who make and
manage its busines: miUionaname^^^ who
The rr^-purpk 285
spend most of their and do^ ro in New York:
a l ^ Buê-made. But its soul is the soul of
the frontier mining^rnp w hi^ sprang into copper
being when the C.O^ ^ o c k mine in Vf r ^ ^ -Nevada
failed of its silver-ish promite.
A very few ^ ^ —what one could count on one
hand’s fingorc—there were no lids on in Butte.
Every s^ m er bony thoroughbred ho^ ea from
Ju ^ « and ^ n v er rared round the oval track on the
Fk t, watched by a shrieking ^ tting ttaong of
Butte and cititen^ ^ ^ ridden by silk-
bloused black-^w ted jockies, their finish-spum
under the wire chaperoned by a flock of ^ w k-
makers Roul^ et and poker and faro were wide-
open in the town and flavored the air a
of gray-purple ^ârd . Gin-p ^ e s and mining-
camp highly de-lrae’d, lent their tinted
breath to the ^ ^ nt. N^ ale-ish and ba
cchanalian &vea flourished in un^ ^ ^ te d nooks.
The police court on a Monday mou rning r e s e ^ led
the debro from an alcoholic human vol^ ^ o, a
condemned but owned portion of this Butte in
its Buê-Montera-nes. A l of it was but one ele
ment in an isolated praperous town of ^ any
elements, but it someway tinctured all.
No ^ ^n-w ild sunset burst above the west desert
but su ^ ^ te d that the vagne lid was off the town,
286 The gray-purple
and vaguely lost: a lost lid.

The gambling lid is fast on now—if t h ^ gamble
they ^ ^ ^ le under it. And no more do r&by h o ^ «
and s^prising-âed crowds t h ^ at
deseêd ra ^ tta c L
But the Butte sun su ^ ^ fc the m e ^ ^ t h
and wildnes as if always its eelostost
wwere shot whh ^ ^ n c e of mîng-^rop: r i ^
^nerora, feverish and w ile.
Brophy’s ^^^^-w indow and the âly
monument and the P ^rot smelter and the
h o ^ and the Idaho Strost hil—all of it^^wns the
gray-purple wWhich is not St. Paul and not
and not P ^ itu rg and not Spo^me: not an^îng
except in te^^y Buê-Montana.
I have felt it since I first lived here in young
sho^frrcked days, and I felt it when I lived away
from Butte: I feel it a l these n o w a y s to the ^ t s
of myîf.
I have no r ^ ^ n : but the contrery: to love Butte
as a townful of human fcin^.
I have no friends in it, no feel-of-friendsWp, no
human frien&ines.
And the sculpturesê of the outlying d ^ ^ te
and buês pushes and pr^res hurtmgly upon the
lonely and inttre^^w e gazer in êdy and Soul:
I knew it as child and girl and woman.
The gray -purple
There is nothing beniga, nothing eîghtoning—

no gentlen^ ^ no —in its ^CTen ^&uty. But
its influence on the sensitive spirit is
^ ^ ond any analytic power to gauge.
Its wondedul ^ ^ es human nervwoil
til the ^ wide eyes of the Soul grow brright—
fever-brright, light-brright, ^ w-brright—from denial
and unco^ ious prayer: involun^ tary . worship:
ho^ ^ ^ of the unsuppliant unhoping devote.
of ^ u t —-and ^ beca^ of a l its long-f^ ^ ^ ^
outsiden^ e s —mo^ urnful, ^ ^ utiful, m ^ ic , lavish,
madly-^ n ed, gray-purple—a f^ ascination beyond
p^ ra n ce or —I feel love for Bu^fe
288 Tbe ceU
To-morrow
HEN I wwas ttenty I wwas one ^ o n g
fi^nly, primiy closing âny Ilite
W different from eaeach other but
êach greenly in ^ ^ .
^faen I was th^ty the had b ^ r t in d ^ ty
worldly winds and the Those in
t ^ n tad s^^vided, losing ^ r e n ^ by the ^ f u l
but ^ ^ in g in shadowed truth by a round^wut road.
And they showed me my fates and in e v ^ ^ le n ^ ^
as in a broad tre k e d field but pîn to riew.
And thus I s e me in the s^^frided
a p i ^ of a normal woman.
a p i ^ of a child. .
a p i ^ of a ^poet.
a p i ^ of a ^ ^ i a n womm
a p i ^ of a wrte*.
a p i ^ of a jêster.
a p i ^ of a savage.
a p i ^ of something someway b ra w
a p i ^ of a student.
a patriotic Ameriran.
a lump of tiredness.
My ^rength is in knowing the evil from the gôod
and the false from the true in it.
My w ^knes is in wildly waveringly in^îng
Tbt w Mianfad cell 289
toward the f^M.
&cept for love of my country I am ardento, de-
tem inder, ^ ro ^ nger in my f^ ^ e s ^ than in any of
my ^ th .
290 Food and fire
To-morrow
THEInrectJohn K
herLUty in
io n. iseat s m
m y
y lif
fai
is erh iJohn
n som K
e eats.
resur
W
tand i t hout John
hinglostbroken, K eats
mena^ hum an naê
uns^^Îy f^k to be som
dîîl e
e
lsun ightaghi —
sbreak l ost
ôsin the shade.
and refleWctit
h
th eJohn K
bluing eats
yelthe
o w
n fromit
eyes
shThereingh world-and-h^^n whiît
y hair.
and foreheads and and
m e th in k ^wut and
Binrifanttishrygalatow^mysburg:
to dw el on: N at h
s: the ofPic^V,t’pris^nfederate an H al eon the
kiprinsgson:andÎ^ men,busat^^ncourt : ^Îotte n
ce
^rdsyam ong
in
wstrange ârd: Sheroi w it
h
^ Bc.splAntendor his felo n
hony^h-aalwf-inom an m ade
^
ander H
^
am ilt
o n: A rnol d
—
W in kehied: er^^l
the e: A
in &
sea-w lex
om
Pines.lgrimwomen^^^^-kingintobît Nov^^^-
Those
and thil
brave thm
in e
gs
^ beca^
fu U of th
i
^
dey
^^tic brave
t
o mf ic ^t f
e:
but th ey are m ade
wthorlinkd-stofuffJohntheyKeatares: andof very
mereathum struî
an n
fabrig-garbl
c til ed
—
oncetheygrow
— I
in-
Food and fire 291
and
In his ^ ht the di aled world b^ rc and glows!
John Keats! John KeatsI—
^ther have Nightingales and
U ^ and Sonnets and ^ ^ t h -an d -P îon
but be ^ rote them in his glorious and ^ wistful
He ^rote the h ^ ^ ^ e s of his spirit into his
d&eate ^ ^ ten-gold v^se: the p^ dous fevers of his
mental v^ra: the bon^^& es and m u ^ ^ e s of his
thoughts: the ^ -hng skin-damps and palm-damps of
his ^ w ne faney:—— in the Song of his ^ e d youth.
There is no but w râ his out of i n e r
A vails and ^ imrase ^ wistfuln^. But they a l
write just ^ ide their trava l, not in it: just ^ ide
their ^ wistfulnes not it. A who f^ is the
^ ^ t of his soul ^ i n g and swolien and s hamed
^ ^ ^ ^ n ot just ^ ^ t ^faal diphth^ ^ not t il an
other time: but ^ ^ e a d the fine s m ^ ering of a
ho^ perrh a ^ the oblique suff<ratingg of a love.
A ^ * t whose brrain-^m ds throb some ho^&le
duleet-ish from ^m îng the heavy bright
to ls of his wr^ the f o bbing of his
brain-soles and brain-^ ^ ^ from wal^ king s^ a l
odd ^ d ru^ od ^ rfy ways.
It ro^ es me—it heats my ey^ ^ fc with talty
honeyed w^ armth as I read: but it is not John Keats:
who wrw r his own imm^hate sicknes in
292 Food and fire
sudden obvious bl^ ood-w^ ro golden Now!

It is always old, old-fashioned alm m t, wom of
The drowy ^&e of the Nigh^ ^ ^ e ^ goes a
tho^ ^ d y^ ro ^ back and a tho^ ro d y^ ro to come:
the t restles of a tho^ ^ d tho^ o nd Nightin-
one for ^ each who in any age, a l ^ ages.
Long, long r after the j^ eeled la^âge is
gone, as Homer’s, Keats’s Nigh^ ^ ^ e wwil
fluêr Iyrio-ran^ri in the n^ ^ u jeweled lovely
Now.
“Weep for Adoras,’ waled the dffierently-Iovely
Sheley, ‘he is d^ ead’ But he isn’t d^ ^ He is
^rctery I^ ing, passionately living.
& .ch day of my life I feel ^m Iîng. He breathes.
He breathes el^ to me, pantingly, ^ e a s ^ ^ m er
b^ ^ ^ g waves or a playing child in a summer day.
—John Keats!
Jutt feneath My Skin. he is my ^ ed-of-the-World,
my F ^ t h and my Lover. He has b e n my Lover
for soven gold y^ ^ .
He is the fim ^ ^ uty in my flawed futile life. He
is the most b e .utiful thing in the ^ rog and dying
world. John Keats—John Keatsl—
In everyone eke I can feel îned moti v e tough
tangled silk thieada of self woven into w ondûl
wefts of days and d^ eeds: in from I^ miot
to To^ ^ u s L’^ vr t ^ e , from J^ ^ e d’^rc to
Food aandfire m
Vi ^ m W^ ^ u l , from Paul of Tarsus to ^ r a n

B ur.
^nly John Keats ^ nds out alone, a true-brea^ thing
P^ ^ an I^ ost H^ r t bl^ ^ g outward.
The lyric ^ poet is the true The lyric ^ poet
achieves no end in his ast. He tu rn f r agments of
light and life into of ^ » uty and sends them
flying f o ^ on ^ ^ n g word-^ ings which translate
the smooth human flesh they brush-by into delicious
flesh-of-gold, flesh-of-po^^, flesh-of-fire! But he
^ ^ e s no morals, ^ ^ A es no I^ esns, finishes no^m g.
It’s as it should be. Nothing u finished. The
mixed world is a l unfinished, a glorified ^ ^ ta k e.
The race is a milionfold M^teke: lives it, breathes
it, battens on it^ ^ ^ ^ e l y and finely and lamentably
and musicaly and bravely. So that a l ^ poetry
w hi^ wanders from the lyric is only a play or a
picture or an a i r s ^ or a ea^ which at Jail-
M^mpli, a^^hing an object: it is and man-
made: its beauty is Iop^ d off like boughs and
branches a^ ’ a storm: its ^ ings are elip^ ped Its
d^&nceles s p a ^ ,and lar^ are visibly
engineered by mathematic bands But the lyric
is the true luminous and bl^ oody inteterpreting
of humaaness.
John Keats ^ rote by the lights of his living and he
lived a l his days in joyous lîc anguish.
294 Food and fin
f o re he ‘Ever’ let the Fancy PI ^ ^ w

^ ^ e r is at home.’ It is a of ——w-
r ^ ^ and non^ ^ ^ ^ ^ in the ^ ined
world , It is every^ body—
^ ^ & : every^ ^ y. He ^ rote it in a hun^ dred other
ways. but it is a l in that: it is the l^ c eptome of
evevery day. Pl^ ^ r n never is a t home.
And 'Heard m e le e s ^ he 'but
those unh^ d are sw^ te r—
There ^ k e the wild delicate of his brain
and the ^ pasionate delicate wonder of his h^ r t .—
John Keats! Joba Keats!
But ev^ ^ h in g he wro^ the G^ ^ a n Um ^ itself,
is immo v ably le s lyTO ^ than it
and being it.
He is rieli bright-wet I^living lîc for this Me in this
Now though he has în dead in Rome nearly the
ful hundred y^ ears
My garbled life and my thinking h^ ^ e r feed upon
him.
He was the one human one who walked on in the way
before him: not around the ja^ ^ l i t e stones and
icy little ^w is that were in it: but strai t on
through them a l though his lyric feet were ^ liverng
shuddering sensitive, sens^we beyond knowledge
of commoner feet that walk around.
It fattens my I^ est self to kk e that in my co^ ^ u t
Food aandfire 295
remembrance.
The thought of his brave r a ^ n t Iovelines ^ ^ ures
me to myself, by the hour.
I am futile: but be is mysteriously o^ ^ t e n tly
useful and I catch some of it from him.
I am half-full of vanfy: but he is of a I^ ^ u s p r i ^
Ies v^ anity^ that ji f f i es mine and a l the
world’s.
I am fearing and false: but he is so brave, so ^ e
to f o ^ that by it he leavens the lump of the
whole world’s mendacious cowardice.
My brrain is full of wilding ^ k n ^ e s snarled and
kno^ edand penchants: but into bis strong
brain the ^rong fresh yelow ^ in-wwashhed sun shines
s t r ^ h t down—t rough the wide t win-brightnes
of his E ^ . I look down his Eyes— public
w e l (he belongs publicly and prfrately to a l
îned mad world, and anyone may look!—)—1 look
into that ttonic ^ r a n t brain, and ^ ine catches
some of it: a blest and p^ dous o ^ a rare
My H^ r t —my H^ r t f^ eels strange and têd and

dead, a bit of dead^ ea f^ rt: but bis hea^ warm
and ^ al and boundlesly unratis fi^ is always
the deep quick fr^ a n t Rose of World.
A Hero!—a P^ ^ ata ^ r e !—John Keats!
'He has ou^ ^ ^ r f the shadow of our night,’ ^rote
296 Food andfire
that Shelley, and OTote no truer word.

I have read so many of the strange and splendid
thin^—bits of them: Vergh and Homer and Vfflon
and ^ ^ h e and a l the En^kh and p^rose
w r^ro like ûfyle who in out-^poet —
and m o d ^ e r ones and the new and
others: John Keats feek a n o ti^ ^ ly braver th^&
and always, always a way beyond. He is
purely lyric.
When he loved a woman he loved the dubious
fascmating Fanny Brawn—sordid-braêd, worldly:
to him a mined de^^h-glowing ^rid^&
A ingher-souled woman would nether have so
tortwed nor so held hm . He wwas prcely l ^ c .
He '^ e d truly n o t^ g for the v ^ d i ^ of ermes
and reviewers: and in the OT^fr-^ped b o ^ h
^&uty of his youth they truly and ^ H y ^ e d
It would be Ilikee that—it had to ^ He wwas so
purely lyric.
He died in the OTswe fiere dazzling e a ^ of beauty.
I have so many thoughts and my thoughts are always
my own. There ^ endles wr^ten thoughts d e e ^
^than îne—finer, ^ o n ^ , an^hing-you-like. But
mine answer for me: no wr^ten thoughts affect
them, though they theil my reading hours, ûly
John Keats’s thoughts enter in and and
eripple mine.
Food and fire 297
every^ body is a l i t e bit ^ e John Keats

I have a ^ edge of faith inside me. He is
ftood for my hungar of th o ^ ht, fire for my ^ pasion
of life.—John Keats!
He is the resu r urion and the life.—
From my desk he at me in a frame of old-gold.
Every day the s^ ^ ^ on the g ! ^ b lra his
m o ^ u l joyous eyes whh a g o ^ ed su^ t
^ r a : he shows me the ^ swe intoxication of
his lyric grief.
He died young, unfihished—and oh, but it’s a
s ^ ^ r a g ^ ^ ^ y to think of a l those lyries in ^ m
he never wrote!—the melodies—‘U n h ^ d.’
298 The edge of mist-a^-ttfw
To-morrow
IDDEN somewhere in the inra&Ie
H air-plateaus is a
has never ^ b e bom.
mine: who
A tenet in me is that a woân by evevery bright and

by old law should, if she ^wil, have her ûld
—should bo the w ^m -în^ri mother.
I am a d^rf and a fa n ^ y , a and a wand^w
in fields of inv^red fungi: so I sem to me. I do
not know my status—I but know my
incidents as they happen. But I am dso woân:
a woân by T erence and by fect. wo^man
I am the potential mother, mother of my ^ ^ d who
has not ^ b e bom.
I feel myself a fining mother.
I am ^ ^ y in ^ g o health—if not robust yet doable.
as a mother should bo: I am always t^ r f as if from
touelies and weights of living as a loving mother
should bo: I am w ^m of bl^d, Iatendy s a v ^ ^
^ t h e d a j^Îe-mother, dea&ier ^than the
male, as a brave mother should ^ Thoûgh I have
no ûld I have an andent right in my and I
want my Child. My ^ ^ d u, but has not
born. Merely, to want my Ûld makes me a
mother.
My ^ ^ d often is âler to me ^than ^boks I ^read
Tbe rige of mist-a ^ & ltm 299
and walk I take and the friend who me
fr^ u e n t Ie U ^ .
Sometoes my ^ ild is a soft pink boby smelling of
rain-water, milk and flowers: lying cl^ to h e
cuês of my b^ ^ t e in the hollow of my
f^ ^ g Soft ins ^ ^ t ^ & y hunger and fooding soft
strrag ^ ^ g hunger of my ^^ in g mother-lipe—
More often my Û ld is a l i t e happy-vo^ ed felow,
my smal brave boy t^ r e y^ ears old: he clings to my
s^ r t ^ ith his ^ ^ e t tiny ^m d as we huu r along a
frosty pavement in an early ^ ^ ^ b o r mo^m g .
We live in New York in a common ^ e t
a^ ^ m ent and are gra^ u l y p o r, and I work in a
fastory for a ^ weUy wage for the ^ r a g of my
feUow and me. Every day in the early mo^m g
we go out to a comer takery to buy a long m sp
loaf of Frenth b^ read for b r a t t ^ And in the
morning my h^ r t confraets with a sort.
of happines and a sort of grief at the sound of little
feet in stout shoes yet frail shoes pa^ ^ ing-pa^ ^ in g
gaily along t a ide me on the frosty ^ ^ ^ nes. We
out ^m d-in-tand—his s^ mal ^m d is wonder
fully and ^ rie —but p^ rcntly I let go his hand
as we h^ ur alon& to feel it ^ ^ a n tly clutch the
folds of my work-s^ r t : it puul and at my
w^^bonds and my H^ eart toc her with
swswenes that makes me athe from head to foot.
300 The edge of mist-and-silver
'Mother, w ^ ’ he says in his happy voice, 'wsit

for me.* But I h u ^ Always I h u ^ filter
when my happy brave l i t e felow mes ‘W ^
mother, * for the ewswe feel of that at my
mother-sknt—
More ofen my is the l i t e girl m y^ra old
of the shy eyes and the sun-^êd ^hair and the
fom ^child-mouth, ful of high temper and ^ o n g
M over her is need and d ^ ^ ^ d of her mother
to ^ ^ d and adore and therish her moment
of her life. We ^ ^ ^ ^ e r in a c o u n ^ field
r a k - ^ ^ in it, and pop^ra, and ^&ies and blu^^fe
and other field-flow^^ and it is o,w grown ^with long
fragrant wild g r ^ . The noonday sun is
bright-hot and I bring my Child there to her
^hair, for I have newly washed it with a of
whhite soap and a por^kin bluebird fowl: the feel
of her s ^ a l round wliful h ^ d was maCTelo^y
f ^ ^ g in my cupped ^mda. She wandders ôund
in the ho^b^ghtaes through the g r^ ^ g a th e r s
the herdy ^ n t l e s field-flowere ^with her
brown fingere, and she shakes hack her ^&utful
thick short damp enris. I sit on a flat ^ n e like a
Siora ^ a w and w a ^ her. The g r ^ brahes her
hare le^: the m ^ c sun maed a faint
breze plays upon her hesd: the tragic d e ra te
music of ^Îing poplar leaves comes down from
edge of mist-and-silm 301
^ ^ to p s and catches her in a f a ^ song-net. She
is always very new, very in^ ^ ^ le, my Hhild.
She looks t o w ^ me her shy radiant eyes and
^ e s a ^ 'Mother, look, my is nearly
Her is and heavy. In my
suUued ^ ^ e r - ^ o m I know it w il not be dry
for an hour. I feel the ^ m p of her rheu ^Û y
k e n a l over me: a forme to
her from: a dear ^ m ^ : an a n ^ t mother-note
in the long h^ ^ w ^ rn ut of sounds.
—it is p^ dous ^ ^ ^ n g colorfol romance to
be her mother: ^ each motherl y holds gold-and-
blue fo^ ^ ^ ^ : ^ each mther-^ y holds ^ in
r a ^ ^ t gold^ d-purple sorrows: each mother-
day holds ^ de gold-and-^ ay incessant and
^ rolute: an ^ ^ t h of ^ a uty: no mr a but
no le s ^ than the damp of her in the noonday
field. My ^ ^ d l —h ^ ^ ' inâ n nt and ^ ^ Iu te :
^ ^ m p^ palptont gold-of-my-life-—
Someway ^ aler ^ than ^rnks I r a d and w^ ks I
tetake my ^ ^ d ^ raors to be bem.
My ^ d never be bem to any ^ oth' woman.
^ While she hovers and flu^ ers on the ^ edge of
and-Silver—a berfer ^ ——there ^ ten ^ ^ o n
f^ tfe hot ^ k- t e m ng ^ rfes of wo^ en ^ each
^ ready to gaÔT her in and ^ n p her in de r a te *
sweet f l ^ . Ten. milion ho ^ ^ n g
3 0 2 The edge of
on the e^ ^ off into the ten milion matrix-
woman mysteriously a toing mother
so only she wants her ^ ^ y—though she be, beside
a tinef or a traltor or a êaUing or a murderer or a
harlot or a ^ n ^ d or a fool.
them come, the ten ion. The ^ ^ ^ a lid
^ ul^ dren ^ ^ ^ o r ^& ^ ^ o rin g always for their
birth: a wide 'melody u êard .’
But my ^ ^ d never ^ p over the ^ edge to any
woman but me. She rails with veiled and ^ ^ lin g
of for her Birthday: but she will
await my made-readines through a long night,
though it should til the day-break of another
Dmily I weep for her, my needing-me Child. I weep
that she must come to rithly^ ^ e d me. But I
weep more that I have not got her in sterile
now, where is flawed ^ pasionate wealth of in ^g ib le
life-rtuff: but no small round wilful head of ^hair to
wash: no litle fellow’s feet on M em ber fla^tones
and sweet dr^ agng at my skirt: no soft pink-^ &y
hunger—
It is hunger I feel from her. I feel her always
bu n ^ where she is and I can give her no nourishing
'—no w^ ming/ood in a l my strange unfertile ^ pasing
life!
It is that le s than my empty that m^ e s
blurred unr^ts and writhings in my Dreaming Wo^ b .
A ngbt shape aand sue 303
To-morow
OMCTIM K I fancy me m ^ i ——a re-
^ ^ & Ie wtfe, a ho^ ^ e e ping matron:
my ^ indow^ ^ ful of po^ ed plants.
I have a wo^ an qualty which sem s Moresque:
I am someway a ^ ight Shape and Size to be some-
^ body’s wife. My ^ bodily and ^ ral dimensions
have outlines apparently s^ ^ L Ie for something in
the ^ ^ ied-woman way.
^ be wild piquance of being myself—who but for
^ fre me sanenes would be mad—r^w up and
s^ rahes that concept.
But a Right Shape and Size I involuntoHy
• • •
^ ^ ^ e it.
n ^ ^ ^ y I ^ ^ ^ e a flat in the West ^ venties in
New York, or a bungalow on the J^ ^ y side, or
a middle-sêd ho^ in a middle-s^ ed town in Middle-
West I ^ o ——whichever ^ ight happen—with me
set ^ w idlly down in the midst of it like a s^ ^ l e
^ ^ ^ t in a sui^ l e nut. S^ ^ l e n ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ iicaly
op^ ^ d to Romance, is its keysote.
I fancy me w^ ^ n g ^w ut my ÔTied ho^ morninga
^ te r breatfast in a neat linen and high-heeled
satin slip^ r e : snipping dead leaves off my window-
sffl plants, dusting bits of por ^ ^ n , giving my maid
some tsme household di^rtions. My êdy looks
304 A right shape aand
slender and supple and newly-^ ra ie d and in-th ^

&a ^ ing in the linen ho^ ^ ^ ^ s . The ^ » mstric
me s a ^ S^tion
as being anproved theorem. I go to the
telephone to oeder some ^ We N^& clams and some
vem outh for ^ diner, and a and some
sprouts and the A ^m M in^ of a
and in it I am iâin ed ly domestic, ^ ^ ^ u ly
^rcful, a strong pfflar of the vast ^ go nice world.
^tem oons I go out to a m^ ^ t e ’s to fit a go^ , or
to a mild bri^ ^ p a ^ along other s ^ ^ I e
women, or to a matinee with a su^ ^ le ne ^ ^ w r.
Eve^thing is ^ perfectly right in my insides and in
my thoughts: my thoughts in tr o ^ ha
in whi^ there is no le a ^ ^ or deviation, thoughts
of a ^ radful nicenes thoughts w hi^ ever p ^
sup^ ^ po^ ed plants on my ^ indow*^ .
Eveninings I go out my h^ ^ a n d, or sit around
with my husband, or ^ take leave of for a few
hours at the door.
My husband would be the sort of ^ an that is ^ ^ ed
a ^ ttut. And he would have ^ ^ rie d me not
for my w is tf^ e s or wick^ ines or we^ fa e s but
for that I am a proper Shape and S ^ withh a smooth
proper covering of flesh, to make a su^ ^ le s^ ^ le
wife. And he would be a heavy grappling anchor
to hold me fast in an ^ a n of domestimes.
Men of the genus &out are a l fiereely alike.
A right sbape and six 305
A l women, no matter what their genus, are excep

tions to the ^ e . But men—r i d men, me^
^ ^ ^ -men, thieves: so only they are ^ » uts
—are of ^ ^ ^ ous sammen ^ . It comes from the
want of minute lifelong pinpric^ kingcare of ^ petcoats
and poêd pknts—a di aled intensely ^ ^ nal
sort of pain which touches dull solid tones of in-
divid^ ^ ty ^ h w id various spots of color.
Men are made in 'job lots’ like their own cravats.
TOeir cravats dlffer in and color and
qealt y and price. But ^ h one is i^m tely nechie.
Use it as a or a touraiquet or a d a ngler’s
n^ e: it is a Oman’s deadly necWe. Its ^ may
be ^ ined but its nnecf o i^ e is d e a ^ e s . & ^ t
^ —and perhaps scien^ ——men are themselves
that. TOey eacanot get away from the Adam.
Nor ^can women get away from the Eve. But Eve
was not a but a somewhat pl^ ^ m t hu^ an
e^ mble. ^ ^ l e was a and a sufficiently
nosty one: a roêr and a welcher: doubtles the
^ » ut of his day.
A ^ Go Scout is the sort of ^ an who if a woman
^m with one one-hun^ edth of her h ^ rt
teke the whole h^ r t and and haêr it:
and ^ read the paper and smoke his p ^ and pay the
b i l : t r e ndy unaware.
is beside the point in thk For in
a l my m ariîne s is a t ^ g of outer Shape and
306 A right shape aand
Size and Su^Îenes. The edd but natwul

is that I an e x t e n t wile. & ^ e n t is the
word. I k e p a neat h o ^ with no dust 1^ in the
comers and no dead leaves on the peêd pknts.
My husband is wwel looked rafter as to breatf^te and
dianers and ^bodly comfo^ and I am r^ d ly ^ ^ e
with him and c ^ ^ ^ y true to him.
If, some ^ n m im e , as I sit s p r i t e him in a soft
p ^ tty ^ ffo n gown, my êret thonghts o v ^ w
their troughs and I ^pasonately fo ^ ^ the peêd
p ^ t s and the window-sil and want horftly to
rize up and b l^ ^ ly murder my h ^ ^ n d for ^rng
such a ^ttu t: that would be a genainely
powerles maêr, a cobw^ trffle, com^^rd with
my artral petent Shape and Size wWhich are so
su ab le for a wife.
I make ttruly and simply an excoUent wife.
—by ^God and my Soul^d-benes! it would be
hon^ter, finer, sw^ter—more to be the
^ ^ ^ -w o ^ a n in the ^p^^
But it’s facHely fancied ^because I am of îght
Dramsions to be some ^&ut’s wife.
A ^ ious s ^ tly phfaled world: in it my Shape and
Sice, and my Weight which is ^so Rght, could
betray me into being an excellent wife: and by that
a lying chattel, an in ^p r^resy woman.
I & w ter, cm osioe (wid and b^ rnnfaeatb 307
To-morrow
Â VE love for two to^ra. One is Butte
I that I tiredly love inside me. And the other

is New York that I smoothly love ^ h a l my
surf^ aces.
It is some y^ra—a lump of y^ ——since I
have s e n New York: and it is two thou&nd miles
away. So I s e and feel its ^ d sweet lurid mng-
netism now ten ^mes ^ than when I lived in it.
But I felt it sudden and s h ^ at every then.
A s ^ a c e emotion whith hits one’s flesh and spreads
wide over one’s is more ex^ to g ^ than a spirit
emotion whihich piere s inward at one tiny point:
an ice shower-bath on the white skin is more anguish
ing ^ than an i^ w a to ^ m k doown the red t ^ w t.
The spirit emotion lives longer and works more
^ ^ ^ g e and buries ^ itself at in proud shaded
soul-^^CTes. The surface emotion stays always on
the surface and lives aîvely in the front of one’s
seroes and musings.
The feel of New York is a mtaure of i^ w a ta , a
corrosive add and human breath swceping someway
w^ mish one’s flesh.
It is immensely ungentle, New York: imme^ d y
h^ a n : imme^ ly intr^ ^ g to a l one’s selves.
It is t o big to have prejudices and traditions of
308 Ice-u>atery corrosive acid and human breath
so it leaves its dwalers by ones and

m ultitude to be huân b e ^ ^ .
In South fend and Tol^fo and ^doh and St. Paul
and a l the ^ ^ d to^re they m irier
you "^with ^^row nes and ^rehnnes and ranrorous
il-wil: they are ^ w ^ ^ y annoyed ^with you for
making thOT m irier you.
In New York they mmder you ^with a tage soft
wave of in h e re n t insolence—no annoyan^ no
friôn. New York eats you as it eats its ^ m e r,
rather I i ^ g you.
And my love for New York is êde of :a
ra d e of : a plaisanceof 1 ^ ^ .
I New York a r e t f ^ e s for
varied in it: s ^ w a ^ and F o u ^ Avenue
and the ^wer, and FW i Avenue on a suany ^ctoher
a^m oon, and the statae of Na^than ûle, and old
dow nto^ b a l ^ ^ , and the soft
whelming er^m y fr^ a n c e from
the Huyler factory -in Ict^ P^ce. And m ^d y
I like it for the people in it—People—P^sons-—
People: they are h ^ ^ m b e ^ ^ .
In the Uand to^wns people are ^tf-afrafd of
thoughts, ^half-afraid of w o ^ ^half-afraid
of êach other, ^half afraid of the fact of
h^^m .
In New York they are not afraid of any humanness.
Ice-watcr, corrosive add and human breath 309
Even when they ^ in th^ ^ e lv es eraven-cowardly,

cow^ dly eno^ ugh to then^ own stom a ^ ^ they
then1humanness ^ i^rfuly f^ ^ utward
like up ^ m ed f^ acesof a of
An I^ ^ rn or^m^ inder ^ in^ding out his loud
fi^ ce mroic in a long d ^ p New York sid^ ^ ^ r t is
a huân or ^ ^ -^ in der: he his ra s^ d
melody widely on every^ d y in ear-sho^ not
individ^ ualy—since a l ^ u nd ^ m is a sprea^ng
world of rtra n ^ ^ ^ ^ ut jointly. So it f^ ^ lik e.
A ^ ^ ^ -wo^ an at a subway-ennttance with a
whine and a face and the d^ ^ y bk ^ cape
and chiên<^-copith ^ ^ ^ ^ dor is a h^ ^ m
wo^ ^ She out an in e r savor of h^self
like a soiled aura on a l coD^ ^ e l y who ppas her.
^ ^ -and-al of New York by tol^ ^ ng and o^^ng
her ^ ^ ^ e s of her m^ huân ^ e s re .
A stou^h^ ^ e d wom-^ ^ e d Jew f^ actory ^ l
working a t a ^ hardIlite ^ ^ ^ e day r after
day gives a l New York her bit of young ^ r t ue
which is hardy and heroic and uu w ^ : the whole
Island of I^ ^ n e s and rice has an of
imp^ ^ ^ Ie s^ p rising sordid purity on
SKes and of ^w r do^ ra -a-wwek.
A l of it is ^ beca^ New York is one C onxion
made of human breaths and the worn sorapings of
tired Youth rather ^ than one town made of
3 1 0 ^CTrciw acid aand b u ^ n
individuals and stone ho^ra.
And in that is an odd enc^mtment for me who ^
bom and grown in the places of.âlf-fear- wwith an
old isolated whole fear always on me.
In New York I am a of that smôoth
of hu^^mess as I am of the air and the sunshine
and the b ta k specks of r o a l- ^ t: from
d o i ^ ^ ^ y w ily -n il, ^ ^ y in the ^^sping
unanal^ble pel-mell-nes or massed h ^ ^ m n a ^ e .
And it is in New York I have ththose tthings
of a l: huân friends^pa. Not many f r ie n ^ ^ ^
and not of spent f ^ ^ ^ m e s : for I don’t ^ e actual
hu^ an t o much ^ u n d me. But yet friend-
s h ^ ^made of the ^ês of thoughts and vivid pathos
and p ^ ^ ^ t odds and ends of n ^ o u s human
flesh and
It is in New York I go to the a^rtm ent of a Friend
at the end of an a^m oon. In the a^rtm ent ^
some having men and women. The
Friend gr^ts me at the door. She w ^ ^ maybe
a of thin dark and light silk, sh a^^ in the
^ ^ in t ou^wdish fashion of the hour. And she
staewd kindly eyes Ilike a Rembrandt p o r t r ^ and
a wom New-York-ish Latin-ish brain and hêart
both of which ^ ^made ofsparUe and the
vvery plain red meat of living. She says, 'Helo-
Mary-^kc-Lane,’ and âspe my hand, aand we
lce-êr, wid and burnn Inertb 311
e x c h a ^ a glance of no ireal undemanding at a l

but warned chalenge of ^perso^halfty,
and an oblique sweet of depth to depth, and of
friendsMp w hi^ by mere force of preference and of
our operate and califce is true rather ^than
f ^ e . So dose and no closer may friendship be.
And frdsdsh^, ^with-al is closer ^than any love.
It is the clêst h ^ ^ m ever come to meeting.
In a New York dooroay I, made in bread lonelines
of self, get suddenly companion-warmed at the little
p l^ ^ n t t ^ ^ ^ fire of someone ^ ^ .
It might be so in some other town, even Beloit,
but it feels only like New York to me.
I go in the room where the othera are and they say,
‘Hcllo-^^ty-Ma^Lane,’ and I drink some tea and
^ te n and in fr^ ^ e n ts of half-meanings. And
I get warned and half-warmed and cooled and
slightly scorched in the êaseful unevenly-heated
humanness of the women and men siting around.
In the inland to^wns they theow their thoughts and
i d ^ at you at tea-time, inland thoughts and ideas,
w hi^ hit you and then drop off ^ e pebbles
and nuts and herd greon apples.
In New York they throw t h ^ ^w gs in the form
' of long r&bens, heated from being worn nert their
s^n, which fly out and w ap around your skin:
pl^^m tly or foofchly or fancifuly.
312 Ice-water9 corrosive acid and human breath
The point of it is that no^riy is afrald of that.

It is northing f^ffling, northing satisf^ g . It is
m ^dy h^^m . It is half-lyric.
It ^ûress me as a it makes me feel huân
in a l my s u r f a ^
^ to h ^ ^ ^ k e , in ^than
any d ^ ^ t d r e ^
And it is therrfore ^ h a l my s u r f ^ ^ s m w ^ y
and restfuly, I love New York.
313
To-morow
N
OW and I ^ in k I catch some W th by
the sweaeat of its
I readd the êa^tades in the &rmon

on the Mount and feel their ^ t h in the blôod-
sweasweaing tune of their ^ y t h ——
able and
The prophet înist believed himself diroe and was
al in his u^rances: and so sounds ^ e
as the tcheme of dl^îon and the laws of hygrene.
He seld, B l^ e s are they ^w t m o rn: for they s^dl
be c o ^ o ^ e d
Evvery^^y who has tried it knows that to be ^ e
the flawles ^ t h of health and
ilnes.
frightfully a day and the n ^ day wil be a
day of sothed warmth and quiet like a grateful
pMul heat current in the b^reast. M o^n a week
and that come the week foUowing. M o ^ a
year and the n ^ year be the year of
For ^ ^ ^ h : For ^&ee: It n ^ w
f^ .
The ê a t lacking inthe of
humor, his perfect ^ ^ n a l Rh^&m.
Humor oddly wants R h ^ m . The huân r ^ is
^made in its beating hêart but humor
is an Every^body is so ful of lies
humor, an ‘ ’ always wonderfuly a p ^ ^ ^ n g
and out of ^^ron, and inexpli^cably ^God-giv^
feels Ilikee a greaeat key&one of the r ^ . So it is:
hut in a lying r^x. And ^Christ in his ^&u^W
dual role lack humor. As a ^God come among
the h^ran râce to save it, knowing it as he dM: his
m ^ u r d e s worldly w ô m being paramount wen
to his gentlenes: his mind and his ^personal tenor
could be set only in i n t e ^ torific gloom.
The Rhythm in the Beatitudes is equal Rhythm or
sentt and ^ y th m of sound: Rhythm of music and
Rhythm of m^îng. Equally, half and hhalf.
The mo& Rhythm thing in it is: Bleêd we the
in h ^ rt: for they s ^ ^ s e ^God.
I feel it soft-pricking just under my skin.
—Rhythm and ^ ^ y !
I have r ^ ^ it many times since I was a cchild: til I know
it in my brain, in my Soul, in my hands, in my b r ^ ^ in
my throat, in my forêad, in my gray eyes, in my
ing left foot. I know it and feel it by its Rhythm
There is harharous j^face in it. It cuts w ^ ^ d y
off from seeing ^God.
P ^ e in h ^ ^ I take to mean pure in motive. A
fool an ^^nce with a philo^pher: a ^harot
with a ho^^thief: a nasty rng-picker with a smsmal
cchild. But none is pure in motive.
W other I don’t j u ^ . But me I know to be
315
murderously u n - p ^ of
If I could open a window or unl^& a ddor ouly
the simple mechanical m otre in the act— But I
^ ^ ’t. There’s a romantic imp^rty in even the look
of my hand as it touês the ^ in d o w ^ h or the door-
key. There’s a ^CTasive delicate infraion of i m p ^
motive a l over me, Soul and bones, as I ^perform the
art. It is one in the N e c U ^ whichh ^God Um-
eelf b e ^ ^ e d on me so long ago.
It is not my fault ^ u t I am. un-pure in h ^ rt.
And it is not ^God’& It is a comfort to me ^ u t I
^ ^ n out that it is not God’s fault. He knew
I needed the and each blue-grcen ^ n e in
it to r h ^ e and m^ In the wMe su^ris-
îngnes ofthe unw^so wwil be r h ^ e d and
In me, being sav ^ ^ y comply that bal-
ancingtok abitof doing: hence my unusual Necklace.
It com fo^ me that I that analytic point.
It leavves me a conriôn that êd is w o ^.
seing.
And if a day da^wns for me when I o^m a door
^ h no ultoinr motive: ^thin^ng only of the door
and the fine s ^ a l power of smooth ^md
and supple OTta ^ven me to o^m it: ^thin^ng only
that I want to get the door o ^ » : then ^ k of
door I know I s^half s e ^God!
I t is so written in that barW ous bl^ri-swea^ting
worldly on the Mount.
316 A prayer-feeling
Tco-day
O it is fihished: and I have oddly Faled.
S I have slyly Su^^ded and oddly Failed in

equal d ^ r e .
I have Failed I am t o cow^dly and t o
wesk and t o dishonest to write c e ^ in b ^êd and
Îf-acoraing p^ces in my Soul and in my
and in my M nd which ^ h tly come in the scope of
this:- there we the S^m and ^ tir a te Voices one
one’s ngamrt: there are the îm y
A etuîes one dsops from one’s hands: there ^
the Thoughts one Not ^kink. Yet and yet:
they t o we in it, hanging c o b ^îsh on my w o ^ ^ ^
and colons.
It is not a ^ o n g tale, and that' is vvery wwel.
^wk is less I-writen than it is I-myself. And Just
&neath The Skin no ^^& n is ^ o n g : not Th^dore
R ^^v elt, true fearles ^meriean: not S o n a p ^ ^
splendid ^ a n t : not Joan of ^rc, t ^ ^ c
They are strong in then1depths and &rong on the
outside. So we many others. So am I, I
But just under the skin a l who we human ^
roundly w ^ ^
Roundly w ^ ^ wery one.
And with that, in my F^re.
p r ^ ^ 2 y is the pieture of one who is
A prayer-feeling 3*7
F^ r c F^ k from her fin^ ^ ^ to her inner a ^
It is ^ ^ k e ^ because of that that as ^ itself, ^ d y

F ^
It is as it I have ^ made a p o ^ a ir not of Me, but of a
R o m I have just My Gloves are left on a
^ chair: my f o t is ^ on a couch: my ^ ^ m -off
Shr a are left on the floor: my fond-
is ^ p ^ d by the ddor: my round
is han^ g on theMoor-knob: my Breath is in
the air: my G r ^ is on the wals rtinpng likee smoke:
my flat is on the ^ ^ ^ ^ -leaves in the win
dow: my f^ ^ r a tH o ^ ^ e s in the
I am not there! But 1—J baoe just
I have ^ ^ y Su^ ^ ^ ^
My a t my ^rnk '^ n d is a p ra ^ -f^ ^ ^

both frantic and quiet: ^ God have m^ ^ on met
but not ^ e s you want to. .
And I feel bar^ rous and utterly so^ ^ ^ , so^ ^ ^
from hareto Jericho, so^ ^ ^ from heretothe^ l
There co^ es off the grim gray a soft
whel^ ^ of S^ ^ ^ bl^ oody and ful of hu^ ma
^^TOWS.
And I feel a need of Pain or ^ grea Sin to
and ^ ^ and b o m

Mary Maclane I Mary Mclane A Diary of Human Days

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Mary Maclane I Mary Mclane A Diary of Human Days

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I , ^M A R Y M Ac^L.

A DIARY OF HUMAN DAYS

FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY

A.I ri"" r« ^ ^ , ^^^mg lial oflraaslalhtiolt

TOe sky is moun^tains

a ^ religieuse and I’m like an outlaw.

It is my flaim to out that in the ^ ^es of this

One’s thonghts are one’s most crucial advventures.

I t ^ g but one I should ask ^ m would be.

^This Butte is an incongruous fring-place for me.

and are d^yining, w ^ ^ ^ down,

I look in my m ^or. Some days I’m a delicately

— -the Spains— es— the ^^^m ^^the Isle of

is humidly hot. Then I don’t go but stay in the

M I which stopr^ringing long and long ^ o . U it

soddenest ^ ^ i n e s their fiery wings ‘pi^co the

I hates me when he me down alone.

There are times when my Lon^ines is a

I my inmost self1 in what I ponder and what I

and La Q ^ ^ W ^ ttu s in and tawling G ran-

shod daintily like a ^ ^ m in g girl’s. . My snails are

I And I need no more.

In whith two sentences I touch the crux and

bl^ oodedand strong-h^ ^ e d , to an over-guarded over­

theft or for^gery or whatever has trip^ ^ her. It

and since I ^ q ^ te vain. But no ^»ple are in

.To-clay was a leaden day. The air held a ^ a liry

There was a th^irten-year-old ^^rcn, as I wel

whole glimpse of London, mystic, D ickera^ue

had their toH of her. But rafter months, a year and a

I I tad a quainint dreaeam. I have jurt awakened

smiling so tranquily: not I siting musingly over­

The s ^ tis in g world is ful of non-anal^c

It has the owned sentientness of hone-and-flesh,

hopes, smooth skin as emotion and drops of

I have what ^goes withh a l artist-matter—long periods

And many good ^»ple visioned a

lies, though ^each in it is fair fact, I fail as_an

I am clothed in bedrom negligees and a

S Some dusks I sit by my window looking out

It is the titired murge of sex-tisues and n^^^e-cel

the desire, hot as live embers, cold as hail.

w^inged Bird. I know it. I know the values of my

on Mountain-su^^its and ^&-wavves purplle in a

I I loove them ^because they so my feet.

m^ancholy m ^^^^-toaed mountains at the north­

stone and W d n es of ground. And if my feet are

W bles 'for kceeeps,’ smoked litle pi^eces

T young lads stopped by the stone coping

‘1i.kee hel,’ Frank.

‘^Like hhel,’ ^ d Frank.

^Whch point I felt to be the top-note of the h ^ ^ ^

It is why my days go Swift when by rights time

it t o I say what’s-the-use. But it is a n^eed without

some rare ^ person, a l i t e les or more of another rare

T I most hate is Weaknes, of eash and

Truth is etrength nearly always: and not always.

it, or they were strong and got kiled trying to kep

of files, a sten^apher ^with an ^tf^^erate vvo-

and salubrious fla^ tteryand of app^ reciationand praise

In it he ^ tel me that my brain, ^in^t i l tly br^mnt

Which is another lie. No ^ posible man (^ ^ ^ t a

fear and caution and T erence and self-love—

bl^ oodedand strong-h^ ^ e d , to an over-guarded over

smiling so tranquily: not I siting musingly over

m^ancholy m ^^^^-toaed mountains at the north

comes t o often a tthrobbing frightful to feel, fright

A pubtic sohool is but a block from here. The ^ chil

She must have ^ ede a beautiful statue, a l in glisten

I The world is full of funny things. A l to my