VII
I was walking (you remember)
Slowly up the short drive to (shall I call it "our" ?) house,
Which was pleasantly old and shabby
But bright with new paint.
I took my bag and hat
And followed her into a room
Which I remember so clearly
I could bore you with a long description of it.
The floor was bare wood
With one or two coloured mats she had bought;
The furniture was old, rough French stuff
With a large new unpainted table of plain wood
Holding a huge bowl of spring flowers
And a litter of books and painting things.
There was a good Vlamnick over the hearth
With jus those large red smears I like,
And one of those Surrealiste pictures
She thinks she likes
And I try to think I like because she thinks so.
And there were a lot of cheap bright plates and bowls
Such as you buy in French village fairs...
All this I saw in a glance.
But I was still so bemused
I did not drop my bag and take her in my arms,
But stood there like an idiot
Or a good soldier, waiting for orders.
And the next moment it was too late,
For the middle-aged French woman-servant came in
Effusive with bon soirs
and madames.
And my love said: "Antoinette,
This is Monsieur who has come to stay here---
For a time."
(And she looked at me sideways with a smile,
Daring me to protest and say "For always,"
But I would not play at being politely gallant with her,
And I had always sworn I would never lie to her.
We had so much to learn about each other,
We had yet to know (though I never doubted it)
Whether we were really made to be lovers to each other,
For you may say ---and it's true---
There is far, far, more in love than the sexual act,
But if that is wrong all is wrong
And the lovers are not lovers;
Moreover, we cannot know the future
Nor how we shall feel even in a year's time.
It is madness to mortgage the whole future
Even in the delirium of love,For love is transitory as we are,
And it is dishonest to say "I shall love you always"
Even if we are convinced of it,
For time passes by, taking all good things,
And there comes a spring morning
And a note from the blackbird in the lilacs
And a glance from bright eyes,
And then what becomes of your "love you always"?
Only in spans of a few months do we live
And the lover of yesteryear is next year's friend.
So do not say "I love you for ever,"
But say "I love you now," "Now I would die for you,"
"Now indeed we are one."
But to-morrow? You cannot answer for to-morrow---
When the apples are red you will find no blackthorn bloom.)
So I did not say "For always,"
As I think she half expected,
For I would not spoil my vita nuova
By even a suspicion of humbug
But Antoinette answered for me, and said: "Bien, M'dame,"
Which I thought strangely phlegmatic
Considering that this was the miracle of miracles,
And nothing like it had ever happened in the world before---
That two lovers should meet in a small house in France
Alone together between sea and land and sky,
And the heart of at least one of them
Pouring out tenderness and devotion and desire
Like the tall fountain in the Luxembourg
Perpetually pouring and never failing...
And my love said:
"Antoinette will show you to your rooms,
And you are forbidden to come into mine
Except when I invite you."
So I laughed and went upstairs.
The rooms were just as I would have them,
Large and bare and plenty of bookshelf space,
For somehow I always collect books
As squirrels collect nuts, without thinking about it.
Among the books she had put for me were her own.
I took them down and held them in my hand,
For are they not part of her?
I began to dress in an old flannel suit,
But then I stopped, for I said to myself:
"If she is true woman --- and who dare deny it?---
She will want to look beautiful to the man who loves her;
And though she must certainly be most beautiful
With no clothes on at all,
She will have to wear something, because of Antoinette.
And no doubt she will put on the dress
Which she thinks sets her off best,
With just the right amount of red on her lips
And perhaps the right touch of eye pencil,
And the jewels she would like me to remember
That she wore on our first night alone together.
She will do that partly for herself
(Although there is no other woman to see her,
Which is the main reason for these dress combats)
But chiefly---let me flatter myself---for me,
Because she knows I love her,
And because I am a sort of a poet
And shall notice the details
As well as the general effect.
Now, why shouldn't a man dress for a woman,
Especially when he loves her devoutly?"
So I got out my evening clothes,
Which are pretty old and worn and out-of-date,
But at any rate the intention was there.
I was just getting them out of the bag
When I began to tremble in the legs,
And my head went round, and I had to sit down.
You must remember that I had traveled for thirty hours,
Too excited to sleep or eat more than a snatch,
And in the last hour I had lived intensely,
Passing from great pain to great happiness
And in life we are so unaccustomed to happiness
That it is harder sometimes to bear happiness than pain...
I got my tie straight somehow,
And went downstairs to the room we were to dine in.
Like the others it was plain,
But filled with her presence,
The life of someone who loves intelligence and beauty.
And there was she herself, standing by the table,
Looking up at me with rather a wistful smile---
I suppose she was thinking of past lovers
And how it was all dead and how this too would die.
How the months and the years slip away from us!
How faint grow the memories of the sweet old loves!
But then how sweet, how sweet is the new love!
And if you die when you are still beloved and in love
The gods have done much for you.
But all I thought and saw then was my love
Standing by the table in her bright dress
And her bright eyes and a bright jewell on her breast---
Which was because I had said long ago
I would like to hang the Evening Star on her breast.
There was no more hesitation in me,
But I went to her and took her gently by the hand,
And held her gently to me,
And I put my lips close upon her lips.
Lightly and gently she rested in my arms,
I could feel her warm right breast under my heart.
And her thigh and knee folded against mine,
My right hand held hers and my left embraced her;
I saw here eyes close, and mine closed too,
As I kissed her with the kisses of my mouth...
How long we stood there I do not know;
Time and the world disappeared
And I only knew I held her and kissed her mouth---
My whimsical nymph of the woods,
My high-breasted, high-spirited lady of Provence....
And suddenly Antoinette set down the soup tureen
With a crash, and said: "V'la M'dme," quite suddenly.
And though you could not call lovers of our age children,
We started asunder and blushed like very young lovers.
But as Antoinette went out, I kissed my lover's hand,
And those two kisses meant that all was right between us
After the long days and nights of pain and absence,
And meant that we should be happy together.