No More Learning

Fie, then! Since when have you taken to
gossiping. Madame may have a brother, I suppose. That--all green, and
red, and glitter, with flesh as dark as ebony--that is a slave; a
bloodthirsty, stabbing, slashing heathen, come from the hot countries to
cure your tongue of idle whispering.


A fine afternoon it is, with tall bright clouds sailing over the trees.


"Bonaparte, mon ami, the trees are golden like my star, the star I
pinned to your destiny when I married you. The gypsy, you remember her
prophecy! My dear friend, not here, the servants are watching; send them
away, and that flashing splendour, Roustan. Superb--Imperial, but. .
. My dear, your arm is trembling; I faint to feel it touching me! No,
no, Bonaparte, not that--spare me that--did we not bury that last
night! You hurt me, my friend, you are so hot and strong. Not long,
Dear, no, thank God, not long. "

The looped river runs saffron, for the sun is setting. It is getting
dark. Dark. Darker. In the moonlight, the slate roof shines palely
milkily white.

The roses have faded at Malmaison, nipped by the frost. What need for
roses? Smooth, open petals--her arms. Fragrant, outcurved
petals--her breasts. He rises like a sun above her, stooping to touch
the petals, press them wider. Eagles. Bees. What are they to open
roses! A little shivering breeze runs through the linden-trees, and the
tiered clouds blow across the sky like ships of the line, stately with
canvas.


III

The gates stand wide at Malmaison, stand wide all day. The gravel of
the avenue glints under the continual rolling of wheels. An officer
gallops up with his sabre clicking; a mameluke gallops down with his
charger kicking. 'Valets de pied' run about in ones, and twos, and
groups, like swirled blown leaves. Tramp! Tramp! The guard is
changing, and the grenadiers off duty lounge out of sight, ranging along
the roads toward Paris.

The slate roof sparkles in the sun, but it sparkles milkily, vaguely,
the great glass-houses put out its shining. Glass, stone, and onyx now
for the sun's mirror. Much has come to pass at Malmaison. New rocks and
fountains, blocks of carven marble, fluted pillars uprearing antique
temples, vases and urns in unexpected places, bridges of stone, bridges
of wood, arbours and statues, and a flood of flowers everywhere, new
flowers, rare flowers, parterre after parterre of flowers. Indeed, the
roses bloom at Malmaison. It is youth, youth untrammeled and advancing,
trundling a country ahead of it as though it were a hoop. Laughter, and
spur janglings in tessellated vestibules. Tripping of clocked and
embroidered stockings in little low-heeled shoes over smooth
grass-plots. India muslins spangled with silver patterns slide
through trees--mingle--separate--white day fireflies flashing
moon-brilliance in the shade of foliage.

"The kangaroos! I vow, Captain, I must see the kangaroos. "

"As you please, dear Lady, but I recommend the shady linden alley and
feeding the cockatoos. "

"They say that Madame Bonaparte's breed of sheep is the best in all
France. "

"And, oh, have you seen the enchanting little cedar she planted when the
First Consul sent home the news of the victory of Marengo? "

Picking, choosing, the chattering company flits to and fro. Over the
trees the great clouds go, tiered, stately, like ships of the line
bright with canvas.

Prisoners'-base, and its swooping, veering, racing, giggling, bumping.
The First Consul runs plump into M. de Beauharnais and falls. But he
picks himself up smartly, and starts after M. Isabey. Too late, M. Le
Premier Consul, Mademoiselle Hortense is out after you. Quickly, my
dear Sir! Stir your short legs, she is swift and eager, and as graceful
as her mother. She is there, that other, playing too, but lightly,
warily, bearing herself with care, rather floating out upon the air than
running, never far from goal. She is there, borne up above her guests
as something indefinably fair, a rose above periwinkles. A blown rose,
smooth as satin, reflexed, one loosened petal hanging back and down. A
rose that undulates languorously as the breeze takes it, resting upon
its leaves in a faintness of perfume.


There are rumours about the First Consul. Malmaison is full of women,
and Paris is only two leagues distant. Madame Bonaparte stands on the
wooden bridge at sunset, and watches a black swan pushing the pink and
silver water in front of him as he swims, crinkling its smoothness into
pleats of changing colour with his breast. Madame Bonaparte presses
against the parapet of the bridge, and the crushed roses at her belt
melt, petal by petal, into the pink water.


IV

A vile day, Porter. But keep your wits about you. The Empress will
soon be here. Queer, without the Emperor! It is indeed, but best not
consider that. Scratch your head and prick up your ears. Divorce is not
for you to debate about. She is late? Ah, well, the roads are muddy.
The rain spears are as sharp as whetted knives. They dart down and down,
edged and shining. Clop-trop! Clop-trop! A carriage grows out of the
mist. Hist, Porter. You can keep on your hat. It is only Her Majesty's
dogs and her parrot. Clop-trop! The Ladies in Waiting, Porter.
Clop-trop! It is Her Majesty. At least, I suppose it is, but the
blinds are drawn.

"In all the years I have served Her Majesty she never before passed the
gate without giving me a smile! "

You're a droll fellow, to expect the Empress to put out her head in the
pouring rain and salute you. She has affairs of her own to think about.

Clang the gate, no need for further waiting, nobody else will be coming
to Malmaison to-night.


White under her veil, drained and shaking, the woman crosses the
antechamber. Empress! Empress! Foolish splendour, perished to dust.
Ashes of roses, ashes of youth. Empress forsooth!

Over the glass domes of the hot-houses drenches the rain. Behind her a
clock ticks--ticks again. The sound knocks upon her thought with the
echoing shudder of hollow vases. She places her hands on her ears, but
the minutes pass, knocking. Tears in Malmaison. And years to come each
knocking by, minute after minute. Years, many years, and tears, and
cold pouring rain.

"I feel as though I had died, and the only sensation I have is that I am
no more. "

Rain! Heavy, thudding rain!


V

The roses bloom at Malmaison. And not only roses. Tulips, myrtles,
geraniums, camelias, rhododendrons, dahlias, double hyacinths. All the
year through, under glass, under the sky, flowers bud, expand, die, and
give way to others, always others. From distant countries they have
been brought, and taught to live in the cool temperateness of France.
There is the 'Bonapartea' from Peru; the 'Napoleone Imperiale'; the
'Josephinia Imperatrix', a pearl-white flower, purple-shadowed, the
calix pricked out with crimson points. Malmaison wears its flowers as a
lady wears her gems, flauntingly, assertively. Malmaison decks herself
to hide the hollow within.

The glass-houses grow and grow, and every year fling up hotter
reflections to the sailing sun.

The cost runs into millions, but a woman must have something to console
herself for a broken heart. One can play backgammon and patience, and
then patience and backgammon, and stake gold napoleons on each game won.
Sport truly! It is an unruly spirit which could ask better. With her
jewels, her laces, her shawls; her two hundred and twenty dresses, her
fichus, her veils; her pictures, her busts, her birds. It is absurd
that she cannot be happy. The Emperor smarts under the thought of her
ingratitude. What could he do more? And yet she spends, spends as never
before. It is ridiculous. Can she not enjoy life at a smaller figure?
Was ever monarch plagued with so extravagant an ex-wife. She owes her
chocolate-merchant, her candle-merchant, her sweetmeat purveyor; her
grocer, her butcher, her poulterer; her architect, and the shopkeeper
who sells her rouge; her perfumer, her dressmaker, her merchant of
shoes. She owes for fans, plants, engravings, and chairs. She owes
masons and carpenters, vintners, lingeres. The lady's affairs are in
sad confusion.

And why? Why?

Can a river flow when the spring is dry?


Night. The Empress sits alone, and the clock ticks, one after one. The
clock nicks off the edges of her life. She is chipped like an old bit
of china; she is frayed like a garment of last year's wearing. She is
soft, crinkled, like a fading rose. And each minute flows by brushing
against her, shearing off another and another petal. The Empress crushes
her breasts with her hands and weeps. And the tall clouds sail over
Malmaison like a procession of stately ships bound for the moon.


Scarlet, clear-blue, purple epauletted with gold. It is a parade of
soldiers sweeping up the avenue. Eight horses, eight Imperial
harnesses, four caparisoned postilions, a carriage with the Emperor's
arms on the panels. Ho, Porter, pop out your eyes, and no wonder. Where
else under the Heavens could you see such splendour!

They sit on a stone seat. The little man in the green coat of a Colonel
of Chasseurs, and the lady, beautiful as a satin seed-pod, and as pale.
The house has memories. The satin seed-pod holds his germs of Empire.
We will stay here, under the blue sky and the turreted white clouds. She
draws him; he feels her faded loveliness urge him to replenish it. Her
soft transparent texture woos his nervous fingering. He speaks to her
of debts, of resignation; of her children, and his; he promises that she
shall see the King of Rome; he says some harsh things and some pleasant.
But she is there, close to him, rose toned to amber, white shot with
violet, pungent to his nostrils as embalmed rose-leaves in a twilit
room.

Suddenly the Emperor calls his carriage and rolls away across the
looping Seine.


VI

Crystal-blue brightness over the glass-houses. Crystal-blue streaks and
ripples over the lake. A macaw on a gilded perch screams; they have
forgotten to take out his dinner. The windows shake. Boom! Boom! It
is the rumbling of Prussian cannon beyond Pecq. Roses bloom at
Malmaison. Roses! Roses! Swimming above their leaves, rotting beneath
them. Fallen flowers strew the unraked walks. Fallen flowers for a
fallen Emperor! The General in charge of him draws back and watches.
Snatches of music--snarling, sneering music of bagpipes. They say a
Scotch regiment is besieging Saint-Denis. The Emperor wipes his face,
or is it his eyes. His tired eyes which see nowhere the grace they long
for. Josephine! Somebody asks him a question, he does not answer,
somebody else does that. There are voices, but one voice he does not
hear, and yet he hears it all the time. Josephine! The Emperor puts up
his hand to screen his face. The white light of a bright cloud spears
sharply through the linden-trees. 'Vive l'Empereur! ' There are troops
passing beyond the wall, troops which sing and call. Boom! A pink rose
is jarred off its stem and falls at the Emperor's feet.

"Very well. I go. " Where! Does it matter? There is no sword to
clatter. Nothing but soft brushing gravel and a gate which shuts with a
click.

"Quick, fellow, don't spare your horses. "

A whip cracks, wheels turn, why burn one's eyes following a fleck of
dust.


VII

Over the slate roof tall clouds, like ships of the line, pass along the
sky. The glass-houses glitter splotchily, for many of their lights are
broken.
Roses bloom, fiery cinders quenching under damp weeds. Wreckage
and misery, and a trailing of petty deeds smearing over old
recollections.

The musty rooms are empty and their shutters are closed, only in the
gallery there is a stuffed black swan, covered with dust. When you
touch it, the feathers come off and float softly to the ground. Through
a chink in the shutters, one can see the stately clouds crossing the sky
toward the Roman arches of the Marly Aqueduct.




The Hammers



I

Frindsbury, Kent, 1786

Bang!
Bang!
Tap!
Tap-a-tap! Rap!
All through the lead and silver Winter days,
All through the copper of Autumn hazes.
Tap to the red rising sun,
Tap to the purple setting sun.
Four years pass before the job is done.
Two thousand oak trees grown and felled,
Two thousand oaks from the hedgerows of the Weald,
Sussex had yielded two thousand oaks
With huge boles
Round which the tape rolls
Thirty mortal feet, say the village folks.
Two hundred loads of elm and Scottish fir;
Planking from Dantzig.
My! What timber goes into a ship!
Tap! Tap!
Two years they have seasoned her ribs on the ways,
Tapping, tapping.
You can hear, though there's nothing where you gaze.
Through the fog down the reaches of the river,
The tapping goes on like heart-beats in a fever.
The church-bells chime
Hours and hours,
Dropping days in showers.
Bang! Rap! Tap!
Go the hammers all the time.
They have planked up her timbers
And the nails are driven to the head;
They have decked her over,
And again, and again.
The shoring-up beams shudder at the strain.
Black and blue breeches,
Pigtails bound and shining:
Like ants crawling about,
The hull swarms with carpenters, running in and out.
Joiners, calkers,
And they are all terrible talkers.
Jem Wilson has been to sea and he tells some wonderful tales
Of whales, and spice islands,
And pirates off the Barbary coast.
He boasts magnificently, with his mouth full of nails.
Stephen Pibold has a tenor voice,
He shifts his quid of tobacco and sings:
"The second in command was blear-eyed Ned:
While the surgeon his limb was a-lopping,
A nine-pounder came and smack went his head,
Pull away, pull away, pull away! I say;
Rare news for my Meg of Wapping! "
Every Sunday
People come in crowds
(After church-time, of course)
In curricles, and gigs, and wagons,
And some have brought cold chicken and flagons
Of wine,
And beer in stoppered jugs.
"Dear! Dear! But I tell 'ee 'twill be a fine ship.
There's none finer in any of the slips at Chatham. "

The third Summer's roses have started in to blow,
When the fine stern carving is begun.
Flutings, and twinings, and long slow swirls,
Bits of deal shaved away to thin spiral curls.
Tap! Tap! A cornucopia is nailed into place.
Rap-a-tap! They are putting up a railing filigreed like Irish lace.
The Three Town's people never saw such grace.
And the paint on it! The richest gold leaf!
Why, the glitter when the sun is shining passes belief.
And that row of glass windows tipped toward the sky
Are rubies and carbuncles when the day is dry.
Oh, my! Oh, my!
They have coppered up the bottom,
And the copper nails
Stand about and sparkle in big wooden pails.
Bang! Clash! Bang!
"And he swigg'd, and Nick swigg'd,
And Ben swigg'd, and Dick swigg'd,
And I swigg'd, and all of us swigg'd it,
And swore there was nothing like grog. "
It seems they sing,
Even though coppering is not an easy thing.
What a splendid specimen of humanity is a true British workman,
Say the people of the Three Towns,
As they walk about the dockyard
To the sound of the evening church-bells.
And so artistic, too, each one tells his neighbour.
What immense taste and labour!
Miss Jessie Prime, in a pink silk bonnet,
Titters with delight as her eyes fall upon it,
When she steps lightly down from Lawyer Green's whisky;
Such amazing beauty makes one feel frisky,
She explains.
Mr. Nichols says he is delighted
(He is the firm);
His work is all requited
If Miss Jessie can approve.
Miss Jessie answers that the ship is "a love".
The sides are yellow as marigold,
The port-lids are red when the ports are up:
Blood-red squares like an even chequer
Of yellow asters and portulaca.
There is a wide "black strake" at the waterline
And above is a blue like the sky when the weather is fine.
The inner bulwarks are painted red.
"Why? " asks Miss Jessie. "'Tis a horrid note. "
Mr. Nichols clears his throat,
And tells her the launching day is set.
He says, "Be careful, the paint is wet. "
But Miss Jessie has touched it, her sprigged muslin gown
Has a blood-red streak from the shoulder down.
"It looks like blood," says Miss Jessie with a frown.

Tap! Tap! Rap!
An October day, with waves running in blue-white lines and a capful of wind.
Three broad flags ripple out behind
Where the masts will be:
Royal Standard at the main,
Admiralty flag at the fore,
Union Jack at the mizzen.
The hammers tap harder, faster,
They must finish by noon.
The last nail is driven.
But the wind has increased to half a gale,
And the ship shakes and quivers upon the ways.
The Commissioner of Chatham Dockyard is coming
In his ten-oared barge from the King's Stairs;
The Marine's band will play "God Save Great George Our King";
And there is to be a dinner afterwards at the Crown, with speeches.
The wind screeches, and flaps the flags till they pound like hammers.
The wind hums over the ship,
And slips round the dog-shores,
Jostling them almost to falling.
There is no time now to wait for Commissioners and marine bands.
Mr. Nichols has a bottle of port in his hands.
He leans over, holding his hat, and shouts to the men below:
"Let her go! "
Bang! Bang! Pound!
The dog-shores fall to the ground,
And the ship slides down the greased planking.
A splintering of glass,
And port wine running all over the white and copper stem timbers.
"Success to his Majesty's ship, the Bellerophon! "
And the red wine washes away in the waters of the Medway.


II

Paris, March, 1814

Fine yellow sunlight down the rue du Mont Thabor.
Ten o'clock striking from all the clock-towers of Paris.
Over the door of a shop, in gilt letters:
"Martin--Parfumeur", and something more.
A large gilded wooden something.
Listen! What a ringing of hammers!
Tap!
Tap!
Squeak!
Tap! Squeak! Tap-a-tap!
"Blaise. "
"Oui, M'sieu. "
"Don't touch the letters. My name stays. "
"Bien, M'sieu. "
"Just take down the eagle, and the shield with the bees. "
"As M'sieu pleases. "
Tap! Squeak! Tap!
The man on the ladder hammers steadily for a minute or two,
Then stops.
"He! Patron!
They are fastened well, Nom d'un Chien!
What if I break them? "
"Break away,
You and Paul must have them down to-day. "
"Bien. "
And the hammers start again,
Drum-beating at the something of gilded wood.
Sunshine in a golden flood
Lighting up the yellow fronts of houses,
Glittering each window to a flash.
Squeak! Squeak! Tap!
The hammers beat and rap.
A Prussian hussar on a grey horse goes by at a dash.
From other shops, the noise of striking blows:
Pounds, thumps, and whacks;
Wooden sounds: splinters--cracks.
Paris is full of the galloping of horses and the knocking of hammers.
"Hullo! Friend Martin, is business slack
That you are in the street this morning? Don't turn your back
And scuttle into your shop like a rabbit to its hole.
I've just been taking a stroll.
The stinking Cossacks are bivouacked all up and down the Champs Elysees.
I can't get the smell of them out of my nostrils.
Dirty fellows, who don't believe in frills
Like washing. Ah, mon vieux, you'd have to go
Out of business if you lived in Russia. So!
We've given up being perfumers to the Emperor, have we?
Blaise,
Be careful of the hen,
Maybe I can find a use for her one of these days.
That eagle's rather well cut, Martin.
But I'm sick of smelling Cossack,
Take me inside and let me put my head into a stack
Of orris-root and musk. "
Within the shop, the light is dimmed to a pearl-and-green dusk
Out of which dreamily sparkle counters and shelves of glass,
Containing phials, and bowls, and jars, and dishes; a mass
Of aqueous transparence made solid by threads of gold.
Gold and glass,
And scents which whiff across the green twilight and pass.
The perfumer sits down and shakes his head:
"Always the same, Monsieur Antoine,
You artists are wonderful folk indeed. "
But Antoine Vernet does not heed.
He is reading the names on the bottles and bowls,
Done in fine gilt letters with wonderful scrolls.
"What have we here? 'Eau Imperial Odontalgique. '
I must say, mon cher, your names are chic.
But it won't do, positively it will not do.
Elba doesn't count. Ah, here is another:
'Baume du Commandeur'. That's better. He needs something to smother
Regrets. A little lubricant, too,
Might be useful. I have it,
'Sage Oil', perhaps he'll be good now; with it we'll submit
This fine German rouge. I fear he is pale. "
"Monsieur Antoine, don't rail
At misfortune. He treated me well and fairly. "
"And you prefer him to Bourbons, admit it squarely. "
"Heaven forbid! " Bang! Whack!
Squeak! Squeak! Crack!
CRASH!
"Oh, Lord, Martin! That shield is hash.
The whole street is covered with golden bees.
They look like so many yellow peas,
Lying there in the mud. I'd like to paint it.
'Plum pudding of Empire'. That's rather quaint, it
Might take with the Kings. Shall I try? " "Oh, Sir,
You distress me, you do. " "Poor old Martin's purr!
But he hasn't a scratch in him, I know.
Now let us get back to the powders and patches.
Foolish man,
The Kings are here now. We must hit on a plan
To change all these titles as fast as we can.
'Bouquet Imperatrice'. Tut! Tut! Give me some ink--
'Bouquet de la Reine', what do you think?
Not the same receipt?
Now, Martin, put away your conceit.
Who will ever know?
'Extract of Nobility'--excellent, since most of them are killed. "
"But, Monsieur Antoine--"
"You are self-willed,
Martin. You need a salve
For your conscience, do you?