No More Learning

Deep tunnels of blue and white dimness,
Cool wine-tunnels for bees.
There is a floundering and buzzing over Minna's head.

"Bend it down, Stella. Quick! Quick! "
The wide mouth of a blossom
Is pressed together in Minna's fingers.
The stem flies up, jiggling its flower-bells,
And Minna holds the dark blue cup in her hand,
With the bee
Imprisoned in it.
Whirr! Buzz! Bump!
Bump! Whiz! Bang!
BANG! !
The blue flower tears across like paper,
And a gold-black bee darts away in the sunshine.

"If we could fly, we could catch him. "
The sunshine is hot on Stella's upturned face,
As she stares after the bee.
"We'll follow him in a dove chariot.
Come on, Stella. "
Run, children,
Along the red gravel paths,
For a bee is hard to catch,
Even with a chariot of doves.

Tall, still, and cowled,
Stand the monk's-hoods;
Taller than the heads of the little girls.
A blossom for Minna.
A blossom for Stella.
Off comes the cowl,
And there is a purple-painted chariot;
Off comes the forward petal,
And there are two little green doves,
With green traces tying them to the chariot.
"Now we will get in, and fly right up to the clouds.
Fly, Doves, up in the sky,
With Minna and me,
After the bee. "

Up one path,
Down another,
Run the little girls,
Holding their dove chariots in front of them;
But the bee is hidden in the trumpet of a honeysuckle,
With his wings folded along his back.

The dove chariots are thrown away,
And the little girls wander slowly through the garden,
Sucking the salvia tips,
And squeezing the snapdragons
To make them gape.
"I'm so hot,
Let's pick a pansy
And see the little man in his bath,
And play we're he. "
A royal bath-tub,
Hung with purple stuffs and yellow.
The great purple-yellow wings
Rise up behind the little red and green man;
The purple-yellow wings fan him,
He dabbles his feet in cool green.
Off with the green sheath,
And there are two spindly legs.
"Heigho! " sighs Minna.
"Heigho! " sighs Stella.
There is not a flutter of wind,
And the sun is directly overhead.

Along the edge of the garden
Walk the little girls.
Their hats, round and yellow like cheeses,
Are dangling by the ribbons.
The grass is a tumult of buttercups and daisies;
Buttercups and daisies streaming away
Up the hill.
The garden is purple, and pink, and orange, and scarlet;
The garden is hot with colours.
But the meadow is only yellow, and white, and green,
Cool, and long, and quiet.
The little girls pick buttercups
And hold them under each other's chins.
"You're as gold as Grandfather's snuff-box.
You're going to be very rich, Minna. "
"Oh-o-o! Then I'll ask my husband to give me a pair of garnet earrings
Just like Aunt Nancy's.
I wonder if he will.
I know. We'll tell fortunes.
That's what we'll do. "
Plump down in the meadow grass,
Stella and Minna,
With their round yellow hats,
Like cheeses,
Beside them.
Drop,
Drop,
Daisy petals.
"One I love,
Two I love,
Three I love I say. . . "
The ground is peppered with daisy petals,
And the little girls nibble the golden centres,
And play it is cake.

A bell rings.
Dinner-time;
And after dinner there are lessons.




1777



I

The Trumpet-Vine Arbour

The throats of the little red trumpet-flowers are wide open,
And the clangour of brass beats against the hot sunlight.
They bray and blare at the burning sky.
Red! Red! Coarse notes of red,
Trumpeted at the blue sky.
In long streaks of sound, molten metal,
The vine declares itself.
Clang! --from its red and yellow trumpets.
Clang! --from its long, nasal trumpets,
Splitting the sunlight into ribbons, tattered and shot with noise.

I sit in the cool arbour, in a green-and-gold twilight.
It is very still, for I cannot hear the trumpets,
I only know that they are red and open,
And that the sun above the arbour shakes with heat.
My quill is newly mended,
And makes fine-drawn lines with its point.
Down the long, white paper it makes little lines,
Just lines--up--down--criss-cross.
My heart is strained out at the pin-point of my quill;
It is thin and writhing like the marks of the pen.
My hand marches to a squeaky tune,
It marches down the paper to a squealing of fifes.
My pen and the trumpet-flowers,
And Washington's armies away over the smoke-tree to the Southwest.
"Yankee Doodle," my Darling! It is you against the British,
Marching in your ragged shoes to batter down King George.
What have you got in your hat? Not a feather, I wager.
Just a hay-straw, for it is the harvest you are fighting for.
Hay in your hat, and the whites of their eyes for a target!
Like Bunker Hill, two years ago, when I watched all day from the house-top
Through Father's spy-glass.
The red city, and the blue, bright water,
And puffs of smoke which you made.
Twenty miles away,
Round by Cambridge, or over the Neck,
But the smoke was white--white!
To-day the trumpet-flowers are red--red--
And I cannot see you fighting,
But old Mr. Dimond has fled to Canada,
And Myra sings "Yankee Doodle" at her milking.
The red throats of the trumpets bray and clang in the sunshine,
And the smoke-tree puffs dun blossoms into the blue air.


II

The City of Falling Leaves

Leaves fall,
Brown leaves,
Yellow leaves streaked with brown.
They fall,
Flutter,
Fall again.
The brown leaves,
And the streaked yellow leaves,
Loosen on their branches
And drift slowly downwards.
One,
One, two, three,
One, two, five.
All Venice is a falling of Autumn leaves--
Brown,
And yellow streaked with brown.

"That sonnet, Abate,
Beautiful,
I am quite exhausted by it.
Your phrases turn about my heart
And stifle me to swooning.
Open the window, I beg.
Lord! What a strumming of fiddles and mandolins!
'Tis really a shame to stop indoors.
Call my maid, or I will make you lace me yourself.
Fie, how hot it is, not a breath of air!
See how straight the leaves are falling.
Marianna, I will have the yellow satin caught up with silver fringe,
It peeps out delightfully from under a mantle.
Am I well painted to-day, 'caro Abate mio'?
You will be proud of me at the 'Ridotto', hey?
Proud of being 'Cavalier Servente' to such a lady? "
"Can you doubt it, 'Bellissima Contessa'?
A pinch more rouge on the right cheek,
And Venus herself shines less. . . "
"You bore me, Abate,
I vow I must change you!
A letter, Achmet?
Run and look out of the window, Abate.
I will read my letter in peace. "
The little black slave with the yellow satin turban
Gazes at his mistress with strained eyes.
His yellow turban and black skin
Are gorgeous--barbaric.
The yellow satin dress with its silver flashings
Lies on a chair
Beside a black mantle and a black mask.
Yellow and black,
Gorgeous--barbaric.
The lady reads her letter,
And the leaves drift slowly
Past the long windows.
"How silly you look, my dear Abate,
With that great brown leaf in your wig.
Pluck it off, I beg you,
Or I shall die of laughing. "

A yellow wall
Aflare in the sunlight,
Chequered with shadows,
Shadows of vine leaves,
Shadows of masks.
Masks coming, printing themselves for an instant,
Then passing on,
More masks always replacing them.
Masks with tricorns and rapiers sticking out behind
Pursuing masks with plumes and high heels,
The sunlight shining under their insteps.
One,
One, two,
One, two, three,
There is a thronging of shadows on the hot wall,
Filigreed at the top with moving leaves.
Yellow sunlight and black shadows,
Yellow and black,
Gorgeous--barbaric.
Two masks stand together,
And the shadow of a leaf falls through them,
Marking the wall where they are not.
From hat-tip to shoulder-tip,
From elbow to sword-hilt,
The leaf falls.
The shadows mingle,
Blur together,
Slide along the wall and disappear.
Gold of mosaics and candles,
And night blackness lurking in the ceiling beams.
Saint Mark's glitters with flames and reflections.
A cloak brushes aside,
And the yellow of satin
Licks out over the coloured inlays of the pavement.
Under the gold crucifixes
There is a meeting of hands
Reaching from black mantles.
Sighing embraces, bold investigations,
Hide in confessionals,
Sheltered by the shuffling of feet.
Gorgeous--barbaric
In its mail of jewels and gold,
Saint Mark's looks down at the swarm of black masks;
And outside in the palace gardens brown leaves fall,
Flutter,
Fall.
Brown,
And yellow streaked with brown.

Blue-black, the sky over Venice,
With a pricking of yellow stars.
There is no moon,
And the waves push darkly against the prow
Of the gondola,
Coming from Malamocco
And streaming toward Venice.
It is black under the gondola hood,
But the yellow of a satin dress
Glares out like the eye of a watching tiger.
Yellow compassed about with darkness,
Yellow and black,
Gorgeous--barbaric.
The boatman sings,
It is Tasso that he sings;
The lovers seek each other beneath their mantles,
And the gondola drifts over the lagoon, aslant to the coming dawn.
But at Malamocco in front,
In Venice behind,
Fall the leaves,
Brown,
And yellow streaked with brown.
They fall,
Flutter,
Fall.





BRONZE TABLETS




The Fruit Shop



Cross-ribboned shoes; a muslin gown,
High-waisted, girdled with bright blue;
A straw poke bonnet which hid the frown
She pluckered her little brows into
As she picked her dainty passage through
The dusty street. "Ah, Mademoiselle,
A dirty pathway, we need rain,
My poor fruits suffer, and the shell
Of this nut's too big for its kernel, lain
Here in the sun it has shrunk again.
The baker down at the corner says
We need a battle to shake the clouds;
But I am a man of peace, my ways
Don't look to the killing of men in crowds.
Poor fellows with guns and bayonets for shrouds!
Pray, Mademoiselle, come out of the sun.
Let me dust off that wicker chair. It's cool
In here, for the green leaves I have run
In a curtain over the door, make a pool
Of shade. You see the pears on that stool--
The shadow keeps them plump and fair. "
Over the fruiterer's door, the leaves
Held back the sun, a greenish flare
Quivered and sparked the shop, the sheaves
Of sunbeams, glanced from the sign on the eaves,
Shot from the golden letters, broke
And splintered to little scattered lights.
Jeanne Tourmont entered the shop, her poke
Bonnet tilted itself to rights,
And her face looked out like the moon on nights
Of flickering clouds. "Monsieur Popain, I
Want gooseberries, an apple or two,
Or excellent plums, but not if they're high;
Haven't you some which a strong wind blew?
I've only a couple of francs for you. "
Monsieur Popain shrugged and rubbed his hands.
What could he do, the times were sad.
A couple of francs and such demands!
And asking for fruits a little bad.
Wind-blown indeed! He never had
Anything else than the very best.
He pointed to baskets of blunted pears
With the thin skin tight like a bursting vest,
All yellow, and red, and brown, in smears.
Monsieur Popain's voice denoted tears.
He took up a pear with tender care,
And pressed it with his hardened thumb.
"Smell it, Mademoiselle, the perfume there
Is like lavender, and sweet thoughts come
Only from having a dish at home.
And those grapes! They melt in the mouth like wine,
Just a click of the tongue, and they burst to honey.
They're only this morning off the vine,
And I paid for them down in silver money.
The Corporal's widow is witness, her pony
Brought them in at sunrise to-day.
Those oranges--Gold! They're almost red.
They seem little chips just broken away
From the sun itself. Or perhaps instead
You'd like a pomegranate, they're rarely gay,
When you split them the seeds are like crimson spray.
Yes, they're high, they're high, and those Turkey figs,
They all come from the South, and Nelson's ships
Make it a little hard for our rigs.
They must be forever giving the slips
To the cursed English, and when men clips
Through powder to bring them, why dainties mounts
A bit in price. Those almonds now,
I'll strip off that husk, when one discounts
A life or two in a nigger row
With the man who grew them, it does seem how
They would come dear; and then the fight
At sea perhaps, our boats have heels
And mostly they sail along at night,
But once in a way they're caught; one feels
Ivory's not better nor finer--why peels
From an almond kernel are worth two sous.
It's hard to sell them now," he sighed.
"Purses are tight, but I shall not lose.
There's plenty of cheaper things to choose. "
He picked some currants out of a wide
Earthen bowl. "They make the tongue
Almost fly out to suck them, bride
Currants they are, they were planted long
Ago for some new Marquise, among
Other great beauties, before the Chateau
Was left to rot. Now the Gardener's wife,
He that marched off to his death at Marengo,
Sells them to me; she keeps her life
From snuffing out, with her pruning knife.
She's a poor old thing, but she learnt the trade
When her man was young, and the young Marquis
Couldn't have enough garden. The flowers he made
All new! And the fruits! But 'twas said that he
Was no friend to the people, and so they laid
Some charge against him, a cavalcade
Of citizens took him away; they meant
Well, but I think there was some mistake.
He just pottered round in his garden, bent
On growing things; we were so awake
In those days for the New Republic's sake.
He's gone, and the garden is all that's left
Not in ruin, but the currants and apricots,
And peaches, furred and sweet, with a cleft
Full of morning dew, in those green-glazed pots,
Why, Mademoiselle, there is never an eft
Or worm among them, and as for theft,
How the old woman keeps them I cannot say,
But they're finer than any grown this way. "
Jeanne Tourmont drew back the filigree ring
Of her striped silk purse, tipped it upside down
And shook it, two coins fell with a ding
Of striking silver, beneath her gown
One rolled, the other lay, a thing
Sparked white and sharply glistening,
In a drop of sunlight between two shades.
She jerked the purse, took its empty ends
And crumpled them toward the centre braids.
The whole collapsed to a mass of blends
Of colours and stripes. "Monsieur Popain, friends
We have always been. In the days before
The Great Revolution my aunt was kind
When you needed help. You need no more;
'Tis we now who must beg at your door,
And will you refuse? " The little man
Bustled, denied, his heart was good,
But times were hard. He went to a pan
And poured upon the counter a flood
Of pungent raspberries, tanged like wood.
He took a melon with rough green rind
And rubbed it well with his apron tip.
Then he hunted over the shop to find
Some walnuts cracking at the lip,
And added to these a barberry slip
Whose acrid, oval berries hung
Like fringe and trembled. He reached a round
Basket, with handles, from where it swung
Against the wall, laid it on the ground
And filled it, then he searched and found
The francs Jeanne Tourmont had let fall.
"You'll return the basket, Mademoiselle? "
She smiled, "The next time that I call,
Monsieur. You know that very well. "
'Twas lightly said, but meant to tell.
Monsieur Popain bowed, somewhat abashed.
She took her basket and stepped out.
The sunlight was so bright it flashed
Her eyes to blindness, and the rout
Of the little street was all about.
Through glare and noise she stumbled, dazed.
The heavy basket was a care.
She heard a shout and almost grazed
The panels of a chaise and pair.
The postboy yelled, and an amazed
Face from the carriage window gazed.
She jumped back just in time, her heart
Beating with fear. Through whirling light
The chaise departed, but her smart
Was keen and bitter. In the white
Dust of the street she saw a bright
Streak of colours, wet and gay,
Red like blood. Crushed but fair,
Her fruit stained the cobbles of the way.
Monsieur Popain joined her there.
"Tiens, Mademoiselle,
c'est le General Bonaparte, partant pour la Guerre! "




Malmaison



I

How the slates of the roof sparkle in the sun, over there, over there,
beyond the high wall! How quietly the Seine runs in loops and windings,
over there, over there, sliding through the green countryside! Like
ships of the line, stately with canvas, the tall clouds pass along the
sky, over the glittering roof, over the trees, over the looped and
curving river. A breeze quivers through the linden-trees. Roses bloom
at Malmaison. Roses! Roses! But the road is dusty. Already the
Citoyenne Beauharnais wearies of her walk. Her skin is chalked and
powdered with dust, she smells dust, and behind the wall are roses!
Roses with smooth open petals, poised above rippling leaves. . . Roses
. . . They have told her so. The Citoyenne Beauharnais shrugs her
shoulders and makes a little face. She must mend her pace if she would
be back in time for dinner. Roses indeed! The guillotine more likely.


The tiered clouds float over Malmaison, and the slate roof sparkles in
the sun.


II

Gallop! Gallop! The General brooks no delay. Make way, good people,
and scatter out of his path, you, and your hens, and your dogs, and your
children. The General is returned from Egypt, and is come in a
'caleche' and four to visit his new property. Throw open the gates,
you, Porter of Malmaison. Pull off your cap, my man, this is your
master, the husband of Madame. Faster! Faster! A jerk and a jingle
and they are arrived, he and she. Madame has red eyes. Fie! It is for
joy at her husband's return. Learn your place, Porter. A gentleman
here for two months? Fie! 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.