Part Second

Herr Concert-Meister Altgelt played,

And the four strings of his violin

Were spinning like bees on a day in Spring.

The notes rose into the wide sun-mote

Which slanted through the window,

They lay like coloured beads a-row,

They knocked together and parted,

And started to dance,

Skipping, tripping, each one slipping

Under and over the others so

That the polychrome fire streamed like a lance

Or a comet's tail,

Behind them.

Then a wail arose — crescendo —

And dropped from off the end of the bow,

And the dancing stopped.

A scent of lilies filled the room,

Long and slow. Each large white bloom

Breathed a sound which was holy perfume from a blessed censer,

And the hum of an organ tone,

And they waved like fans in a hall of stone

Over a bier standing there in the centre, alone.

Each lily bent slowly as it was blown.

Like smoke they rose from the violin —

Then faded as a swifter bowing

Jumbled the notes like wavelets flowing

In a splashing, pashing, rippling motion

Between broad meadows to an ocean

Wide as a day and blue as a flower,

Where every hour

Gulls dipped, and scattered, and squawked, and squealed,

And over the marshes the Angelus pealed,

And the prows of the fishing-boats were spattered

With spray.

And away a couple of frigates were starting

To race to Java with all sails set,

Topgallants, and royals, and stunsails, and jibs,

And wide moonsails; and the shining rails

Were polished so bright they sparked in the sun.

All the sails went up with a run:

“They call me Hanging Johnny,

Away-i-oh;

They call me Hanging Johnny,

So hang, boys, hang.”

And the sun had set and the high moon whitened,

And the ship heeled over to the breeze.

He drew her into the shade of the sails,

And whispered tales

Of voyages in the China seas,

And his arm around her

Held and bound her.

She almost swooned,

With the breeze and the moon

And the slipping sea,

And he beside her,

Touching her, leaning —

The ship careening,

With the white moon steadily shining over

Her and her lover,

Theodore, still her lover!

Then a quiver fell on the crowded notes,

And slowly floated

A single note which spread and spread

Till it filled the room with a shimmer like gold,

And noises shivered throughout its length,

And tried its strength.

They pulled it, and tore it,

And the stuff waned thinner, but still it bore it.

Then a wide rent

Split the arching tent,

And balls of fire spurted through,

Spitting yellow, and mauve, and blue.

One by one they were quenched as they fell,

Only the blue burned steadily.

Paler and paler it grew, and — faded — away.

Herr Altgelt stopped.

“Well, Lottachen, my Dear, what do you say?

I think I'm in good trim. Now let's have dinner.

What's this, my Love, you're very sweet to-day.

I wonder how it happens I'm the winner

Of so much sweetness. But I think you're thinner;

You're like a bag of feathers on my knee.

Why, Lotta child, you're almost strangling me.

I'm glad you're going out this afternoon.

The days are getting short, and I'm so tied

At the Court Theatre my poor little bride

Has not much junketing I fear, but soon

I'll ask our manager to grant a boon.

To-night, perhaps, I'll get a pass for you,

And when I go, why Lotta can come too.

Now dinner, Love. I want some onion soup

To whip me up till that rehearsal's over.

You know it's odd how some women can stoop!

Fraeulein Gebnitz has taken on a lover,

A Jew named Goldstein. No one can discover

If it's his money. But she lives alone

Practically. Gebnitz is a stone,

Pores over books all day, and has no ear

For his wife's singing. Artists must have men;

They need appreciation. But it's queer

What messes people make of their lives, when

They should know more. If Gebnitz finds out, then

His wife will pack. Yes, shut the door at once.

I did not feel it cold, I am a dunce.”

Frau Altgelt tied her bonnet on and went

Into the streets. A bright, crisp Autumn wind

Flirted her skirts and hair. A turbulent,

Audacious wind it was, now close behind,

Pushing her bonnet forward till it twined

The strings across her face, then from in front

Slantingly swinging at her with a shunt,

Until she lay against it, struggling, pushing,

Dismayed to find her clothing tightly bound

Around her, every fold and wrinkle crushing

Itself upon her, so that she was wound

In draperies as clinging as those found

Sucking about a sea nymph on the frieze

Of some old Grecian temple. In the breeze

The shops and houses had a quality

Of hard and dazzling colour; something sharp

And buoyant, like white, puffing sails at sea.

The city streets were twanging like a harp.

Charlotta caught the movement, skippingly

She blew along the pavement, hardly knowing

Toward what destination she was going.

She fetched up opposite a jeweller's shop,

Where filigreed tiaras shone like crowns,

And necklaces of emeralds seemed to drop

And then float up again with lightness. Browns

Of striped agates struck her like cold frowns

Amid the gaiety of topaz seals,

Carved though they were with heads, and arms, and wheels.

A row of pencils knobbed with quartz or sard

Delighted her. And rings of every size

Turned smartly round like hoops before her eyes,

Amethyst-flamed or ruby-girdled, jarred

To spokes and flashing triangles, and starred

Like rockets bursting on a festal day.

Charlotta could not tear herself away.

With eyes glued tightly on a golden box,

Whose rare enamel piqued her with its hue,

Changeable, iridescent, shuttlecocks

Of shades and lustres always darting through

Its level, superimposing sheet of blue,

Charlotta did not hear footsteps approaching.

She started at the words: “Am I encroaching?”

“Oh, Heinrich, how you frightened me! I thought

We were to meet at three, is it quite that?”

“No, it is not,” he answered, “but I've caught

The trick of missing you. One thing is flat,

I cannot go on this way. Life is what

Might best be conjured up by the word:‘ Hell’.

Dearest, when will you come?” Lotta, to quell

His effervescence, pointed to the gems

Within the window, asked him to admire

A bracelet or a buckle. But one stems

Uneasily the burning of a fire.

Heinrich was chafing, pricked by his desire.

Little by little she wooed him to her mood

Until at last he promised to be good.

But here he started on another tack;

To buy a jewel, which one would Lotta choose.

She vainly urged against him all her lack

Of other trinkets. Should she dare to use

A ring or brooch her husband might accuse

Her of extravagance, and ask to see

A strict accounting, or still worse might be.

But Heinrich would not be persuaded. Why

Should he not give her what he liked? And in

He went, determined certainly to buy

A thing so beautiful that it would win

Her wavering fancy. Altgelt's violin

He would outscore by such a handsome jewel

That Lotta could no longer be so cruel!

Pity Charlotta, torn in diverse ways.

If she went in with him, the shopman might

Recognize her, give her her name; in days

To come he could denounce her. In her fright

She almost fled. But Heinrich would be quite

Capable of pursuing. By and by

She pushed the door and entered hurriedly.

It took some pains to keep him from bestowing

A pair of ruby earrings, carved like roses,

The setting twined to represent the growing

Tendrils and leaves, upon her. “Who supposes

I could obtain such things! It simply closes

All comfort for me.” So he changed his mind

And bought as slight a gift as he could find.

A locket, frosted over with seed pearls,

Oblong and slim, for wearing at the neck,

Or hidden in the bosom; their joined curls

Should lie in it. And further to bedeck

His love, Heinrich had picked a whiff, a fleck,

The merest puff of a thin, linked chain

To hang it from. Lotta could not refrain

From weeping as they sauntered down the street.

She did not want the locket, yet she did.

To have him love her she found very sweet,

But it is hard to keep love always hid.

Then there was something in her heart which chid

Her, told her she loved Theodore in him,

That all these meetings were a foolish whim.

She thought of Theodore and the life they led,

So near together, but so little mingled.

The great clouds bulged and bellied overhead,

And the fresh wind about her body tingled;

The crane of a large warehouse creaked and jingled;

Charlotta held her breath for very fear,

About her in the street she seemed to hear:

“They call me Hanging Johnny,

Away-i-oh;

They call me Hanging Johnny,

So hang, boys, hang.”

And it was Theodore, under the racing skies,

Who held her and who whispered in her ear.

She knew her heart was telling her no lies,

Beating and hammering. He was so dear,

The touch of him would send her in a queer

Swoon that was half an ecstasy. And yearning

For Theodore, she wandered, slowly turning

Street after street as Heinrich wished it so.

He had some aim, she had forgotten what.

Their progress was confused and very slow,

But at the last they reached a lonely spot,

A garden far above the highest shot

Of soaring steeple. At their feet, the town

Spread open like a chequer-board laid down.

Lotta was dimly conscious of the rest,

Vaguely remembered how he clasped the chain

About her neck. She treated it in jest,

And saw his face cloud over with sharp pain.

Then suddenly she felt as though a strain

Were put upon her, collared like a slave,

Leashed in the meshes of this thing he gave.

She seized the flimsy rings with both her hands

To snap it, but they held with odd persistence.

Her eyes were blinded by two wind-blown strands

Of hair which had been loosened. Her resistance

Melted within her, from remotest distance,

Misty, unreal, his face grew warm and near,

And giving way she knew him very dear.

For long he held her, and they both gazed down

At the wide city, and its blue, bridged river.

From wooing he jested with her, snipped the blown

Strands of her hair, and tied them with a sliver

Cut from his own head. But she gave a shiver

When, opening the locket, they were placed

Under the glass, commingled and enlaced.

“When will you have it so with us?” He sighed.

She shook her head. He pressed her further. “No,

No, Heinrich, Theodore loves me,” and she tried

To free herself and rise. He held her so,

Clipped by his arms, she could not move nor go.

“But you love me,” he whispered, with his face

Burning against her through her kerchief's lace.

Frau Altgelt knew she toyed with fire, knew

That what her husband lit this other man

Fanned to hot flame. She told herself that few

Women were so discreet as she, who ran

No danger since she knew what things to ban.

She opened her house door at five o'clock,

A short half-hour before her husband's knock.