sword blades & poppy seed- 第14部分

Chiffonier　stood　gaunt　behind

His　chair。　　His　old　cloak；　rabbit…lined；

Hung　from　a　peg。　　The　door　was　closed。

Just　for　a　moment　he　must　have　dozed。

He　looked　again；　and　saw　it　plain。

The　silhouette　made　a　blue…black　stain

On　the　opposite　wall；　and　it　never　wavered

Even　when　the　candle　quavered

Under　his　panting　breath。　　What　made

That　beautiful；　dreadful　thing；　that　shade

Of　something　so　lovely；　so　exquisite；

Cast　from　a　substance　which　the　sight

Had　not　been　tutored　to　perceive？

Paul　brushed　his　eyes　across　his　sleeve。



Clear…cut；　the　Shadow　on　the　wall

Gleamed　black；　and　never　moved　at　all。





Paul's　watches　were　like　amulets；

Wrought　into　patterns　and　rosettes；

The　cases　were　all　set　with　stones；

And　wreathing　lines；　and　shining　zones。

He　knew　the　beauty　in　a　curve；

And　the　Shadow　tortured　every　nerve

With　its　perfect　rhythm　of　outline

Cutting　the　whitewashed　wall。　　So　fine

Was　the　neck　he　knew　he　could　have　spanned

It　about　with　the　fingers　of　one　hand。

The　chin　rose　to　a　mouth　he　guessed；

But　could　not　see；　the　lips　were　pressed

Loosely　together；　the　edges　close；

And　the　proud　and　delicate　line　of　the　nose

Melted　into　a　brow；　and　there

Broke　into　undulant　waves　of　hair。

The　lady　was　edged　with　the　stamp　of　race。

A　singular　vision　in　such　a　place。





He　moved　the　candle　to　the　tall

Chiffonier；　the　Shadow　stayed　on　the　wall。

He　threw　his　cloak　upon　a　chair；

And　still　the　lady's　face　was　there。

From　every　corner　of　the　room

He　saw；　in　the　patch　of　light；　the　gloom

That　was　the　lady。　　Her　violet　bloom

Was　almost　brighter　than　that　which　came

From　his　candle's　tulip…flame。

He　set　the　filigree　hands；　he　laid

The　watch　in　the　case　which　he　had　made；

He　put　on　his　rabbit　cloak；　and　snuffed

His　candle　out。　　The　room　seemed　stuffed

With　darkness。　　Softly　he　crossed　the　floor；

And　let　himself　out　through　the　door。





The　sun　was　flashing　from　every　pin

And　wheel；　when　Paul　let　himself　in。

The　whitewashed　walls　were　hot　with　light。

The　room　was　the　core　of　a　chrysolite；

Burning　and　shimmering　with　fiery　might。

The　sun　was　so　bright　that　no　shadow　could　fall

From　the　furniture　upon　the　wall。

Paul　sighed　as　he　looked　at　the　empty　space

Where　a　glare　usurped　the　lady's　place。

He　settled　himself　to　his　work；　but　his　mind

Wandered；　and　he　would　wake　to　find

His　hand　suspended；　his　eyes　grown　dim；

And　nothing　advanced　beyond　the　rim

Of　his　dreaming。　　The　Cardinal　sent　to　pay

For　his　watch；　which　had　purchased　so　fine　a　day。

But　Paul　could　hardly　touch　the　gold；

It　seemed　the　price　of　his　Shadow；　sold。

With　the　first　twilight　he　struck　a　match

And　watched　the　little　blue　stars　hatch

Into　an　egg　of　perfect　flame。

He　lit　his　candle；　and　almost　in　shame

At　his　eagerness；　lifted　his　eyes。

The　Shadow　was　there；　and　its　precise

Outline　etched　the　cold；　white　wall。

The　young　man　swore；　〃By　God！　　You；　Paul；

There's　something　the　matter　with　your　brain。

Go　home　now　and　sleep　off　the　strain。〃





The　next　day　was　a　storm；　the　rain

Whispered　and　scratched　at　the　window…pane。

A　grey　and　shadowless　morning　filled

The　little　shop。　　The　watches；　chilled；

Were　dead　and　sparkless　as　burnt…out　coals。

The　gems　lay　on　the　table　like　shoals

Of　stranded　shells；　their　colours　faded；

Mere　heaps　of　stone；　dull　and　degraded。

Paul's　head　was　heavy；　his　hands　obeyed

No　orders；　for　his　fancy　strayed。

His　work　became　a　simple　round

Of　watches　repaired　and　watches　wound。

The　slanting　ribbons　of　the　rain

Broke　themselves　on　the　window…pane；

But　Paul　saw　the　silver　lines　in　vain。

Only　when　the　candle　was　lit

And　on　the　wall　just　opposite

He　watched　again　the　coming　of　IT；

Could　he　trace　a　line　for　the　joy　of　his　soul

And　over　his　hands　regain　control。





Paul　lingered　late　in　his　shop　that　night

And　the　designs　which　his　delight

Sketched　on　paper　seemed　to　be

A　tribute　offered　wistfully

To　the　beautiful　shadow　of　her　who　came

And　hovered　over　his　candle　flame。

In　the　morning　he　selected　all

His　perfect　jacinths。　　One　large　opal

Hung　like　a　milky；　rainbow　moon

In　the　centre；　and　blown　in　loose　festoon

The　red　stones　quivered　on　silver　threads

To　the　outer　edge；　where　a　single；　fine

Band　of　mother…of…pearl　the　line

Completed。　　On　the　other　side；

The　creamy　porcelain　of　the　face

Bore　diamond　hours；　and　no　lace

Of　cotton　or　silk　could　ever　be

Tossed　into　being　more　airily

Than　the　filmy　golden　hands；　the　time

Seemed　to　tick　away　in　rhyme。

When；　at　dusk；　the　Shadow　grew

Upon　the　wall；　Paul's　work　was　through。

Holding　the　watch；　he　spoke　to　her：

〃Lady；　Beautiful　Shadow；　stir

Into　one　brief　sign　of　being。

Turn　your　eyes　this　way；　and　seeing

This　watch；　made　from　those　sweet　curves

Where　your　hair　from　your　forehead　swerves；

Accept　the　gift　which　I　have　wrought

With　your　fairness　in　my　thought。

Grant　me　this；　and　I　shall　be

Honoured　overwhelmingly。〃



The　Shadow　rested　black　and　still；

And　the　wind　sighed　over　the　window…sill。





Paul　put　the　despised　watch　away

And　laid　out　before　him　his　array

Of　stones　and　metals；　and　when　the　morning

Struck　the　stones　to　their　best　adorning；

He　chose　the　brightest；　and　this　new　watch

Was　so　light　and　thin　it　seemed　to　catch

The　sunlight's　nothingness；　and　its　gleam。

Topazes　ran　in　a　foamy　stream

Over　the　cover；　the　hands　were　studded

With　garnets；　and　seemed　red　roses；　budded。

The　face　was　of　crystal；　and　engraved

Upon　it　the　figures　flashed　and　waved

With　zircons；　and　beryls；　and　amethysts。

It　took　a　week　to　make；　and　his　trysts

At　night　with　the　Shadow　were　his　alone。

Paul　swore　not　to　speak　till　his　task　was　done。

The　night　that　the　jewel　was　worthy　to　give。

Paul　watched　the　long　hours　of　daylight　live

To　the　faintest　streak；　then　lit　his　light；

And　sharp　against　the　wall's　pure　white

The　outline　of　the　Shadow　started

Into　form。　　His　burning…hearted

Words　so　long　imprisoned　swelled

To　tumbling　speech。　　Like　one　compelled；

He　told　the　lady　all　his　love；

And　holding　out　the　watch　above

His　head；　he　knelt；　imploring　some

Littlest　sign。

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　The　Shadow　was　dumb。





Weeks　passed；　Paul　worked　in　fevered　haste；

And　everything　he　made　he　placed

Before　his　lady。　　The　Shadow　kept

Its　perfect　passiveness。　　Paul　wept。

He　wooed　her　with　the　work　of　his　hands；

He　waited　for　those　dear　commands

She　never　gave。　　No　word；　no　motion；

Eased　the　ache　of　his　devotion。

His　days　passed　in　a　strain　of　toil；

His　nights　burnt　up　in　a　seething　coil。

Seasons　shot　by；　uncognisant

He　worked。　　The　Shadow　came　to　haunt

Even　his　days。　　Sometimes　quite　plain

He　saw　on　the　wall　the　blackberry　stain

Of　his　lady's　picture。　　No　sun　was　bright

Enough　to　dazzle　that　from　his　sight。





There　were　moments　when　he　groaned　to　see

His　life　spilled　out　so　uselessly；

Begging　for　boons　the　Shade　refused；

His　finest　workmanship　abused；

The　iridescent　bubbles　he　blew

Into　lovely　existence；　poor　and　few

In　the　shadowed　eyes。　　Then　he　would　curse

Himself　and　her！　　The　Universe！

And　more；　the　beauty　he　could　not　make；

And　give　her；　for　her　comfort's　sake！

He　would　beat　his　weary；　empty　hands

Upon　the　table；　would　hold　up　strands

Of　silver　and　gold；　and　ask　her　why

She　scorned　the　best　which　he　could　buy。

He　would　pray　as　to　some　high…niched　saint；

That　she　would　cure　him　of　the　taint

Of　failure。　　He　would　clutch　the　wall

With　his　bleeding　fingers；　if　she　should　fall

He　could　catch；　and　hold　her；　and　make　her　live！

With　sobs　he　would　ask　her　to　forgive

All　he　had　done。　　And　broken；　spent；

He　would　call　himself　impertinent；

Presumptuous；　a　tradesman；　a　nothing；　driven

To　madness　by　the　sight　of　Heaven。

At　other　times　he　would　take　the　things

He　had　made；　and　winding　them　on　strings；

Hang　garlands　before　her；　and　burn　perfumes；

Chanting　strangely；　while　the　fumes

Wreathed　and　blotted　the　shadow　face；

As　with　a　cloudy；　nacreous　lace。

There　were　days　when　he　wooed　as　a　lover；　sighed

In　tenderness；　spoke　to　his　bride；

Urged　her　to　patience；　said　his　skill

Should　break　the　spell。　　A　man's　sworn　will

Could　compass　life；　even　that；　he　knew。

By　Christ's　Blood！　　He　would　prove　it　true！



The　edge　of　the　Shadow　never　blurred。

The　lips　of　the　Shadow　never　stirred。





He　would　climb　on　chairs　to　reach　her　lips；

And　pat　her　hair　with　his　finger…tips。

But　instead　of　young；　warm　flesh　returning

His　warmth；　the　wall　was　cold　and　burning

Like　stinging　ice；　and　his　passion；　chilled；

Lay　in　his　heart　like　some　dead　thing　killed

At　the　moment　of　birth。　　Then；　deadly　sick；

He　would　lie　in　a　swoon　for　hours；　while　thick

Phantasmagoria　crowded　his　brain；

And　his　body　shrieked　in　the　clutch　of　pain。

The　crisis　passed；　he　would　wake　and　smile

With　a　vacant　joy；　half…imbecile

And　quite　confused；　not　being　certain

Why　he　was　suffering；　a　curtain

Fallen　over　the　tortured　mind　beguiled

His　sorrow。　　Like　a　little　child

He　would　play　with　his　watches　and　gems；　with　glee

Calling　the　Shadow　to　look　and　see

How　the　spots　on　the　ceiling　danced　prettily

When　he　flashed　his　stones。　　〃Mother；　the　green

Has　slid　so　cunningly　in　between

The　blue　and　the　yellow。　　Oh；　please　look　down！〃

Then；　with　a　pitiful；　puzzled　frown；

He　would　get　up　slowly　from　his　play

And　walk　round　the　room；　feeling　his　way

From　table　to　chair；　from　chair　to　door；

Stepping　over　the　cracks　in　the　floor；

Till　reaching　the　table　again；　her　face

Would　bring　recollection；　and　no　solace

Could　balm　his　hurt　till　unconsciousness

Stifled　him　and　his　great　distress。





One　morning　he　threw　the　street　door　wide

On　coming　in；　and　his　vigorous　stride

Made　the　tools　on　his　table　rattle　and　jump。

In　his　hands　he　carried　a　new…burst　clump

Of　laurel　blossoms；　whose　smooth…barked　stalks

Were　p