men, women and ghosts(男人、女人和鬼魂)-第22节
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with a spear； I confess。 Something allegorical and fine。 Why； yes
I cannot take my eyes from him。 I don't know why at all。 I've looked
so long the whole thing swims。 I feel he ought to fall。 Foreshortened
there among the clouds he's pitifully small。
What do you say？ There used to be an Emperor standing there； With
flowing robes and laurel crown。 Really？ Yet I declare Those spiral
battles round the shaft don't seem just his affair。
A togaed； laurelled man's I mean。 Now this chap seems to feel As
though he owned those soldiers。 Whew！ How he makes one reel；
Swinging round above his circling armies in a wheel。
Sweeping round the sky in an orbit like the sun's； Flashing sparks like
cannon…balls from his own long guns。 Perhaps my sight is tired； but that
figure simply stuns。
How low the houses seem； and all the people are mere flies。 That
fellow pokes his hat up till it scratches on the skies。 Impudent！
Audacious！ But； by Jove； he blinds the eyes！
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Men； Women and Ghosts
War Pictures
The Allies
August 14th； 1914
Into the brazen； burnished sky； the cry hurls itself。 The zigzagging
cry of hoarse throats； it floats against the hard winds； and binds the head of
the serpent to its tail； the long snail…slow serpent of marching men。 Men
weighed down with rifles and knapsacks； and parching with war。 The cry
jars and splits against the brazen； burnished sky。
This is the war of wars； and the cause？ Has this writhing worm of
men a cause？
Crackling against the polished sky is an eagle with a sword。 The
eagle is red and its head is flame。
In the shoulder of the worm is a teacher。
His tongue laps the war…sucked air in drought； but he yells defiance at
the red…eyed eagle； and in his ears are the bells of new philosophies； and
their tinkling drowns the sputter of the burning sword。 He shrieks； 〃God
damn you！ When you are broken； the word will strike out new shoots。〃
His boots are tight； the sun is hot； and he may be shot； but he is in the
shoulder of the worm。
A dust speck in the worm's belly is a poet。
He laughs at the flaring eagle and makes a long nose with his fingers。
He will fight for smooth； white sheets of paper； and uncurdled ink。 The
sputtering sword cannot make him blink； and his thoughts are wet and
rippling。 They cool his heart。
He will tear the eagle out of the sky and give the earth tranquillity； and
loveliness printed on white paper。
The eye of the serpent is an owner of mills。
He looks at the glaring sword which has snapped his machinery and
struck away his men。
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Men； Women and Ghosts
But it will all come again； when the sword is broken to a million dying
stars； and there are no more wars。
Bankers； butchers； shop…keepers； painters； farmers men； sway and
sweat。 They will fight for the earth； for the increase of the slow； sure roots
of peace； for the release of hidden forces。 They jibe at the eagle and his
scorching sword。
One！ Two！ One！ Two！ clump the heavy boots。 The cry
hurtles against the sky。
Each man pulls his belt a little tighter； and shifts his gun to make it
lighter。 Each man thinks of a woman； and slaps out a curse at the eagle。
The sword jumps in the hot sky； and the worm crawls on to the battle；
stubbornly。
This is the war of wars； from eye to tail the serpent has one cause：
PEACE！
The Bombardment
Slowly； without force； the rain drops into the city。 It stops a moment
on the carved head of Saint John； then slides on again； slipping and
trickling over his stone cloak。 It splashes from the lead conduit of a
gargoyle； and falls from it in turmoil on the stones in the Cathedral square。
Where are the people； and why does the fretted steeple sweep about in the
sky？ Boom！ The sound swings against the rain。 Boom； again！ After it；
only water rushing in the gutters； and the turmoil from the spout of the
gargoyle。 Silence。 Ripples and mutters。 Boom！
The room is damp； but warm。 Little flashes swarm about from the
firelight。 The lustres of the chandelier are bright； and clusters of rubies
leap in the bohemian glasses on the ‘etagere'。 Her hands are restless； but
the white masses of her hair are quite still。 Boom！ Will it never cease
to torture； this iteration！ Boom！ The vibration shatters a glass on the
‘etagere'。 It lies there； formless and glowing； with all its crimson gleams
shot out of pattern； spilled； flowing red； blood…red。 A thin bell…note
pricks through the silence。 A door creaks。 The old lady speaks： 〃Victor；
clear away that broken glass。〃 〃Alas！ Madame； the bohemian glass！〃
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Men； Women and Ghosts
〃Yes； Victor； one hundred years ago my father brought it 〃 Boom！
The room shakes； the servitor quakes。 Another goblet shivers and breaks。
Boom！
It rustles at the window…pane； the smooth； streaming rain； and he is
shut within its clash and murmur。 Inside is his candle； his table； his ink；
his pen； and his dreams。 He is thinking； and the walls are pierced with
beams of sunshine； slipping through young green。 A fountain tosses
itself up at the blue sky； and through the spattered water in the basin he
can see copper carp； lazily floating among cold leaves。 A wind…harp in a
cedar…tree grieves and whispers； and words blow into his brain； bubbled；
iridescent； shooting up like flowers of fire； higher and higher。 Boom！
The flame…flowers snap on their slender stems。 The fountain rears up in
long broken spears of dishevelled water and flattens into the earth。
Boom！ And there is only the room； the table； the candle； and the sliding
rain。 Again； Boom！ Boom！ Boom！ He stuffs his fingers into his ears。
He sees corpses； and cries out in fright。 Boom！ It is night； and they are
shelling the city！ Boom！ Boom！
A child wakes and is afraid； and weeps in the darkness。 What has
made the bed shake？ 〃Mother； where are you？ I am awake。〃 〃Hush；
my Darling； I am here。〃 〃But； Mother； something so queer happened； the
room shook。〃 Boom！ 〃Oh！ What is it？ What is the matter？〃 Boom！
〃Where is Father？ I am so afraid。〃 Boom！ The child sobs and shrieks。
The house trembles and creaks。 Boom！
Retorts； globes； tubes； and phials lie shattered。 All his trials oozing
across the floor。 The life that was his choosing； lonely； urgent； goaded by
a hope； all gone。 A weary man in a ruined laboratory； that is his story。
Boom！ Gloom and ignorance； and the jig of drunken brutes。 Diseases
like snakes crawling over the earth； leaving trails of slime。 Wails from
people burying their dead。 Through the window； he can see the rocking
steeple。 A ball of fire falls on the lead of the roof； and the sky tears apart
on a spike of flame。 Up the spire； behind the lacings of stone； zigzagging
in and out of the carved tracings； squirms the fire。 It spouts like yellow
wheat from the gargoyles； coils round the head of Saint John； and aureoles
him in light。 It leaps into the night and hisses against the rain。 The
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Men； Women and Ghosts
Cathedral is a burning stain on the white； wet night。
Boom！ The Cathedral is a torch； and the houses next to it begin to
scorch。 Boom！ The bohemian glass on the ‘etagere' is no longer there。
Boom！ A s
