| THOUGH not for common praise of him, | |
| Nor yet for pride or charity, | |
| Still would I make to Vanderberg | |
| One tribute for his memory: | |
| |
| One honest warrant of a friend | 5 |
| Who found with him that flesh was grass— | |
| Who neither blamed him in defect | |
| Nor marveled how it came to pass; | |
| |
| Or why it ever was that he— | |
| That Vanderberg, of all good men, | 10 |
| Should lose himself to find himself, | |
| Straightway to lose himself again. | |
| |
| For we had buried Sainte-Nitouche, | |
| And he had said to me that night: | |
| “Yes, we have laid her in the earth, | 15 |
| But what of that?” And he was right. | |
| |
| And he had said: “We have a wife, | |
| We have a child, we have a church; | |
| ’T would be a scurrilous way out | |
| If we should leave them in the lurch. | 20 |
| |
| “That’s why I have you here with me | |
| To-night: you know a talk may take | |
| The place of bromide, cyanide, | |
| Et cetera. For heaven’s sake, | |
| |
| “Why do you look at me like that? | 25 |
| What have I done to freeze you so? | |
| Dear man, you see where friendship means | |
| A few things yet that you don’t know; | |
| |
| “And you see partly why it is | |
| That I am glad for what is gone: | 30 |
| For Sainte-Nitouche and for the world | |
| In me that followed. What lives on— | |
| |
| “Well, here you have it: here at home— | |
| For even home will yet return. | |
| You know the truth is on my side, | 35 |
| And that will make the embers burn. | |
| |
| “I see them brighten while I speak, | |
| I see them flash,—and they are mine! | |
| You do not know them, but I do: | |
| I know the way they used to shine. | 40 |
| |
| “And I know more than I have told | |
| Of other life that is to be: | |
| I shall have earned it when it comes, | |
| And when it comes I shall be free. | |
| |
| “Not as I was before she came, | 45 |
| But farther on for having been | |
| The servitor, the slave of her— | |
| The fool, you think. But there’s your sin— | |
| |
| “Forgive me!—and your ignorance: | |
| Could you but have the vision here | 50 |
| That I have, you would understand | |
| As I do that all ways are clear | |
| |
| “For those who dare to follow them | |
| With earnest eyes and honest feet. | |
| But Sainte-Nitouche has made the way | 55 |
| For me, and I shall find it sweet. | |
| |
| “Sweet with a bitter sting left?—Yes, | |
| Bitter enough, God knows, at first; | |
| But there are more steep ways than one | |
| To make the best look like the worst; | 60 |
| |
| “And here is mine—the dark and hard, | |
| For me to follow, trust, and hold: | |
| And worship, so that I may leave | |
| No broken story to be told. | |
| |
| “Therefore I welcome what may come, | 65 |
| Glad for the days, the nights, the years.”— | |
| An upward flash of ember-flame | |
| Revealed the gladness in his tears. | |
| |
| “You see them, but you know,” said he, | |
| “Too much to be incredulous: | 70 |
| You know the day that makes us wise, | |
| The moment that makes fools of us. | |
| |
| “So I shall follow from now on | |
| The road that she has found for me: | |
| The dark and starry way that leads | 75 |
| Right upward, and eternally. | |
| |
| “Stumble at first? I may do that; | |
| And I may grope, and hate the night; | |
| But there’s a guidance for the man | |
| Who stumbles upward for the light, | 80 |
| |
| “And I shall have it all from her, | |
| The foam-born child of innocence. | |
| I feel you smiling while I speak, | |
| But that’s of little consequence; | |
| |
| “For when we learn that we may find | 85 |
| The truth where others miss the mark, | |
| What is it worth for us to know | |
| That friends are smiling in the dark? | |
| |
| “Could we but share the lonely pride | |
| Of knowing, all would then be well; | 90 |
| But knowledge often writes itself | |
| In flaming words we cannot spell. | |
| |
| “And I, who have my work to do, | |
| Look forward; and I dare to see, | |
| Far stretching and all mountainous, | 95 |
| God’s pathway through the gloom for me.” | |
| |
| I found so little to say then | |
| That I said nothing.—“Say good-night,” | |
| Said Vanderberg; “and when we meet | |
| To-morrow, tell me I was right. | 100 |
| |
| “Forget the dozen other things | |
| That you have not the faith to say; | |
| For now I know as well as you | |
| That you are glad to go away.” | |
| |
| I could have blessed the man for that, | 105 |
| And he could read me with a smile: | |
| “You doubt,” said he, “but if we live | |
| You’ll know me in a little while.” | |
| |
| He lived; and all as he foretold, | |
| I knew him—better than he thought: | 110 |
| My fancy did not wholly dig | |
| The pit where I believed him caught. | |
| |
| But yet he lived and laughed, and preached, | |
| And worked—as only players can: | |
| He scoured the shrine that once was home | 115 |
| And kept himself a clergyman. | |
| |
| The clockwork of his cold routine | |
| Put friends far off that once were near; | |
| The five staccatos in his laugh | |
| Were too defensive and too clear; | 120 |
| |
| The glacial sermons that he preached | |
| Were longer than they should have been; | |
| And, like the man who fashioned them, | |
| The best were too divinely thin. | |
| |
| But still he lived, and moved, and had | 125 |
| The sort of being that was his, | |
| Till on a day the shrine of home | |
| For him was in the Mysteries:— | |
| |
| “My friend, there’s one thing yet,” said he, | |
| “And one that I have never shared | 130 |
| With any man that I have met; | |
| But you—you know me.” And he stared | |
| |
| For a slow moment at me then | |
| With conscious eyes that had the gleam, | |
| The shine, before the stroke:—“You know | 135 |
| The ways of us, the way we dream: | |
| |
| “You know the glory we have won, | |
| You know the glamour we have lost; | |
| You see me now, you look at me,— | |
| And yes, you pity me, almost; | 140 |
| |
| “But never mind the pity—no, | |
| Confess the faith you can’t conceal; | |
| And if you frown, be not like one | |
| Of those who frown before they feel. | |
| |
| “For there is truth, and half truth,—yes, | 145 |
| And there’s a quarter truth, no doubt; | |
| But mine was more than half.… You smile? | |
| You understand? You bear me out? | |
| |
| “You always knew that I was right— | |
| You are my friend—and I have tried | 150 |
| Your faith—your love.”—The gleam grew small, | |
| The stroke was easy, and he died. | |
| |
| I saw the dim look change itself | |
| To one that never will be dim; | |
| I saw the dead flesh to the grave, | 155 |
| But that was not the last of him. | |
| |
| For what was his to live lives yet: | |
| Truth, quarter truth, death cannot reach; | |
| Nor is it always what we know | |
| That we are fittest here to teach. | 160 |
| |
| The fight goes on when fields are still, | |
| The triumph clings when arms are down; | |
| The jewels of all coronets | |
| Are pebbles of the unseen crown; | |
| |
| The specious weight of loud reproof | 165 |
| Sinks where a still conviction floats; | |
| And on God’s ocean after storm | |
| Time’s wreckage is half pilot-boats; | |
| |
| And what wet faces wash to sight | |
| Thereafter feed the common moan:— | 170 |
| But Vanderberg no pilot had, | |
| Nor could have: he was all alone. | |
| |
| Unchallenged by the larger light | |
| The starry quest was his to make; | |
| And of all ways that are for men, | 175 |
| The starry way was his to take. | |
| |
| We grant him idle names enough | |
| To-day, but even while we frown | |
| The fight goes on, the triumph clings, | |
| And there is yet the unseen crown | 180 |
| |
| But was it his? Did Vanderberg | |
| Find half truth to be passion’s thrall, | |
| Or as we met him day by day, | |
| Was love triumphant, after all? | |
| |
| I do not know so much as that; | 185 |
| I only know that he died right: | |
| Saint Anthony nor Sainte-Nitouche | |
| Had ever smiled as he did—quite. | |
