Edwin Arlington Robinson (1869–1935). Collected Poems. 1921.
III. Captain Craig, Etc.11. Sainte-Nitouche
T
Nor yet for pride or charity,
Still would I make to Vanderberg
One tribute for his memory:
Who found with him that flesh was grass—
Who neither blamed him in defect
Nor marveled how it came to pass;
That Vanderberg, of all good men,
Should lose himself to find himself,
Straightway to lose himself again.
And he had said to me that night:
“Yes, we have laid her in the earth,
But what of that?” And he was right.
We have a child, we have a church;
’T would be a scurrilous way out
If we should leave them in the lurch.
To-night: you know a talk may take
The place of bromide, cyanide,
Et cetera. For heaven’s sake,
What have I done to freeze you so?
Dear man, you see where friendship means
A few things yet that you don’t know;
That I am glad for what is gone:
For Sainte-Nitouche and for the world
In me that followed. What lives on—
For even home will yet return.
You know the truth is on my side,
And that will make the embers burn.
I see them flash,—and they are mine!
You do not know them, but I do:
I know the way they used to shine.
Of other life that is to be:
I shall have earned it when it comes,
And when it comes I shall be free.
But farther on for having been
The servitor, the slave of her—
The fool, you think. But there’s your sin—
Could you but have the vision here
That I have, you would understand
As I do that all ways are clear
With earnest eyes and honest feet.
But Sainte-Nitouche has made the way
For me, and I shall find it sweet.
Bitter enough, God knows, at first;
But there are more steep ways than one
To make the best look like the worst;
For me to follow, trust, and hold:
And worship, so that I may leave
No broken story to be told.
Glad for the days, the nights, the years.”—
An upward flash of ember-flame
Revealed the gladness in his tears.
“Too much to be incredulous:
You know the day that makes us wise,
The moment that makes fools of us.
The road that she has found for me:
The dark and starry way that leads
Right upward, and eternally.
And I may grope, and hate the night;
But there’s a guidance for the man
Who stumbles upward for the light,
The foam-born child of innocence.
I feel you smiling while I speak,
But that’s of little consequence;
The truth where others miss the mark,
What is it worth for us to know
That friends are smiling in the dark?
Of knowing, all would then be well;
But knowledge often writes itself
In flaming words we cannot spell.
Look forward; and I dare to see,
Far stretching and all mountainous,
God’s pathway through the gloom for me.”
That I said nothing.—“Say good-night,”
Said Vanderberg; “and when we meet
To-morrow, tell me I was right.
That you have not the faith to say;
For now I know as well as you
That you are glad to go away.”
And he could read me with a smile:
“You doubt,” said he, “but if we live
You’ll know me in a little while.”
I knew him—better than he thought:
My fancy did not wholly dig
The pit where I believed him caught.
And worked—as only players can:
He scoured the shrine that once was home
And kept himself a clergyman.
Put friends far off that once were near;
The five staccatos in his laugh
Were too defensive and too clear;
Were longer than they should have been;
And, like the man who fashioned them,
The best were too divinely thin.
The sort of being that was his,
Till on a day the shrine of home
For him was in the Mysteries:—
“And one that I have never shared
With any man that I have met;
But you—you know me.” And he stared
With conscious eyes that had the gleam,
The shine, before the stroke:—“You know
The ways of us, the way we dream:
You know the glamour we have lost;
You see me now, you look at me,—
And yes, you pity me, almost;
Confess the faith you can’t conceal;
And if you frown, be not like one
Of those who frown before they feel.
And there’s a quarter truth, no doubt;
But mine was more than half.… You smile?
You understand? You bear me out?
You are my friend—and I have tried
Your faith—your love.”—The gleam grew small,
The stroke was easy, and he died.
To one that never will be dim;
I saw the dead flesh to the grave,
But that was not the last of him.
Truth, quarter truth, death cannot reach;
Nor is it always what we know
That we are fittest here to teach.
The triumph clings when arms are down;
The jewels of all coronets
Are pebbles of the unseen crown;
Sinks where a still conviction floats;
And on God’s ocean after storm
Time’s wreckage is half pilot-boats;
Thereafter feed the common moan:—
But Vanderberg no pilot had,
Nor could have: he was all alone.
The starry quest was his to make;
And of all ways that are for men,
The starry way was his to take.
To-day, but even while we frown
The fight goes on, the triumph clings,
And there is yet the unseen crown
Find half truth to be passion’s thrall,
Or as we met him day by day,
Was love triumphant, after all?
I only know that he died right:
Saint Anthony nor Sainte-Nitouche
Had ever smiled as he did—quite.