Eighteen ninety-eight. Eighteen ninety-nine. Nineteen hundred.
Thirty-five--thirty-six--thirty-seven. Three years. Her mind kept on
stretching; it held three years in one span like one year. The large
rhythm of time appeased and exalted her.
In the long summers while Mamma worked in the garden she translated
_Euripides_.
The _Bacchae_. You could do it after you had read Whitman. If you gave up
the superstition of singing; the little tunes of rhyme. If you left off
that eternal jingling and listened, you could hear what it ought to be.
Something between talking and singing. If you wrote verse that could be
chanted: that could be whispered, shouted, screamed as they moved. Agave
and her Maenads. Verse that would go with a throbbing beat, excited,
exciting; beyond rhyme. That would be nearest to the Greek verse.
* * * * *
September, nineteen hundred.
Across the room she could see the pale buff-coloured magazine, on the
table where, five minutes ago, Mamma had laid it down. She could see the
black letters of its title and the squat column of the table of contents.
The magazine with her poem in it.
And Mamma, sitting very straight, very still.
You would never know what she was thinking. She hadn't said anything. You
couldn't tell whether she was glad or sorry; or whether she was afraid.
The air tingled with the thought of the magazine with your poem in it.
But you would never know what she was thinking.