SPRING MUSIC
Who shall yet come to our earth and sing to us of love? Many have
tried: Sappho and Shakespeare and Dante and Tennyson. Tut! our own
hearts sing better. Yet let a hint be given here and there, to recall
our hearts to the sacred theme.
Eighty wonderful days passed over the earth, though you and I knew it
not. While we were grubbing downtown and eating and sleeping uptown,
Edith and Frank were in the Enchanted Gardens. Enchanted Gardens, by
the way, are everywhere. On mountain tops and in mid-seas, in the
Bermudas or in the Rockies, desolate coasts or democratic prairies. So,
too, are the Enchanted Gardens in the slums of the city. For, after
all, they exist not in stone and water and soil and vegetation; their
dwelling is the human soul.
Edith sits at her typewriter, someone enters, and at once there is
music in the air; or the two walk home together talking intimately; or
they sit in the golden-flooded parlor, the mother darning stockings and
telling them her troubles; or they wander among the people on a perfect
night; or Frank is away in his Pennsylvania with daily interchange of
letters--prosaic enough to the outsider, pure poetry to two of us.
And yet, all this time, not one word of love. Such things can be! How
many times our young man wants to speak out; how many times our young
woman wants to listen. He does not speak, she does not hear. Why?
There are a hundred reasons, light as air. He wants to make good at
his new job; she has qualms about her mother. Marriage must wait. And
why hurry? Is it not enough just to _be_--to know and see and meet and
part, while the days drift by, and earth is full of dream and witchery?
No, in this first sacred passion, no contact is needed, no kiss, no
word of love. The golden air that wraps them is enough.
And all the while Love is ripening the girl. She is fast becoming a
woman; she sees the world now as an assemblage of children. She, the
Mother, has come to it. Grave is the responsibility, sweet the burden.
There are visions of home and little ones and the husband coming from
work at night. Fast is she becoming a woman. Everyone notes it. The new
dignity, the sweet seriousness of eyes, the troubled air, the grace
of carriage. Even her form responds, and seems to bloom, with greater
richness and roundness. Her clothes, too, cease to be girlish. Her
own mother doesn’t know her, she changes so day to day. Her brothers
cease to talk down to her, and are forced to respect her. She is more
tender about the house; she helps thoughtfully; she sympathizes. And
yet, at a moment’s notice, off she flings her new mantle of womanhood,
and is a radiant ecstasy, a whirl of music and laughter, a wildness of
enchantment. Those are moments when she breaks open the kissed letter
in secret, or hears someone’s knock at the door, or casually meets
someone in the street.
And we cannot help admiring Frank. Cynicism, flippancy, indecency are
buried with the wild oats. He has become a serious-mannered man. He
thinks deeply these days. He goes on with his discovery of the world,
and his heartstrings pulse to the life about him. His mother’s cheeks
begin to glow; she ceases to be a shadow. Frank is the most wonderful
son in the world. How thoughtful! Yesterday he brought me a belt-buckle
from Pittsburgh! He never forgets his mother! Everywhere one is with
him, hovering over him, changing him, transforming him. More and more
deep the brute is buried; more and more powerful grows the man. He
does not spend on himself, but saves. His bank account shows the new
Power. He is planning ahead for that little home. And yet he, too, at a
moment’s notice, flings off his new manhood, and is--all that she is.
So young has he become, that he feels he has no past, he feels pure
and good and worthy. Such is the magic of the Enchanted Gardens.
Zug understands; but he is helpless and it is too late, anyhow. He goes
his own way.
Doctor Rast understands, and gets joy from it, being a wise man, and
hence draining good out of all situations.
The mother understands, and, having satisfied herself concerning family
and salary and prospects, is ready to die happily.
All the world knows, and is reminded of its youth, and has its
delighted laugh.
Then comes an ardent summer’s night, after a roasting summer’s day.
Edith and Frank are at Coney Island. They have wandered among the dense
hot people; they have heard blare of brass, and beat of drum; the
carousel has shrieked around; the screaming ladies bumped the bumps;
the laughter-shrill girls shot the chutes. Edith and Frank are tired of
the noise. They wander to the sand, they walk away from the din.
Then, lo, the beauty of the night! Lustrous stars in the still heavens,
ocean running in and out gold against the flare of Coney; breakers with
soft cry thinning on the beach. Oh, the loneliness, the heartache, the
sad music of the sea. Close they walk, and closer. They are both filled
with sadness, unutterable, poignant yearning. They want each other.
Away world! Away you shouting crowds! They want each other--the soul
cries, the flesh cries.
They stand still and listen. How the ocean is yearning, as if for
speech! They droop toward each other. Now enchantment is not enough,
golden air is not enough. Each other they want. Yes, the ripening
process is brought to an issue!
Very close they stand.
“Edith!”
“Frank!”
“Edith--Edith!”
“Oh, Frank!”
He grasps her hand, she does not withdraw it.
“I love you....” he whispers.
“I love you.”
Her arms are about his neck, his about hers. Their lips meet ... and
oh, the heights, the heights ... ecstasy, swooning ecstasy....