Classic Poem

I remember well the house in which Marnia lived,
the largest house in our neighborhood — —
a dark brown house with a cupola, and with lightning rods and a weather vane — —
an imposing structure that seemed to stand aloof from the houses about it.
I remember as well the dark back garden — —
a garden gloomy with the shade of many plum trees,
and overgrown with lilies of the valley and with rank grass.
I remember both.
I remember Marnia.
I remember her mother.
I remember her lover.

The garden, shut in by a high and dark brown picket fence with a gate that was almost always locked,
was forbidden to us children of the neighborhood.
To us the garden seemed of itself forbidding,
not less forbidding than Marnia, or the mother, or even the lover — —
Marnia, pallid, tenuous, taciturn, forbidding because she seemed somehow never to see us children — —
the mother, statesque, inscrutable, mute, forbidding because she seemed to frown at us through the pickets — —
the lover, handsome, stylish, bland, forbidding because he seemed to possess an air of owning the garden.
It was forbidding — —
and so was the house,
from which there never issued familiar odors
such as of onions frying, cabbage boiling, or meat simmering in the spider;
and from which there never issued familiar noises
such as of pans rattling, doors slamming, or voices calling out from room to room. From the back verandah
there came the sound of repressed laughter,
whenever Marnia and other girls were chatting there together;
and often at twilight there came from the parlor — —
which was dimly lighted if lighted at all — —
the sound of a piano played by Marnia,
who always played softly, on the lower keys,
and who often sang, always lowly, as if to another.
But the house was always odorless and almost always forbiddingly quiet.
The windows of paneled glass were impressively clear and clean.
The paneled inner shutters were always closed at the bottom.

I remember well what I heard said about the lover — —
Terence, the Irish upstart, offspring of a woman who ran a dive.
It was remarked that he was a drunkard, a sport, an irresponsible lout.
It was remarked that he was unfaithful — —
that he was known to have an affair with a woman other than Marnia,
a certain married woman, the wife of an eminent lawyer.

I remember much that I heard said about Marnia and her lover together.
I heard it said that Terence, drunk, once went with Marnia to a ball — —
one given in honor of the Governor — —
and that he had to be led through all the dances.
I heard it said that Marnia danced with Terence only;
and that, when leaving for home with her fuddled lover,
she proudly helped him to descend the stairs, on the last of which
he reeled, senseless, to fall to the floor of the lobby and sprawl there.
I heard it said that Marnia quietly called for a carriage,
and rode away quite unperturbedly,
with Terence in a state of collapse beside her.

There was a time that Marnia was ill for many weeks, mysteriously ill,
during which time the lover came not once to the house.
I heard it said that Terence had given her over.
Certain other things were said in whispers,
accompanied with shrugs, leers, nods.
I remember that during those many weeks,
the mother often sat alone in the garden.
I heard it said by the neighbors that she was by nature sullen.
I heard it said of the mother that she seemed actually
to approve of the way that Marnia carried on with Terence.

One afternoon, however, with Marnia convalescent,
Terence appeared again at the house.
Next morning Marnia was seen for a moment at a window.
After that morning she was often seen with Terence.
At times she lay in a hammock on the dark verandah,
with Terence sitting beside her.
At other times she sat in a large upholstered chair in the dark garden,
with Terence sitting at her feet.
At first they talked not much, and never save in murmurs;
but later they talked more, much more, as if with more assurance.
At length they strolled together about the garden — —
Terence often supporting her tenderly, concernedly,
and each speaking in dulcet undertones to the other.
By latter July, few roses were left living.
There were none in the dark garden, for none ever grew there;
but just outside the picket fence, in another garden, a sunny garden,
there was a lone rose bush growing, and on it there were still in bloom a few plain roses.
One afternoon, while the lovers lingered in the dark garden — —
face to face, under the branches of a plum tree — —
the breezes, capricious, rapturous, teasing the pregnant branches — —
Marnia reached impulsively through the picket fence,
and plucked a warm rose from the bush in the sunny garden.
She laughed.
She pinned the rose on Terence.
Across her face, upturned to his, there passed an aureate flash — —
one that stole through the foliage of the plum tree under which they stood.
I shall never forget her countenance.
I shall never forget the countenance of Terence.
I have never had upturned to me a countenance such as that of Marnia,
as it was at that moment.
I have never since beheld a countenance such as that of Terence,
as it was at the time.

By latter August the winds began to shudder and whine.
The lovers, who had passed the afternoons in the garden, all summer,
conversing in dulcet voice or laughing thus,
but who had said their say, perhaps,
now read aloud to each other, or played at chess.

But one day Marnia sat alone in the garden.
She waited.
She read.
Shuddering, whining, the winds moved nervously through the pickets.
They jostled the branches of the plum trees.
They jostled the branches of the rose bush in the sunny garden.
But Marnia waited.
She glanced up frequently toward the street.
Once, as if startled, she glanced behind her.
She waited, reading, glancing up, all that afternoon.


But now, suddenly, there appeared a hack, an empty hack, which drew up at the front door.
The driver hurriedly rang the doorbell, hurriedly spoke to the mother.
Marnia dropped her book.
She ran across the lawn.
She listened.
She disappeared indoors while the driver was talking.
She reappeared, veiled, and in silence.
In silence she entered the hack.
In silence the mother drew back into the house, and closed the door.
I heard within an hour that Terence was dead.
I heard that Terence was killed in a drunken brawl
caused by his having resented a slur against the name of Marnia.
I heard it said that Marnia reached the bedside of her lover
in time to hear him whisper her name, and to receive a last kiss.
I heard it said that she sat alone, long, by the dead man,
and that she kissed the distracted mother.
I heard it said that she rode to the grave, when Terence was buried.

I never again saw Marnia.
I often heard moans that came from a certain chamber window — —
and once, in the night, I heard a shriek or two from the cupola.
During the autumn I saw her mother, silent, apparently indifferent,
or oblivious even, standing alone in the garden.
But I remember no more of either one,
for in autumn the doors of the houses began to close,
the double windows were fastened to the casements,
and the neighbors began to discuss the approach of winter.