Classic Poem

There was a glamour to the uttered name
of Anne Bard. Even as a boy I thrilled
whenever I might hear her spoken of — —
too often with a broad slur, even by men — —
thrilled much as to the mention of a princess;
and with the chivalry of some proud knight
who never believed ill, or never cared — —
though all too well he knew the common truth — —
I scorned the babble of dispargement.
Only once did I ever see Anne Bard — —
and only in my boyhood. It was May.
One morning, late, while rolling hoop about the quieter streets,
I came to the old Bard mansion — —
a venerable structure, rectangular, white, with green blinds,
and proudly ensconced in a lawn of spacious frontage,
a hedged lawn,
dividing which,
there was a brick walk bordered with poplars — —
and, as I passed by the mansion,
I saw the paneled front door open,
and a beautiful woman emerge from the hallway, a gloomy hallway,
in which there hung a crystal chandelier.
I paused.
I stared.
I felt that the woman was Anne Bard.
I had heard her described, many times.
I had heard my mother speak of her as equally bad and beautiful.
For Anne was a beautiful woman — —
a mincingly graceful woman — —
a tiny brunette with delicate features decadently classic,
and with tiny hands and feet,
nervous hands,
nervous feet.
She was rouged and powdered.
She wore a black silk dress well beaded with jet — —
a black velvet hat, its broad rim tilted,
the crown encircled by a plume, a large black ostrich plume.
Her feet were slippered in soft black kid.
As she approached by the long brick walk, she fitted black kid gloves to her tiny fingers.
At her breast she wore big violets.
I stepped aside.
She saw me.
She smiled.
She paused.
She pinched my chin.
She entered a brougham waiting at the curb.
I stared at her.
I startled to the thud of the closing door.
I drew back.
Still staring,
I saw her button her gloves about her fragile wrists.
Watching her as she drove away,
I saw her touch the violets at her breast.

I was now alone on the street. It was an old and inhospitably quiet street,
flanking which, at either hand, there were venerable mansions with broad lawns,
and bordering which, on either side, there ranged enormous elms
all proudly and even austerely arching, almost spanning the overhead — —
almost condescending to contact, row with row. I ran on,
for after the vision of Anne the street seemed eery.

And now it was early September.
The yellowing leaves of the elms were already beginning to fall,
by twos,
by threes,
all silently — —
imperviously, in the manner of the proud who are fully aware. One afternoon,
as I was going home from school, whistling, and almost at a run — —
as usual by the shortest way, the street on which the last Bards lived — —
I noticed a hack drawn up at the curb by the Bard mansion. Drawing near,
I saw that the door was ajar, and that it was held thus. Glancing in,
I saw there a fellow about town, a young fellow, foppishly dressed,
and wearing an ebony cane with ivory head. He held violets.
He beckoned for me to approach. Now handing me the flowers, with a note,
he asked me, earnestly, confusedly, if I would take them to Anne Bard — —
if I would wait for a note from Anne.

I ran to the door of the Bard mansion.
A youthful negro servant opened the door, took the flowers,
with the note, and told me to wait in the hallway — —
the gloomy hallway in which there hung the crystal chandelier.
The negro disappeared.
I waited.
I looked about me.
There was a massive pierglass framed in gilt,
the standards of which were huge claws, gilded. On either side,
there stood a tall bronze candelabrum,
the support of which was the figure of an urchin, laughing — —
a saucy urchin with naked buttocks extended.
The floor of the hallway was marble — —
a mosaic in black and white. Before the entrance to the double parlor,
there sprawled a rug of leopard hide. In the double doorway,
there hung a filmy portiere of beads, figured, gaudy — —
its dangling strands now tinkling to the movements of a playful cat.
I peered into the double parlor.
I saw there a grand piano, its case rosewood,
its closed lid covered with a scarf of opalescent silk, and arrayed
with two large jars of turquoise porcelain, glimmering,
ornate with designs in gold.
I saw mahogany furniture upholstered with brocade.
I saw in an alcove a lifesized cast of the David of Michelangelo.
I waited.
I gazed.
I listened.
I heard what I thought was a distant coughing, a strangulation, violent, protracted.
I waited, listening, gazing about me, until the negro reappeared,
to give me a note — —
a perfumed note.
I took the note to the fellow in the hack.

I told my mother what I had done. My mother frowned. Then and there,
she forbade me ever again to enter the Bard mansion. Later on,
I overheard her telling all to a woman visiting with us, and now found out
all that I was not supposed to know about Anne Bard. Repressed,
cold, clear, autumnal, the voices came to me in the garden — —

" She was extravagant — —
an unconscionable spendthrift. All her perfumes came from Europe, with almost all her apparel — —
slippers, coats, dresses, nightgowns even. Her jewels were flawless.
A cameo that she often wore was the work of Cellini. "

" She was debauched — —
a confirmed roisterer. Once of a Saturday night, not long ago, she held high rout,
and all night long and into the Sabbath dawn there came from her open windows
the noise of laughing, singing, stamping, with now together a crash and a shriek. The men of the crowd
would hold up drinks, on trays, and dare the women to kick them over.
At dawn the neighbors called the police. "

" Anne was unfaithful — —
an unscrupulous flirt. Even in girlhood she was unfaithful. Was it not because of her,
that young Preble went to the belfry of the mill that his father owned, and there
killed himself by shooting through the heart? "

" She is unchastened — —
an impervious trifler. Even now, in her last illness, even on her deathbed, she makes diversion
of allowing her rings to slip from her shrunken fingers, for the cat to play with. Having done so,
she laughs like a child at the frolic of the cat. She laughs at death itself. "

I overhead these things.
I overheard things other than these, and among such — —
that Anne loved violets, and that every day a certain persistent lover
drove to her door with violets, always with violets. He never entered.
She would not let him enter, none knew why, none really knew — —
though it was thought that she loved him, if ever any man.
It was thought that she kept him at a distance only
because she really loved him. Or did she herself want one illusion?

If afterward I saw a hack at the Bard curb, I ran straight by — —
or took the other side of the street. Only a few days afterward,
I noticed a phaeton at the curb, the phaeton of our family doctor.
I had not seen it there before, but only by reason of mere chance — —
as I found out when I told my mother what I had seen. For many weeks
the doctor had been calling there, once a day and sometimes twice — —
but I had been at school, or abed. Once when the doctor called at our house,
I heard my mother mention Anne. I heard the doctor speak in the undertone — —
much too lowly for me to hear a word. I thought I heard my mother sigh.
I now frequently saw the phaeton at the Bard curb — —
and frequently the hack to be avoided. But never a carriage
driven up with an air of concern, or anxiety, or patronage even — —
never a neighbor on the brick walk, either coming or going.
I saw a group of young folk leaving the mansion, chattering, laughing — —
but never a person with troubled countenance, tearful eye. One evening, however,
as I was hastening home, late, or later than the curfew hour,
I saw an elderly woman leaving the mansion. I thought I knew her.
I hid behind an elm. I peered at the woman. I saw my mother.
Next morning I waited to hear some mention of the visit. There was no mention.
There now began a dark and lengthening storm of unabating rain. It rained for days,
and one day there appeared a crepe on the door of the Bard mansion — —
a black crepe flapping savagely in the wind,
a vampire clinging viciously to the knocker — —
distorted, draggled, and yet clinging, clinging,
bestially jealous of its rightful hold.

It was in latter autumn that Anne died.
I remember the day of burial.
I remember the splendor of the sky,
the deep and cloudless blue, desolately clear — —
the sun absorbed in thoughts of its own splendor.
The air was chilly, desolately pure — —
half cruel and half desolate. The winds,
inane, uproarious, all unscrupulous,
made the leaves restive, teased them, wheedled them,
dying and dead alike, whether the gaudy
or the dun, or tore them from the heedless trees.
I lingered by the church. I listened there,
now to the organ and the ancient chant — —
now to the mimic moaning of the winds
that raked the ivy on the stone façade.
I lingered there until the chanting ceased.
I saw the ornate casket. It was borne
by aged men who did the thing for hire.
The mother, noticeably lachrymose,
conspicuously veiled in trailing black
that streamed or flouted weirdly, savagely,
clung to the younger sister of the dead — —
to Rosalind, who seemed not to have wept,
but in whose downward glance there lurked a woe,
as in the sidewise glance meant for the mother
a poiseful tolerance, a subtle scorn.
Behind them walked a few courageous friends,
last among whom there moved the foppish fellow — —
he who had sent the note by me, to Anne.
I noticed on the lid a flowery scarf
woven of violets.

I lingered there,
entranced, and quite oblivious of the cold,
until the door of the last hack closed, its thud,
eerily muffled, ending a slow rhythm
of many such, and yet not rousing me.
I lingered, half oblivious of change,
even until the last hack disappeared
in gyres of leaves raised high by sportive winds
forcing upon the world a merry death.