The Shadow
Paul Jannes was working very late,For this watch must be done by eightTo-morrow or the CardinalWould certainly be vexed. Of allHis customers the old prelateWas the most important, for his stateDescended to his watches and rings,And he gave his mistresses many thingsTo make them forget his age and smileWhen he paid visits, and they could whileThe time away with a diamond locketExceedingly well. So they picked his pocket,And he paid in jewels for his slobbering kisses.This watch was made to buy him blissesFrom an Austrian countess on her wayHome, and she meant to start next day.
Paul worked by the pointed, tulip-flameOf a tallow candle, and becameSo absorbed, that his old clock made him winceStriking the hour a moment since.Its echo, only half apprehended,Lingered about the room. He endedScrewing the little rubies in,Setting the wheels to lock and spin,Curling the infinitesimal springs,Fixing the filigree hands. ChippingsOf precious stones lay strewn about.The table before him was a routOf splashes and sparks of coloured light.There was yellow gold in sheets, and quiteA heap of emeralds, and steel.Here was a gem, there was a wheel.And glasses lay like limpid lakesShining and still, and there were flakesOf silver, and shavings of pearl,And little wires all awhirlWith the light of the candle. He took the watchAnd wound its hands about to matchThe time, then glanced up to take the hourFrom the hanging clock.Good, Merciful Power!How came that shadow on the wall,No woman was in the room! His tallChiffonier stood gaunt behindHis chair. His old cloak, rabbit-lined,Hung from a peg. The door was closed.Just for a moment he must have dozed.He looked again, and saw it plain.The silhouette made a blue-black stainOn the opposite wall, and it never waveredEven when the candle quaveredUnder his panting breath. What madeThat beautiful, dreadful thing, that shadeOf something so lovely, so exquisite,Cast from a substance which the sightHad not been tutored to perceive?Paul brushed his eyes across his sleeve.
Clear-cut, the Shadow on the wallGleamed black, and never moved at all.
Paul’s watches were like amulets,Wrought into patterns and rosettes;The cases were all set with stones,And wreathing lines, and shining zones.He knew the beauty in a curve,And the Shadow tortured every nerveWith its perfect rhythm of outlineCutting the whitewashed wall. So fineWas the neck he knew he could have spannedIt about with the fingers of one hand.The chin rose to a mouth he guessed,But could not see, the lips were pressedLoosely together, the edges close,And the proud and delicate line of the noseMelted into a brow, and thereBroke into undulant waves of hair.The lady was edged with the stamp of race.A singular vision in such a place.
He moved the candle to the tallChiffonier; the Shadow stayed on the wall.He threw his cloak upon a chair,And still the lady’s face was there.From every corner of the roomHe saw, in the patch of light, the gloomThat was the lady. Her violet bloomWas almost brighter than that which cameFrom his candle’s tulip-flame.He set the filigree hands; he laidThe watch in the case which he had made;He put on his rabbit cloak, and snuffedHis candle out. The room seemed stuffedWith darkness. Softly he crossed the floor,And let himself out through the door.
The sun was flashing from every pinAnd wheel, when Paul let himself in.The whitewashed walls were hot with light.The room was the core of a chrysolite,Burning and shimmering with fiery might.The sun was so bright that no shadow could fallFrom the furniture upon the wall.Paul sighed as he looked at the empty spaceWhere a glare usurped the lady’s place.He settled himself to his work, but his mindWandered, and he would wake to findHis hand suspended, his eyes grown dim,And nothing advanced beyond the rimOf his dreaming. The Cardinal sent to payFor his watch, which had purchased so fine a day.But Paul could hardly touch the gold,It seemed the price of his Shadow, sold.With the first twilight he struck a matchAnd watched the little blue stars hatchInto an egg of perfect flame.He lit his candle, and almost in shameAt his eagerness, lifted his eyes.The Shadow was there, and its preciseOutline etched the cold, white wall.The young man swore, “By God! You, Paul,There’s something the matter with your brain.Go home now and sleep off the strain.”
The next day was a storm, the rainWhispered and scratched at the window-pane.A grey and shadowless morning filledThe little shop. The watches, chilled,Were dead and sparkless as burnt-out coals.The gems lay on the table like shoalsOf stranded shells, their colours faded,Mere heaps of stone, dull and degraded.Paul’s head was heavy, his hands obeyedNo orders, for his fancy strayed.His work became a simple roundOf watches repaired and watches wound.The slanting ribbons of the rainBroke themselves on the window-pane,But Paul saw the silver lines in vain.Only when the candle was litAnd on the wall just oppositeHe watched again the coming of it,Could he trace a line for the joy of his soulAnd over his hands regain control.
Paul lingered late in his shop that nightAnd the designs which his delightSketched on paper seemed to beA tribute offered wistfullyTo the beautiful shadow of her who cameAnd hovered over his candle flame.In the morning he selected allHis perfect jacinths. One large opalHung like a milky, rainbow moonIn the centre, and blown in loose festoonThe red stones quivered on silver threadsTo the outer edge, where a single, fineBand of mother-of-pearl the lineCompleted. On the other side,The creamy porcelain of the faceBore diamond hours, and no laceOf cotton or silk could ever beTossed into being more airilyThan the filmy golden hands; the timeSeemed to tick away in rhyme.When, at dusk, the Shadow grewUpon the wall, Paul’s work was through.Holding the watch, he spoke to her:“Lady, Beautiful Shadow, stirInto one brief sign of being.Turn your eyes this way, and seeingThis watch, made from those sweet curvesWhere your hair from your forehead swerves,Accept the gift which I have wroughtWith your fairness in my thought.Grant me this, and I shall beHonoured overwhelmingly.”
The Shadow rested black and still,And the wind sighed over the window-sill.
Paul put the despised watch awayAnd laid out before him his arrayOf stones and metals, and when the morningStruck the stones to their best adorning,He chose the brightest, and this new watchWas so light and thin it seemed to catchThe sunlight’s nothingness, and its gleam.Topazes ran in a foamy streamOver the cover, the hands were studdedWith garnets, and seemed red roses, budded.The face was of crystal, and engravedUpon it the figures flashed and wavedWith zircons, and beryls, and amethysts.It took a week to make, and his trystsAt night with the Shadow were his alone.Paul swore not to speak till his task was done.The night that the jewel was worthy to give.Paul watched the long hours of daylight liveTo the faintest streak; then lit his light,And sharp against the wall’s pure whiteThe outline of the Shadow startedInto form. His burning-heartedWords so long imprisoned swelledTo tumbling speech. Like one compelled,He told the lady all his love,And holding out the watch aboveHis head, he knelt, imploring someLittlest sign.The Shadow was dumb.
Weeks passed, Paul worked in fevered haste,And everything he made he placedBefore his lady. The Shadow keptIts perfect passiveness. Paul wept.He wooed her with the work of his hands,He waited for those dear commandsShe never gave. No word, no motion,Eased the ache of his devotion.His days passed in a strain of toil,His nights burnt up in a seething coil.Seasons shot by, uncognisantHe worked. The Shadow came to hauntEven his days. Sometimes quite plainHe saw on the wall the blackberry stainOf his lady’s picture. No sun was brightEnough to dazzle that from his sight.
There were moments when he groaned to seeHis life spilled out so uselessly,Begging for boons the Shade refused,His finest workmanship abused,The iridescent bubbles he blewInto lovely existence, poor and fewIn the shadowed eyes. Then he would curseHimself and her! The Universe!And more, the beauty he could not make,And give her, for her comfort’s sake!He would beat his weary, empty handsUpon the table, would hold up strandsOf silver and gold, and ask her whyShe scorned the best which he could buy.He would pray as to some high-niched saint,That she would cure him of the taintOf failure. He would clutch the wallWith his bleeding fingers, if she should fallHe could catch, and hold her, and make her live!With sobs he would ask her to forgiveAll he had done. And broken, spent,He would call himself impertinent;Presumptuous; a tradesman; a nothing; drivenTo madness by the sight of Heaven.At other times he would take the thingsHe had made, and winding them on strings,Hang garlands before her, and burn perfumes,Chanting strangely, while the fumesWreathed and blotted the shadow face,As with a cloudy, nacreous lace.There were days when he wooed as a lover, sighedIn tenderness, spoke to his bride,Urged her to patience, said his skillShould break the spell. A man’s sworn willCould compass life, even that, he knew.By Christ’s Blood! He would prove it true!
The edge of the Shadow never blurred.The lips of the Shadow never stirred.
He would climb on chairs to reach her lips,And pat her hair with his finger-tips.But instead of young, warm flesh returningHis warmth, the wall was cold and burningLike stinging ice, and his passion, chilled,Lay in his heart like some dead thing killedAt the moment of birth. Then, deadly sick,He would lie in a swoon for hours, while thickPhantasmagoria crowded his brain,And his body shrieked in the clutch of pain.The crisis passed, he would wake and smileWith a vacant joy, half-imbecileAnd quite confused, not being certainWhy he was suffering; a curtainFallen over the tortured mind beguiledHis sorrow. Like a little childHe would play with his watches and gems, with gleeCalling the Shadow to look and seeHow the spots on the ceiling danced prettilyWhen he flashed his stones. “Mother, the greenHas slid so cunningly in betweenThe blue and the yellow. Oh, please look down!”Then, with a pitiful, puzzled frown,He would get up slowly from his playAnd walk round the room, feeling his wayFrom table to chair, from chair to door,Stepping over the cracks in the floor,Till reaching the table again, her faceWould bring recollection, and no solaceCould balm his hurt till unconsciousnessStifled him and his great distress.
One morning he threw the street door wideOn coming in, and his vigorous strideMade the tools on his table rattle and jump.In his hands he carried a new-burst clumpOf laurel blossoms, whose smooth-barked stalksWere pliant with sap. As a husband talksTo the wife he left an hour ago,Paul spoke to the Shadow. “Dear, you knowTo-day the calendar calls it Spring,And I woke this morning gatheringAsphodels, in my dreams, for you.So I rushed out to see what flowers blewTheir pink-and-purple-scented soulsAcross the town-wind’s dusty scrolls,And made the approach to the Market SquareA garden with smells and sunny air.I feel so well and happy to-day,I think I shall take a Holiday.And to-night we will have a little treat.I am going to bring you something to eat!”He looked at the Shadow anxiously.It was quite grave and silent. HeShut the outer door and cameAnd leant against the window-frame.“Dearest,” he said, “we live apartAlthough I bear you in my heart.We look out each from a different world.At any moment we may be hurledAsunder. They follow their orbits, weObey their laws entirely.Now you must come, or I go there,Unless we are willing to live the flareOf a lighted instant and have it gone.”
A bee in the laurels began to drone.A loosened petal fluttered prone.
“Man grows by eating, if you eatYou will be filled with our life, sweetWill be our planet in your mouth.If not, I must parch in death’s wide drouthUntil I gain to where you are,And give you myself in whatever starMay happen. O You Beloved of Me!Is it not ordered cleverly?”
The Shadow, bloomed like a plum, and clear,Hung in the sunlight. It did not hear.
Paul slipped away as the dusk beganTo dim the little shop. He ranTo the nearest inn, and chose with careAs much as his thin purse could bear.As rapt-souled monks watch over the bakingOf the sacred wafer, and through the makingOf the holy wine whisper secret prayersThat God will bless this labour of theirs;So Paul, in a sober ecstasy,Purchased the best which he could buy.Returning, he brushed his tools aside,And laid across the table a wideNapkin. He put a glass and plateOn either side, in duplicate.Over the lady’s, excellentWith loveliness, the laurels bent.In the centre the white-flaked pastry stood,And beside it the wine flask. Red as bloodWas the wine which should bring the lustihoodOf human life to his lady’s veins.When all was ready, all which pertainsTo a simple meal was there, with eyesLit by the joy of his great emprise,He reverently bade her come,And forsake for him her distant home.He put meat on her plate and filled her glass,And waited what should come to pass.
The Shadow lay quietly on the wall.From the street outside came a watchman’s call“A cloudy night. Rain beginning to fall.”
And still he waited. The clock’s slow tickKnocked on the silence. Paul turned sick.
He filled his own glass full of wine;From his pocket he took a paper. The twineWas knotted, and he searched a knifeFrom his jumbled tools. The cord of lifeSnapped as he cut the little string.He knew that he must do the thingHe feared. He shook powder into the wine,And holding it up so the candle’s shineSparked a ruby through its heart,He drank it. “Dear, never apartAgain! You have said it was mine to do.It is done, and I am come to you!”
Paul Jannes let the empty wine-glass fall,And held out his arms. The insentient wallStared down at him with its cold, white glareUnstained! The Shadow was not there!Paul clutched and tore at his tightening throat.He felt the veins in his body bloat,And the hot blood run like fire and stonesAlong the sides of his cracking bones.But he laughed as he staggered towards the door,And he laughed aloud as he sank on the floor.
The Coroner took the body away,And the watches were sold that Saturday.The Auctioneer said one could seldom buySuch watches, and the prices were high.