PS 3503 I .U66 P65 1913 Copy 1 JI^MBWBBiw i i 'W ili i i W^ AFTERGLOW BY AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR AFTERGLOW A POEM BY AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR Cover Illustration by ANNA BOTSFORD COMSTOCK The Comstock Publishing Company 1913 0)3 /- First printed in the "Bellman," March 1912 COPYRIGHT 1913 AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR PRESS OF W. F. HUMPHREY, GENEVA, N. T. ©aA358G80 FOREWORD LEGEND has grown up in the Dolomite Alps, in the Tyrol, commemorating an event which took place over one hundred years ago. At the present, Civetta is made a special point of interest to the sight-seer penetrating a little further than the railroad into the fastnesses of the high mountains to see a region rich in fine scenery and rich in human interest. The main route is one traveled by the hardy peoples of the north in the quest of sunshine and the sea, and over which the conquering legions of Rome sought i fields for new dominion. It was originally hewed out by the forced labor of prisoners of war, and within a century, repaired or rebuilt by the Austrian for a new invasion of the Summer South by the chilled northern races seeking health in the sun of Tuscony or Venice; seeking quickening of imagination in the art treasure of museum or in the ruins long grown over by newer cities; opening to generous youth the romantic lure of southern sunshine and southern story which ever draw them onward to the unseen always lying just over the horizon of a rock barrier. A return current arising in the south seeks health in cold of the high valleys; and a fresh vision to rekindle the quiescent romance of life in narrowed skies dipping down to mountain peaks. The impelling curiosity of the traveler brings diverse peoples together in the sequestered valley, until tradition shut in there, becomes the heritage of all. The particular legend of the poem is centered in the narrow mountain valley at the foot of Mount Civetta, a valley filled in by a land-slip from the neighbor mountain, the debris lying across the valley blocked a streeim and formed a lake high up in the mountains, as had been done many a time before, drowning a village. The poet. Browning-like, has caught one story from the many tragedies told by those who lived and lost by living. The story of one woman and one child buried by the avalanche; the husband's outcry against the unfeeling might of the mountain which had been as a tower of strength to them; against the God who had not helped, who "let such things be;" of the broken life again taken up and through long, long years of Nature's healing, at last, leading back to acquiescence in the prayer of the stricken "His will on earth be done"; seeing through the resistless power of Nature to the infinite peace of the All-Father's love. SUSANNA PHELPS GAGE. AFTERGLOW By AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR No, no, signora, I am not too old — I still can swing an oar — and you are light. Eighty — full eighty years — and see, how strong! I learned to row in Venice; there ten years I was a gondolier. When I came back, I rowed upon this lake. . . , You know at first Only the little wild Cordevole Went roaring through the valley; there was then No lake, signora, only villages, Tilled fields and vineyards, and the saw-mills droned Loud as the river — sixty years ago. The water's clear today — look down — you see The village there below you? Down — straight down- The house that stands a little way apart — That was my house. There was beside the door A rose-bush growing, that I planted there The day our child was born, and right beside We marked her height each birthday, and we laughed Because she could not overtake the rose. "But some day she will have to stoop," we said, "To pluck the roses" — there were just two marks — Long, long ago they were washed out, and yet I see them there today as I look down. Shall we go on? 'Twas sixty years ago. We married young, signora — we were poor But we were strong, and — when one loves, it seems Youth is too brief and sweet to wait apart Until one prospers. There's a savour, too. In hard-won bread with love to season it — You understand. And children as we were, We walked upon the mountain-tops of joy. Look how Civetta towers, peak on peak. Soft in its rosy pallor; she was pale For all her strength. How often I have said Civetta taught her cheeks their faint sweet glow. She was not ruddy like the other girls. ^^ "I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills," The priest would say, and then, "the strength of them "Is also His." It seemed to us we built Our nest within the hollow of God's hand There in the valley, for about us rose The hills like guardian angels, and we named The child Civetta, for the mountain seemed Strong as a saint to us. Yet spite of that, Twas Piz we held the dearest,, like a hoar Old kindly giant, brooding o'er the pass To keep out evil comers. Ah, those days! You would not think, seeing that silent house Below the water, what it used to be. There never was a throat so full of music As my Costanza's — always I could hear A snatch of song that told me where she was. Her heart was full of joy— how could it help But bubble into melody? And when She slept, it seemed the nightingale sang on The night through, in her stead. The little one Was like her mother. We had made two marks Beside the rose-bush. . . sixty years ago. . . , We had worked hard, signora, and had saved To buy a yoke of oxen; so I went Down to Belluno, for the market-day. The two went with me to the valley's mouth. For in a village at the foot of Piz Costanza's cousin lived, and there she said That they would stay the night, the earlier To greet me on the morrow, and we all Could journey home together. So we planned Walking together toward the valley's mouth, Civetta on my shoulder; and I asked If I should buy a kerchief for my dear, But she said no — I was to buy instead Some trinket for the child. That was her way. And then, because it wrung my heart to go, I lifted up mine eyes unto the hills And saw the forest-bearded face of Piz Bending as if he blessed us, and my heart ^ Was glad as at a sign from heaven. I said: "May God and Piz watch over you." And so — And so I left them at the valley's mouth. She took the faded kerchief from her head. Waving it as I went, and i could see The sunlight on her hair. When I no more Could see her face, her hair was shining still. And the next day I bought my oxen there, In the Belluno market, — comely beasts With gentle eyes, and on their horns I bound Garlands of poppies. She will clap her hands, I thought, and kiss them 'twixt the gentle eyes. And hold Civetta up to fondle them. And since she had forbidden me to buy A kerchief for her head, I bought instead A silver pin to wear on holy-days. So light of heart I was that all the way I laughed and sang aloud, and all the way I lifted up my face unto the hills That made me glad. But when at last I came In sight of home — I could not see my home, For Piz was gone, and that which had been Piz Crammed all the valley's entrance, and below Three villages were buried. They were there. . . . A neighbour told me all there was to tell — Little enough. A sudden rending crash, And all was done. I stood and could not speak. The knowledge fell upon me as the hill Fell upon them. He wept who told it me. I did not weep — I laughed, remembering How I commended them to God and Piz, And thus it was they had kept faith with me! And then he bade me take my goods and go Up to a higher village, for the fall Had dammed Cordevole, and silently The creeping waters rose and rose and rose. And then I laughed again. What use to me Were house or goods? I gave my goods to him, The pair of oxen and the silver pin; He had a wife — a kindly soul who nursed Costanza in her travail. So I turned Nor looked again upon my empty house; Turned and went back the way that I had come. . . But as I went, I did not lift my face. I hoped some mountain kindlier than the rest Would fall upon me, too — but none would fall — And all the grass was full of little flowers. So I went down to Venice — to the sea; No mountains there. Signora! Pardon me — I had not thought my tale would make you weep. You are too kind — all this was long ago — In sixty years there's time for tears to dry. And yet it leaves a scar; see, even now There's only bareness . . . yonder. Older still. The naked wilderness that seams Peron — Not all the summers of five centuries Have made it green again. I used to think That when I came to die, and stood at last Right face to face with God, I would not wait For Him to judge me — 'twas for me to judge. I would speak out: "Why did you do this thing? I trusted You. Why did You do this thing. You and the mountains, if indeed the strength Of them is Yours?" But since I did not die, I said, "I will have naught of them henceforth, God and the mountains. They have smitten me Unjustly, cowardly. I trusted them. And then they struck a woman and a child Suddenly in the darkness. Cowardly!" So for ten years I never went to mass Nor looked upon the hills. But I would stand Often before the crucifix and think, "Oh, Brother Signor Jesu, you have known How He betrays a trust. You trusted too, And He forsook you in your agony." I was so young, signora — I had known Only our people, simple, kindly, good; But in the city I saw other things — Greed, hatred and uncleanness — and I saw The sea . . . signora, do you know the sea? As year by year I saw the ships come in, Some prosperous and gay with little flags. And some ail battered, scarce escaped alive, And — saw the women watch for other ships That never came — I thought, "Here is a thing Cruel as God and treacherous as the hills. That favours or destroys just for a v/him." Until one day, musing as I was wont Before the crucifix, it came to me: Perchance Costanza, as the mountain fell. Cried out on me — and I was far away. Had I been near, I might have died with her, But saved her — no. It may be as she died She, too, cried out, "Thou hast forsaken me!" Was God as powerless as I? Did He Suffer like me? I took that afternoon No passengers; ! rowed out all alone And moored my boat, and went where I could look Straight out to sea; and all night long I lay Upon the sands, and tried to think it clear. And when the morning broke, I saw the sea Shining before me, and I did not fear Nor hate it, for at last I understood There was in it no malice and no love; Indifferent, it fulfilled its destiny. And if its tempests rent the waves alone Or beat a ship to driftwood, it nor knew Nor cared. If men must needs go forth on it. Theirs be the peril, theirs the profit, too. The lives of men are nothing to the sea. The lives of men are nothing to the hills. Their strength is not of God, but all their own. Ten years it was since I had said a prayer. But there, beside the sea, in the pale dawn — Twas a gray dawn and cold— I stood and prayed. "Lord God," I said, "forgive me for my hate. You who have suffered, You can understand And know the cry of pain. You saw Your son Slain by a thing pitiless as the sea. Blind as the hills, and You could give no help. Lord God, for my own grief I had no tears, But for Your grief, and mine, and all the world's." . So I left Venice, and went back again. There in Belluno, all men spoke to me Kindly, a little hushed, as if afraid; They thought I had been mad. As I went back I neither spoke nor sang, but walked erect. Head up, and looked the mountains in the face. I could not hate them any more, you see — They knew not what they did. I understood How Cristo could forgive upon the cross. It seemed to me I walked, my hand in God's, And sometimes as we went, I thought He wept And that I whispered, "Lord, be comforted; This thing must be." And so I came again Into the valley. All was as you see. Again the grass was full of little flowers. For it was spring; the water was not clear But green and turbid from the melting snows, And I saw nothing. I was glad of that; One learns to bear a little at a time. The folk had taken up their life again. As one must do, and all about the lake I saw again the vineyards and tilled fields And heard the saw-mills drone. My neighbour came And made me free of all his goods; he said My yoke of oxen so had prospered him That he could halve his farm with me. His wife Was with him, and I saw the silver pin Set in her^hair. She marked my eyes on it And made to take it out — down her kind face The tears were running — but I stayed her hand. It did not give me pain to see it there. I made my home with them, but would not take Aught of his land. What did I want of land? I had forgotten how to hold a plow. I built myself a boat, and back and forth I rowed upon the lake, ferrying folk And burdens, as they came and called to me. And slowly, day by day, the water cleared; First I could see the tree-tops, then the tops Of chimneys . . . and at last I saw the house. . I thought the rose-bush still was by the door Turned to a water-weed. Only two marks — It may be there are roses where she is. And in the winter when I could not row I joined the timberers on the mountain-side. They marvelled at me, for I had no fear. What should I fear? And often in the snow Men came to deadly hurt, and those who wept Would turn to me, knowing I understood. Then would I say to them, "Be comforted. This thing must be — " as I had said to God. But though I prayed, I could not go to mass And hear the priest, who did not understand. Mock at Him, calling Him all powerful. Master of all the world — who could not save His son, nor aught that any man held dear. My neighbour's youngest child I loved the best; Her eyes were like Civetta's, and she sang Always about her play, and as she grew. About her work. There was a lad she loved; An honest lad — we timbered on the hills Together in the winter, and one learns To read a man, in that white loneliness. And on a day, a dead bough sharp with ice Fell on his head; a little while it seemed That he was mad, and then he fell asleep And breathed, but did not waken. Through the snow I bore him to the village in my arms. And when I saw my darling in the door I strove to say to her, "Be comforted. DEC 15 191' This thing must be — " But I could only say "My child, my child!" At last there came a night It seemed that he must die; her hand in mine We sat beside him, and the clock ticked loud Upon the wall — the minutes seemed to trip Upon each others' heels, so fast they ran. I cannot tell you how it came to me, But all at once I spoke: "This is not all, The grief and dumb endurance. There is more — There is a hidden meaning in it all. And what for us is loneliness and tears Shall blossom in the hearts of the unborn To beauty, for we suffer not in vain Although we cannot see the end, not now Nor ever, with these eyes. Since God is love. Although His ways be strange, they all lead home. The patient wrestling of our shaken hearts, The pitiless sea, the cruel strength of these The hills — are His. His will for earth be done." And she beside me, slipping to her knees. Laid her hot forehead on my hands and said, "His will for earth be done" — but all at once He stirred— and she crept near, and raised herself And looked into his face — and I could see His opening eyes, and hear a whisper, faint As falling embers, but in his own voice — "Costanza. . . ." 'Twas her name. So I went out Under the stars and left those two alone. See, 'tis their chimney smoking; and that house With all the roses and the little ones About the door, is his — their eldest boy's — The boy they named for me. So many homes I can call mine! Here is the shore at last; Just one more stroke. I have not wearied you?