The Shadow poem – Amy Lowell poems | Poems and Poetry

Paul Jannes was working very late,

For this watch must be done by eight

To-morrow or the Cardinal

Would certainly be vexed. Of all

His customers the old prelate

Was the most important, for his state

Descended to his watches and rings,

And he gave his mistresses many things

To make them forget his age and smile

When he paid visits, and they could while

The time away with a diamond locket

Exceedingly well. So they picked his pocket,

And he paid in jewels for his slobbering kisses.

This watch was made to buy him blisses

From an Austrian countess on her way

Home, and she meant to start next day.

Paul worked by the pointed, tulip-flame

Of a tallow candle, and became

So absorbed, that his old clock made him wince

Striking the hour a moment since.

Its echo, only half apprehended,

Lingered about the room. He ended

Screwing the little rubies in,

Setting the wheels to lock and spin,

Curling the infinitesimal springs,

Fixing the filigree hands. Chippings

Of precious stones lay strewn about.

The table before him was a rout

Of splashes and sparks of coloured light.

There was yellow gold in sheets, and quite

A heap of emeralds, and steel.

Here was a gem, there was a wheel.

And glasses lay like limpid lakes

Shining and still, and there were flakes

Of silver, and shavings of pearl,

And little wires all awhirl

With the light of the candle. He took the watch

And wound its hands about to match

The time, then glanced up to take the hour

From the hanging clock.

Good, Merciful Power!

How came that shadow on the wall,

No woman was in the room! His tall

Chiffonier stood gaunt behind

His 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 stain

On the opposite wall, and it never wavered

Even when the candle quavered

Under his panting breath. What made

That beautiful, dreadful thing, that shade

Of something so lovely, so exquisite,

Cast from a substance which the sight

Had not been tutored to perceive?

Paul brushed his eyes across his sleeve.

Clear-cut, the Shadow on the wall

Gleamed 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 nerve

With its perfect rhythm of outline

Cutting the whitewashed wall. So fine

Was the neck he knew he could have spanned

It about with the fingers of one hand.

The chin rose to a mouth he guessed,

But could not see, the lips were pressed

Loosely together, the edges close,

And the proud and delicate line of the nose

Melted into a brow, and there

Broke 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 tall

Chiffonier; 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 room

He saw, in the patch of light, the gloom

That was the lady. Her violet bloom

Was almost brighter than that which came

From his candle’s tulip-flame.

He set the filigree hands; he laid

The watch in the case which he had made;

He put on his rabbit cloak, and snuffed

His candle out. The room seemed stuffed

With darkness. Softly he crossed the floor,

And let himself out through the door.

The sun was flashing from every pin

And 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 fall

From the furniture upon the wall.

Paul sighed as he looked at the empty space

Where a glare usurped the lady’s place.

He settled himself to his work, but his mind

Wandered, and he would wake to find

His hand suspended, his eyes grown dim,

And nothing advanced beyond the rim

Of his dreaming. The Cardinal sent to pay

For 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 match

And watched the little blue stars hatch

Into an egg of perfect flame.

He lit his candle, and almost in shame

At his eagerness, lifted his eyes.

The Shadow was there, and its precise

Outline 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 rain

Whispered and scratched at the window-pane.

A grey and shadowless morning filled

The little shop. The watches, chilled,

Were dead and sparkless as burnt-out coals.

The gems lay on the table like shoals

Of stranded shells, their colours faded,

Mere heaps of stone, dull and degraded.

Paul’s head was heavy, his hands obeyed

No orders, for his fancy strayed.

His work became a simple round

Of watches repaired and watches wound.

The slanting ribbons of the rain

Broke themselves on the window-pane,

But Paul saw the silver lines in vain.

Only when the candle was lit

And on the wall just opposite

He watched again the coming of IT,

Could he trace a line for the joy of his soul

And over his hands regain control.

Paul lingered late in his shop that night

And the designs which his delight

Sketched on paper seemed to be

A tribute offered wistfully

To the beautiful shadow of her who came

And hovered over his candle flame.

In the morning he selected all

His perfect jacinths. One large opal

Hung like a milky, rainbow moon

In the centre, and blown in loose festoon

The red stones quivered on silver threads

To the outer edge, where a single, fine

Band of mother-of-pearl the line

Completed. On the other side,

The creamy porcelain of the face

Bore diamond hours, and no lace

Of cotton or silk could ever be

Tossed into being more airily

Than the filmy golden hands; the time

Seemed to tick away in rhyme.

When, at dusk, the Shadow grew

Upon the wall, Paul’s work was through.

Holding the watch, he spoke to her:

“Lady, Beautiful Shadow, stir

Into one brief sign of being.

Turn your eyes this way, and seeing

This watch, made from those sweet curves

Where your hair from your forehead swerves,

Accept the gift which I have wrought

With your fairness in my thought.

Grant me this, and I shall be

Honoured overwhelmingly.”

The Shadow rested black and still,

And the wind sighed over the window-sill.

Paul put the despised watch away

And laid out before him his array

Of stones and metals, and when the morning

Struck the stones to their best adorning,

He chose the brightest, and this new watch

Was so light and thin it seemed to catch

The sunlight’s nothingness, and its gleam.

Topazes ran in a foamy stream

Over the cover, the hands were studded

With garnets, and seemed red roses, budded.

The face was of crystal, and engraved

Upon it the figures flashed and waved

With zircons, and beryls, and amethysts.

It took a week to make, and his trysts

At 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 live

To the faintest streak; then lit his light,

And sharp against the wall’s pure white

The outline of the Shadow started

Into form. His burning-hearted

Words so long imprisoned swelled

To tumbling speech. Like one compelled,

He told the lady all his love,

And holding out the watch above

His head, he knelt, imploring some

Littlest sign.

The Shadow was dumb.

Weeks passed, Paul worked in fevered haste,

And everything he made he placed

Before his lady. The Shadow kept

Its perfect passiveness. Paul wept.

He wooed her with the work of his hands,

He waited for those dear commands

She 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, uncognisant

He worked. The Shadow came to haunt

Even his days. Sometimes quite plain

He saw on the wall the blackberry stain

Of his lady’s picture. No sun was bright

Enough to dazzle that from his sight.

There were moments when he groaned to see

His life spilled out so uselessly,

Begging for boons the Shade refused,

His finest workmanship abused,

The iridescent bubbles he blew

Into lovely existence, poor and few

In the shadowed eyes. Then he would curse

Himself 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 hands

Upon the table, would hold up strands

Of silver and gold, and ask her why

She scorned the best which he could buy.

He would pray as to some high-niched saint,

That she would cure him of the taint

Of failure. He would clutch the wall

With his bleeding fingers, if she should fall

He could catch, and hold her, and make her live!

With sobs he would ask her to forgive

All he had done. And broken, spent,

He would call himself impertinent;

Presumptuous; a tradesman; a nothing; driven

To madness by the sight of Heaven.

At other times he would take the things

He had made, and winding them on strings,

Hang garlands before her, and burn perfumes,

Chanting strangely, while the fumes

Wreathed and blotted the shadow face,

As with a cloudy, nacreous lace.

There were days when he wooed as a lover, sighed

In tenderness, spoke to his bride,

Urged her to patience, said his skill

Should break the spell. A man’s sworn will

Could 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 returning

His warmth, the wall was cold and burning

Like stinging ice, and his passion, chilled,

Lay in his heart like some dead thing killed

At the moment of birth. Then, deadly sick,

He would lie in a swoon for hours, while thick

Phantasmagoria crowded his brain,

And his body shrieked in the clutch of pain.

The crisis passed, he would wake and smile

With a vacant joy, half-imbecile

And quite confused, not being certain

Why he was suffering; a curtain

Fallen over the tortured mind beguiled

His sorrow. Like a little child

He would play with his watches and gems, with glee

Calling the Shadow to look and see

How the spots on the ceiling danced prettily

When he flashed his stones. “Mother, the green

Has slid so cunningly in between

The blue and the yellow. Oh, please look down!”

Then, with a pitiful, puzzled frown,

He would get up slowly from his play

And walk round the room, feeling his way

From table to chair, from chair to door,

Stepping over the cracks in the floor,

Till reaching the table again, her face

Would bring recollection, and no solace

Could balm his hurt till unconsciousness

Stifled him and his great distress.

One morning he threw the street door wide

On coming in, and his vigorous stride

Made the tools on his table rattle and jump.

In his hands he carried a new-burst clump

Of laurel blossoms, whose smooth-barked stalks

Were pliant with sap. As a husband talks

To the wife he left an hour ago,

Paul spoke to the Shadow. “Dear, you know

To-day the calendar calls it Spring,

And I woke this morning gathering

Asphodels, in my dreams, for you.

So I rushed out to see what flowers blew

Their pink-and-purple-scented souls

Across the town-wind’s dusty scrolls,

And made the approach to the Market Square

A 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. He

Shut the outer door and came

And leant against the window-frame.

“Dearest,” he said, “we live apart

Although I bear you in my heart.

We look out each from a different world.

At any moment we may be hurled

Asunder. They follow their orbits, we

Obey their laws entirely.

Now you must come, or I go there,

Unless we are willing to live the flare

Of 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 eat

You will be filled with our life, sweet

Will be our planet in your mouth.

If not, I must parch in death’s wide drouth

Until I gain to where you are,

And give you myself in whatever star

May 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 began

To dim the little shop. He ran

To the nearest inn, and chose with care

As much as his thin purse could bear.

As rapt-souled monks watch over the baking

Of the sacred wafer, and through the making

Of the holy wine whisper secret prayers

That 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 wide

Napkin. He put a glass and plate

On either side, in duplicate.

Over the lady’s, excellent

With loveliness, the laurels bent.

In the centre the white-flaked pastry stood,

And beside it the wine flask. Red as blood

Was the wine which should bring the lustihood

Of human life to his lady’s veins.

When all was ready, all which pertains

To a simple meal was there, with eyes

Lit 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 tick

Knocked on the silence. Paul turned sick.

He filled his own glass full of wine;

From his pocket he took a paper. The twine

Was knotted, and he searched a knife

From his jumbled tools. The cord of life

Snapped as he cut the little string.

He knew that he must do the thing

He feared. He shook powder into the wine,

And holding it up so the candle’s shine

Sparked a ruby through its heart,

He drank it. “Dear, never apart

Again! 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 wall

Stared down at him with its cold, white glare

Unstained! 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 stones

Along 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 buy

Such watches, and the prices were high.

***

More poems by Amy Lowell