The Project Gutenberg eBook of Mortal Summer, by Mark Van Doren This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook. Title: Mortal Summer Author: Mark Van Doren Release Date: March 10, 2021 [eBook #64783] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 Produced by: Tim Lindell, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.) *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MORTAL SUMMER *** MORTAL SUMMER MORTAL SUMMER by Mark Van Doren The Prairie Press IOWA CITY Copyright 1953 by Mark Van Doren Printed in the United States of America MORTAL SUMMER I The cave they slept in, halfway down Olympus On the eastern slope, toward Asia, whence the archangels Even then were coming—even then Bright Michael, and tall Gabriel, and the dark-faced Raphael, healer of men’s wounds, were flying, Flying toward the ship all ten would take— The cave they slept in sparkled as their eyelids Opened; burned as they rose and stood; hummed And trembled as the seven, the beautiful gods Gazed at each other, wonderful again. The sweet sleep of centuries was over, If only as in dream; if only a mortal Summer woke them out of endless death. The grey eyes of Athene, flashing slowly, Demanded of Hermes more than he could tell. “It was not I that roused you.” Hermes pondered, Tightening his sandals. “All at once, And equally, we woke. Apollo there—” The musical man-slayer listened and frowned— “And Ares, and foam-loving Aphrodite Yawned at the very instant Artemis did, With me, and swart Hephaestus.” The lame smith, Stroking his leather apron, blinked at the others, Worshipful of brilliance. Even in Ares, Scowling, and more quietly in her The huntress, whose green robe the animals knew, He found it; and of course in Aphrodite, Wife to him once, he found it, a relentless Laughter filling her eyes and her gold limbs. “It was not I,” said Hermes. Thunder sounded, Weakly and far away. And yet no distance Wrapped it. It was here in the lit cavern: Here, or nowhere. And the trembling seven Turned to the rock that sealed a deeper room. There Zeus, there Hera sat, the feasted prisoners Of a still greater person, one who changed The world while there they mourned, remembering Ida. Some day they too would sleep, but now weak thunder Witnessed their remnant glory; which appalled As ever the proud seven, until Hermes Listened and leaned, then spoke. “It was the king Our father. He has willed that we should wander, Even as in a dream, and be the gods Of strangers. Somewhere west of the ocean stream He sends us, to a circle of small hills— Come, for I see the place!” That suffered thunder Sounded again, agreeing; and they went. Out of the cave they poured, into spring sun Whose warmth they yet increased, for the falling light Was less than theirs was, moving as they moved. No soldier and no shepherd, climbing here, Would have discovered deity. The brambles Hid as they ever had this stony hole Whence seven had been wakened, and where still, Enormous in dark chains, their parents wept. Invisible to suns, the seven gathered [9] [10] [11] Invisible to suns, the seven gathered Round a white rock and gazed. The sea was there, The Aegean, and a ship without a sail Plied southward, trailing smoke; at which Hephaestus Squinted. Then he slapped his thigh and smiled, And waved for six to follow as down world He leapt. They landed, all of them, as lightly As a fair flock of gulls upon the prow Of the tramp Jonathan B. Travis, bound Tomorrow for Gibraltar, then northwest, Northwest, both night and day, till the ocean stream Was conquered. Not a god had ever gone there, Not one of these high seven, in the old Dark sail time. Now, invisible to waves, To men and birds, they watched twelve grimy sailors Washing their clothes on deck; and wondered still At the two wakes behind them, foam and funnel. But who were these arriving, these gaunt three On giant wings that folded as they fell And staggered, then stood upright? Even now Michael had dropped among them, with his archangel Brethren, bony Gabriel and lank Raphael. From nearer Asia, lonely a long while, They had come flying, sick of the desert silence, Sick of the centuries through which no lord, No king of the host, had blessed them with command. As orphaned eagles, missing their ancient’s cry, They had come hither, hopeful of these seven, Hopeful of noble company, of new act. Now on the prow they gathered, and no sailor Saw them; but Apollo did, and Artemis— Fingering their bows—as Hermes reared On tiptoe, smiling welcome. Aphrodite, Slipping to lee of Ares, feigned a fear More beautiful than truth was; while Hephaestus, Curious, near-sighted, fingered those wing-joints Athene only studied where she stood. “Whoever you are,” said Hermes, “and whatever— Pardon this—you were, sail now as we do, And be the gods of strangers far to west. If only as in dream the vessel draws us, Zeus our sire consenting. Your own sire—” But the three stared so sadly over the waves That Hermes paused, and beckoning to Gabriel Whispered with him alone while dolphins played As lambs do on dry land, and fishes scattered. Alone to Hermes, while the dolphins heaved Grey backs above green water, Gabriel murmured: “Your sire. We had one too. And have Him still, Though silent. It is listening for his thunder That leans us. He is busy with new folk, New, humble folk he speaks to in a low voice. We have not learned that language—humble words, With never death or danger in the message. A star stood still above a stable once, And a weak infant wept. And there He left us.” “Our sire,” said Hermes, “—he too sleeps away Our centuries. We have the selfsame fortune. Sail westward with us then.” And Gabriel nodded. The steel that sliced the water swung at length, And in three days they nosed between the Pillars; Past which—and the ten all shuddered—monsters once Made chaos of the world’s end. But no fangs [12] [13] Made chaos of the world’s end. But no fangs Closed over the black prow, and mile on mile Slid under them, familiar as a meadow To the small men they watched amid the smoke. Mile on mile, by hundreds and by thousands, The Atlantic sloped away. Then lands and harbors, And a deep whistle groaning. “Now!” said Hermes, “Now!” So nine to one they lifted wing, Or no-wing like their leader, and went on, High over chimneys and chill rivers, north By west till it was there—the rounded valley, Green with new spring, where cattle bawled in barns And people, patient, waited for hot June. [14] II Daniel was mending fence, for it was May, And early rains had painted the drear pastures. He walked, testing the wire, and wished again For his old pipe. He missed it, and grew moody. Berrien would never notice it on the shelf; Berrien would never bring it. A good wife, But scornful of the comforts. A good woman, Who never guessed the outrage he had done her. New Year’s Eve, and Dora. He remembered— And set his jaw, missing the pipe stem there. He pulled at a slack strand of the barbed wire, And snagged himself—here, in the palm of his hand. A little blood came which he wiped away. He did miss that tobacco. And he did, He did loathe simple Dora—warm and simple, Who with her dark head nodding close to his, On New Year’s Eve, had done with him this outrage. He would forget her if he could; and old Darius, her profane, her grizzled father. So proud of her he was, and kept so neat The mountain shack they lived in, he and his one Sweet chick he swore was safe as in State’s prison. Daniel counted the months. Was the child showing? Darius—did he guess? And Doctor Smith— Would she have gone to him? Daniel looked off, Unmindful of the beautiful May morning. Bruce Hanna, that poor boy. Was he suspicious? He had been born for Dora, she for him; And then last New Year’s Eve, when the sleigh bells rang So slyly, writing ruin in cold air! Daniel, wiping his hand again, looked back At the wild barb that bit him. Who was that? For a quizzical, small stranger stood by the fence, Feeling its rust, its toughness. He was swarthy And lame, and had bright eyes. And in his hand A pipe—for all the township Daniel’s own! “Here, have you need of this? I’m on my way Northeast awhile, repairing peoples’ ranges. It gave itself to me, but you can have it.” Then he was gone, unless he walked and waved— For someone did—Daniel could not distinguish— From the far border of the field. The small Stranger was gone, and all that Daniel held Was a filled pipe bowl, comforting his palm. He must ask Berrien, he said at noon, If a lame dwarf had come to mend the cook stove. He must ask Berrien, who wouldn’t listen, How a man’s pipe could vanish from its shelf. For so it had, into his very pocket. “Berrien!” he called. But she was busy With her own bother. “Daniel, a woman’s here— Wants to stay and board all summer—wants To rest. A theater woman. I’ve said no, But maybe—” Who was the gold one, listening there And smiling? Looking over Berrien’s shoulder And lighting the front room with little smiles? A faded gold one, well beyond her prime, [15] [16] A faded gold one, well beyond her prime, But the true substance, glistening. Berrien frowned And her head shook. But Daniel, fascinated, Said he would think, would figure. In the end She stayed, the theater woman; and that night Daniel had dreams of her. She came to his bed In beauty; stood beside him and said “Dora.” How could she know of Dora? It was a dream, Yet how could she know so much? And how had she fathomed, All in one day, the longing he denied? There was no loathing. Anywhere in his heart— That sweetened as he said it—there was no hate For Dora, whom he thought he saw there too, Standing beside the theater woman and weeping, And holding her simple hands out so he could say: “Tomorrow, little sweetheart half my years, Tomorrow I will tell the world about us. You must be mine to keep. I have been cruel; I have been absent, darling, from your pain. Tomorrow I will put my two arms round you, And bear if I can the—pleasure.” Then he woke, And none but Berrien watched him in the room— Berrien, who ever after watched him, Night and day detesting this pale witch Who came and went and charmed him. So she thought, Said Daniel, never answering her eyes. For him there were no hours now save those dark ones When the pair came. At midnight they would be there, Faithful as moths; and every sunny morning, Starting from his pillow, he would mutter: “Tomorrow is today. Then I must go To Dora, I must tell her.” Yet he waited Always upon another secret midnight; And witnessed every noon how the gold woman, Smiling her light smile, seemed not to know Of Dora; was no witch at all; was no one. [17] III Meanwhile a little mountain house was murmurous With his own name—evil, could he but hear it. Darius had discovered his sweet daughter’s Swelling, and had pressed her for the cause; And yesterday, in terror, Dora yielded. Now Bruce was there, with the old badger watching How sick one word could make him. So it was spoken— “Daniel.” And the kill was on. A soldier, Footing it home from Canada, stood by With a gourd dipper, dripping as he drank. He listened, lounging, and his bushy eyes Burned at the accusation. When Bruce faltered— And he did falter, for his hate of Daniel, Less than the sore so sudden in his breast, So hopeless, so beyond all thought of cure, Was a weak thing at first—this brawny witness Shone like a savior in the old one’s eyes, The little old one, dancing in his fury As he repeated “Daniel”; and made doubly Sure that Dora’s corner room was bolted. Afterwards, remembering how the knuckled Soldier had spat curses on that name, “Daniel,” and had spun a scheme for them— Perfection, he declared it, of revenge— Darius called him blessed. “You’d have failed me, Bruce, you would have wobbled like a calf And licked this devil’s hand, but for that sergeant. Who sent him here, I wonder?” “I don’t know,” Said Bruce, his mind on Dora’s room. “Is she—” “Yes, she’s in there. And stays there till we’ve finished. When do we go and do it? Think of that— Think only of that thing, my boy, that needful Thing.” Darius nudged him, and they dropped Their voices. Dora, listening, heard little, Crouched by her door. Bruce—he mustn’t do it. Bruce—he was the only thing she wanted In the poor world. A poor one too for Daniel; But she shut out the thought. Bruce mustn’t do it, Whatever it was. She beat on the thick wood And cried to him; but only heard Darius Coaxing him outdoors; then only silence. “When shall it be, my boy? What dark of the moon Does best for our good purpose—damn his bones! Two shotguns—that’s enough—then home, then here— That’s it, and neither knows of it next day. We’ll even shed a hot tear, being told! When do we do it, boy?” But Bruce was slow: Angry and sick, but slow. And once when Dora Found him, deep in the woods between their cabins, He almost lost his purpose as she held him, Wetting his face with tears. “Listen!” she whispered. “I have been down to Doctor, and his new nurse Knows—I can’t guess how—knows everything. A beautiful, tall woman, and her friend The teacher—she is like her. Colder, though, With different, with grey eyes. The new nurse says—” “What, Dora, what does she say?” [18] [19] [20] “What, Dora, what does she say?” “Oh, no, I can’t— I’ll never, never tell you.” As she ran He followed, farther into the still woods; Then stopped as she did, startled. For those two— It must be those two new ones, those tall women— Pondered the carcass of a fawn, a spotted Three-months fawn that dogs had torn at the throat. It was the nurse that knelt, lifting brown eyes In sorrow, scarcely knowing Dora there. The other one bent down to her. “Stand up. They both are here. The boy, too.” Level voiced, The teacher touched her friend’s hair. “Stand up, stand up. The fawn is dead. These others—” “Yes, I know. I heard, I saw them. But consider death. Consider this young death awhile, and say— But softly—of what it is the paradigm. Do not disdain one death, one single death; And when we can, prevent.” The grey eyes cooled, Consenting. So the sorrowful one arose. “Come here,” she said to Dora, and to Bruce Behind her. “We were walking in the woods, My visitor and I; we saw this sight.” But Bruce and Dora stared at only her, So beautiful, so tall, and at the other Strange one by her side. “We had been talking, Children, of you two. No matter if Daniel Loves you, little girl of the dark eyes—” “He doesn’t!” Dora shuddered. “If he could, He’d have it that I never lived on earth. He hates it, having to remember me. And that’s all right. I want it so. But Bruce—” “Will be, my dear, the father of your—listen, Listen! You start away.” For both had broken Breath, as if with running, and only the hands Of the grey-eyed, the firm one, held them there. “I mean,” and the tall beautiful one blinked, Twitching the green selvage of her skirt, “The foster father. He is young for that; Yet he is to be, my child, the chosen one Who saves you, and saves it—the life you carry. Your husband. Nothing less. And not in dream.” Bruce turned his head in fear that old Darius Listened—was it he among the hemlocks, Stepping so lightly? But the foliage opened For a fair, smiling face, and the broad shoulders, Burdened with straps, of one who tramped these hills By summer, following signs. A brilliance round him, Caused by no sun, for none came through the branches, Struck silence from all four; until the nurse, Nodding as if she knew him, said: “Due north, Pilgrim, is there. Your compass—have you lost it? Well, north is that way”—pointing—“but stand here [21] [22] Well, north is that way”—pointing—“but stand here In patience for some seconds; then we two Will guide you back to town for better bearing. Can you be patient?” “Thank you, yes.” The giant Smiled at her once again. “You see, my small one, Bruce there by your side would break and run, Fearing his sweet fate. He even wonders Whether some partner, deep in another plan, Listens and chides him.” Staring, the boy blushed. Then, fearful, he looked up and met her eyes, The nurse’s distant eyes, that fixed him gently. “My friend here—she will tell you more than I can Of the black folly born of feud. Attend her.” But the still teacher only parted wide Her capable cool lids, and let him see Agreement flash between them. “Someone’s death”— She forced the words at last—“is cheap to buy. A minute of man’s time, and breathing stops. The cost is in the echo; for to cease Makes sound. So you will hear it coming home, The rumor of that death. My friend is right. Marry the maiden.” But the words came strangely, Out of some older earth, and even she The speaker knew their failure; for she frowned. Bruce turned his head again, fearing the hemlock Heard. Yet no one listened there; no fourth one Followed this lofty fellow who in patience Folded his arms and smiled—as if he too Had knowledge, and agreed with the grey eyes. As Dora did, said Bruce. And yet Darius— He paled at the grim image, and remembered, Suddenly, that soldier; whose disgust If the dear purpose foundered was itself A death, along with Dora’s yesterday. Daniel. Who but Daniel was the father Of a whole world’s confusion? And his anger, Running before him, took him from this place, This glade where three, left thoughtful, were as figures Molded of shadow. Dora was gone with Bruce, Gasping and crying “Wait!” But the three tall ones Listened to nothing human. Hermes came. [23] [24] IV Hermes came, and hailing his three peers, Spoke Aphrodite’s name; whose beautiful laughter Answered as she glistened in their midst— No woman now, but goddess. So Hephaestus Hove into their view, and all of the others, Manifest together. This was where, In tulip and oak shade, they pleased to meet, To sit sometimes and say how the world went, Mortal and immortal. “You of the golden Shoulders,” Hermes said, “bring dreams to one Who lived in peace without them.” “Lived in hate, In loathing of those very limbs he fondled— Poor, poor limbs, so lonely!” And her insolent Laughter shook the listening green leaves. “Yet he would have forgotten, and his only Danger been from Ares”—who was there, Swelling his thick chest, as Hermes spoke— “From the two minions, old and young, of Ares. Such danger can dissolve, for it is wind And fury; but the damage that you do, Arrogant bright daughter of the dolphins, Is endless as waves are, or serpent segments The impotent keen knife divides. Have mercy, Goddess.” And he waited. But her lips, Unmoving, only teased him; and tormented Artemis. “The man was free of longing, And the dark maid of him,” the huntress said, “Till this one wantoned, wooing him with dreams. Then Ares—common soldier—fanned the fire In those you call his minions.” Hermes nodded. “And so our plan’s perplexed before it ripens. Athene, Michael—tell them how we stood, Just here, and heard the boy refuse his function.” But it was known among them even then, And so no witness needed. Aphrodite, Secure in beauty’s pride, tilted her head To hear, intending mockery of the tale. But the wise one withheld it, and majestic Michael only folded his broad wings As Gabriel did, as Raphael. Yet that last one, Mournful of face and long, had ears for Artemis, Nurse to all things aborning, as she mused: “The young one when he comes—in what men call The fall of their brief year—the roofless infant— It was for him we planned. And still we do—” She dared the glittering goddess—“still we seek Safe birth for the small mother, and for him The wailing, the unwanted.” Crooked Hephaestus, Clearing his mild throat, remarked in modesty: “The man works well and silently. He loves, In solitude, the comfort of my fire. And so in a bowl I brought it. As for her— He will not have her near him. I was by; I read his thoughts of this.” “Absurd contriver! Artisan of the bellows! Zeus’s butt! [25] [26] Artisan of the bellows! Zeus’s butt! As ever, you know nothing.” Aphrodite Sparkled with rage, reviling him. “You saw By daylight, and at labor in the field One whom that very night I made my slave. Off to your anvil, ass!” But Hermes calmed Their quarrel, lifting his either hand in grace. “Without our father’s thunder we are fools And children. Who decides when lesser gods, When angels disagree? Authority absent, Silence—a silver silence—that is best.” And like a song they heard it, and they wondered, Measuring its notes. Until Apollo, Lord of the muses, laughed. “You heard me humming. All to myself I sang it—with sealed lips.” “What did you sing?” said Hermes. “Nothing, nothing. My sisters round the world—a sweet wind brought me, Sleepily, this air.” He hummed again, And this time closed his eyes. “Perhaps I see,” He said, “some silver moment coming soon— Necessity for music. But not now.” Nor could those other nine foresee the summer. Already, in mid June, high long days Hovered the world, and change, like ripening fruit, Hung ever, ever plainer. Yet no man, No god distinguished more in this green time Than purposes that crossed; and ever tighter. In Daniel’s house the woman who was resting— Daily, in scorn, Berrien spoke the word— Still did not spare the beautiful dream body She sent to him by dark, when Dora too Lived by his side and loved him: standing there In the shed radiance of one who smiled And smiled, and burned his reticence away. For he would go to Dora—come July, Said Daniel, lying afterwards and listening As night died between him and the windows, He would go there, he would, and say it all; He would have Dora, small in his long arms, Forever. Yet the sweetness of this thought Exhausted him, and hollowed his wild eyes, So that he never went. And had he gone, What Dora would have seen him come and shivered? One whom as strong a dream—if it was a dream— Estranged. It was of having, yet not having, Bruce for her brave husband. For he mustn’t— He mustn’t, she said nightly, shutting away The vision—Bruce must never let it be. The nurse—he mustn’t listen. Yet if he did— And then she wept. Darius in the morning, Seeing her tears, thought only of his purpose. He should conceal it better. She was afraid, Was frantic, she might go somewhere and tell. That boy—he was so hard to keep in anger. He faltered, and he wilted; he was a fool. That boy, the center of confusion’s cross, For still he hated Daniel, still with Darius Plotted the loud death; yet loved all day, All night the dream of lying in clear peace [27] [28]