The Dover Anthology of American Literature Volume II (104 page)

“As a matter of fact I went to see my beloved on that evening filled with a new faith in the outcome of our life together. I am afraid I muddle this matter in trying to tell it. A moment ago I said the other woman, the tobacconist's wife, went with me. I do not mean she went in fact. What I am trying to say is that something of her faith in her own desires and her courage in seeing things through went with me. Is that clear to you? When I got to my fiancée's house there was a crowd of people standing about. Some were relatives from distant places I had not seen before. She looked up quickly when I came into the room. My face must have been radiant. I never saw her so moved. She thought her letter had affected me deeply, and of course it had. Up she jumped and ran to meet me. She was like a glad child. Right before the people who turned and looked inquiringly at us, she said the thing that was in her mind. ‘O, I am so happy,' she cried. ‘You have understood. We will be two human beings. We will not have to be husband and wife.'

“As you may suppose everyone laughed, but I did not laugh. The tears came into my eyes. I was so happy I wanted to shout. Perhaps you understand what I mean. In the office that day when I read the letter my fiancée had written I had said to myself, ‘I will take care of the dear little woman.' There was something smug, you see, about that. In her house when she cried out in that way, and when everyone laughed, what I said to myself was something like this: ‘We will take care of ourselves.' I whispered something of the sort into her ears. To tell you the truth I had come down off my perch. The spirit of the other woman did that to me. Before all the people gathered about I held my fiancée close and we kissed. They thought it very sweet of us to be so affected at the sight of each other. What they would have thought had they known the truth about me God only knows!

“
Twice now I have said that after that evening I never thought of the other woman at all. That is partially true but, sometimes in the evening when I am walking alone in the street or in the park as we are walking now, and when evening comes softly and quickly as it has come to-night, the feeling of her comes sharply into my body and mind. After that one meeting I never saw her again. On the next day I was married and I have never gone back into her street. Often however as I am walking along as I am doing now, a quick sharp earthy feeling takes possession of me. It is as though I were a seed in the ground and the warm rains of the spring had come. It is as though I were not a man but a tree.

“And now you see I am married and everything is all right. My marriage is to me a very beautiful fact. If you were to say that my marriage is not a happy one I could call you a liar and be speaking the absolute truth. I have tried to tell you about this other woman. There is a kind of relief in speaking of her. I have never done it before. I wonder why I was so silly as to be afraid that I would give you the impression I am not in love with my wife. If I did not instinctively trust your understanding I would not have spoken. As the matter stands I have a little stirred myself up. To-night I shall think of the other woman. That sometimes occurs. It will happen after I have gone to bed. My wife sleeps in the next room to mine and the door is always left open. There will be a moon to-night, and when there is a moon long streaks of light fall on her bed. I shall awake at midnight to-night. She will be lying asleep with one arm thrown over her head.

“What is it that I am now talking about? A man does not speak of his wife lying in bed. What I am trying to say is that, because of this talk, I shall think of the other woman to-night. My thoughts will not take the form they did during the week before I was married. I still wonder what has become of the woman. For a moment I will again feel myself holding her close. I will think that for an hour I was closer to her than I have ever been to anyone else. Then I will think of the time when I will be as close as that to my wife. She is still, you see, an awakening woman. For a moment I will close my eyes and the quick, shrewd, determined eyes of that other woman will look into mine. My head will swim and then I will quickly open my eyes and see again the dear woman with whom I have undertaken to live out my life. Then I will sleep and when I awake in the morning it will be as it was that evening when I walked out of my dark apartment after having had
the
most notable experience of my life. What I mean to say, you understand is that, for me, when I awake, the other woman will be utterly gone.”

S
OURCE:
Sherwood Anderson.
The Triumph of the Egg: A Book of Impressions from American Life in Tales and Poems
. New York: B. W. Huebsch, Inc., 1921.

EDNA
ST. VINCENT MILLAY

The poetry of Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892–1950) remains attractive and engaging for its clarity, range of topics and passionate voice.

Thursday
(1921)

                
And if I loved you Wednesday,

                    
Well, what is that to you?

                
I do not love you Thursday—

                    
So much is true.

                
And why you come complaining

                    
Is more than I can see.

                
I loved you Wednesday,—yes—but what

                    
Is that to me?

S
OURCE:
Edna St. Vincent Millay.
A Few Figs from Thistles: Poems and Sonnets.
New York: Frank Shay, 1921.

To
the Not Impossible Him
(1921)

                    
How shall I know, unless I go

                        
To Cairo and Cathay,

                    
Whether or not this blessed spot

                        
Is blest in every way?

                    
Now
it may be, the flower for me

                        
Is this beneath my nose;

                    
How shall I tell, unless I smell

                        
The Carthaginian rose?

                    
The fabric of my faithful love

                        
No power shall dim or ravel

                    
Whilst I stay here,—but oh, my dear,

                        
If I should ever travel!

S
OURCE:
Edna St. Vincent Millay.
A Few Figs from Thistles: Poems and Sonnets.
New York: Frank Shay, 1921.

Exiled
(1921)

            
Searching my heart for its true sorrow,

                
This is the thing I find to be:

            
That I am weary of words and people,

                
Sick of the city, wanting the sea;

            
Wanting the sticky, salty sweetness

                
Of the strong wind and shattered spray;

            
Wanting the loud sound and the soft sound

                
Of the big surf that breaks all day.

            
Always before about my dooryard,

                
Marking the reach of the winter sea,

            
Rooted in sand and dragging drift-wood,

                
Straggled the purple wild sweet-pea;

            
Always I climbed the wave at morning,

                
Shook the sand from my shoes at night,

            
That now am caught beneath great buildings,

                
Stricken with noise, confused with light.

            
If I could hear the green piles groaning

                
Under the windy wooden piers,

            
See once again the bobbing barrels,

                
And the black sticks that fence the weirs,

            
If I could see the weedy mussels

                
Crusting the wrecked and rotting hulls,

            
Hear
once again the hungry crying

                
Overhead, of the wheeling gulls,

            
Feel once again the shanty straining

                
Under the turning of the tide,

            
Fear once again the rising freshet,

                
Dread the bell in the fog outside,—

            
I should be happy,—that was happy

                
All day long on the coast of Maine!

            
I have a need to hold and handle

                
Shells and anchors and ships again!

            
I should be happy, that am happy

                
Never at all since I came here.

            
I am too long away from water.

                
I have a need of water near.

S
OURCE:
Edna St. Vincent Millay.
Second April.
New York: Harper and Brothers Publishers, 1921.

Travel
(1921)

        
The railroad track is miles away,

            
And the day is loud with voices speaking,

        
Yet there isn't a train goes by all day

            
But I hear its whistle shrieking.

        
All night there isn't a train goes by,

            
Though the night is still for sleep and dreaming

        
But I see its cinders red on the sky,

            
And hear its engine steaming.

        
My heart is warm with the friends I make,

            
And better friends I'll not be knowing,

        
Yet there isn't a train I wouldn't take,

            
No matter where it's going.

S
OURCE:
Edna St. Vincent Millay.
Second April.
New York: Harper and Brothers Publishers, 1921.

LANGSTON
HUGHES

Langston Hughes (1902–1967), whose writing career spanned the Harlem Renaissance and continued its persistent path until his death, was a colloquial poet who often wrote in the voice of his subjects; throughout his life, he was a determined advocate for black Americans and writers. This was his first famous published poem.

The
Negro Speaks of Rivers
(1921)

I've known rivers:

I've known rivers ancient as the world and older than the flow of human blood in human veins.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young.

I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.

I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.

I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln went down to New Orleans, and I've seen its muddy bosom turn all golden in the sunset

I've known rivers:

Ancient, dusky rivers.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

S
OURCE:
The Crisis: A Record of the Darker Races
(June 1921).

GERTRUDE
STEIN

One of the greatest of experimenters in sound and sense, Gertrude Stein (1874–1946) grew up in Oakland, California, but lived most of her life in Paris, where she mentored and befriended numerous international writers and artists.

Every
Afternoon: A Dialogue
(1922)

I get up.

So do you get up.

We are pleased with each other.

Why are you.

Because we are hopeful.

Have you any reason to be.

We have reason to be.

What is it.

I am not prepared to say.

Is there any change.

Naturally.

I know what you mean.

I consider that it is not necessary for me to teach languages.

It would be foolish of you to.

It would here.

It would anywhere.

I do not care about Peru.

I hope you do.

Do I begin this.

Yes you began this.

Of course we did.

Yes indeed we did.

When
will we speak of another.

Not today I assure you.

Yes certainly you mentioned it.