Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.

Avenel Gray

Edwin Arlington Robinson

AVENEL GRAY at fifty had gray hair,

Gray eyes, and a gray cat—coincidence

Agreeable enough to be approved

And shared by all her neighbors; or by all

Save one, who had, in his abused esteem,

No share of it worth having. Avenel Gray

At fifty had the favor and the grace

Of thirty—the gray hair being only a jest

Of time, he reasoned, whereby the gray eyes

Were maybe twenty or maybe a thousand.

Never could he persuade himself to say

Flow old or young they were, or what was in them,

Or whether in the mind or in the heart

Of their possessor there had ever been,

Or ever should be, more than room enough

For the undying dead. All he could say

Would be that she was now to him a child,

A little frightened or a little vexed,

And now a sort of Miss Methusaleh,

Adept and various in obscurity

And in omniscience rather terrible—

Until she smiled and was a child again,

Seeing with eyes that had no age in them

That his were growing older. Seneca Sprague

At fifty had hair grayer, such as it was,

Than Avenel’s—an atoll, as it were,

Circling a smooth lagoon of indignation,

Whereunder were concealed no treacheries

Or monsters that were perilous to provoke.

Seneca sat one Sunday afternoon

With Avenel in her garden. There was peace

And languor in the air, but in his mind

There was not either—there was Avenel;

And where she was, and she was everywhere,

There was no peace for Seneca. So today

Should see the last of him in any garden

Where a sphynx-child, with gray eyes and gray hair,

Would be the only flower that he might wish

To pluck, wishing in vain. “I’m here again,”

Seneca said, “and I’m not here alone;

You may observe that I’ve a guest with me

This time, Time being the guest. Scythe, glass, and all,

You have it, the whole ancient apparatus.

Time is a guest not given to long waiting,

And, in so far as you may not have known it,

I’m Destiny. For more than twenty years

My search has been for an identity

Worth Time’s acknowledgment; and heretofore

My search has been but a long faltering,

Paid with an unavailing gratitude

And unconfessed encouragement from you.

What is it in me that you like so much,

And love so little? I’m not so much a monkey

As many who have had their heart’s desire,

And have it still. My perishable angel,

Since neither you nor I may live forever

Like this, I’ll say the folly that has fooled us

Out of our lives was never mine, but yours.

There was an understanding long ago

Between the laws and atoms that your life

And mine together were to be a triumph;

But one contingency was overlooked,

And that was a complete one. All you love,

And all you dare to love, is far from here—

Too far for me to find where I am going.”

“Going?” Avenel said. “Where are you going?”

There was a frightened wonder in her eyes

Until she found a way for them to laugh:

“At first I thought you might be going to tell me

That you had found a new way to be old—

Maybe without remembering all the time

How gray we are. But when you soon began

To be so unfamiliar and ferocious—

Well, I began to wonder. I’m a woman.”

Seneca sighed before he shook his head

At Avenel: “You say you are a woman,

And I suppose you are. If you are not,

I don’t know what you are; and if you are,

I don’t know what you mean.”
“By what?” she said.

A faint bewildered flush covered her face,

While Seneca felt within her voice a note

As near to sharpness as a voice like hers

Might have in silent hiding. “What have I done

So terrible all at once that I’m a stranger?”

“You are no stranger than you always were,”

He said, “and you are not required to be so.

You are no stranger now than yesterday,

Or twenty years ago; or thirty years

Longer ago than that, when you were born—

You and your brother. I’m not here to scare you,

Or to pour any measure of reproach

Out of a surplus urn of chilly wisdom;

For watching you to find out whether or not

You shivered swallowing it would be no joy

For me. But since it has all come to this—

Which is the same as nothing, only worse,

I am not either wise or kind enough,

It seems, to go away from you in silence.

My wonder is today that I have been

So long in finding what there was to find,

Or rather in recognizing what I found

Long since and hid with incredulities

That years have worn away, leaving white bones

Before me in a desert. All those bones,

If strung together, would be a skeleton

That once upheld a living form of hope

For me to follow until at last it fell

Where there was only sand and emptiness.

For a long time there was not even a grave—

Hope having died there all alone, you see,

And in the dark. And you, being as you are,

Inseparable from your traditions—well,

I went so far last evening as to fancy,

Having no other counsellor than myself

To guide me, that you might be entertained,

If not instructed, hearing how far I wandered,

Following hope into an empty desert,

And what I found there. If we never know

What we have found, and are accordingly

Adrift upon the wreck of our invention,

We make our way as quietly to shore

As possible, and we say no more about it;

But if we know too well for our well-being

That what it is we know had best be shared

With one who knows too much of it already,

Even kindliness becomes, or may become,

A strangling and unwilling incubus.

A ghost would often help us if he could,

But being a ghost he can’t. I may confuse

Regret with wisdom, but in going so far

As not impossibly to be annoying,

My wish is that you see the part you are

Of nature. When you find anomalies here

Among your flowers and are surprised at them,

Consider yourself and be surprised again;

For they and their potential oddities

Are all a part of nature. So are you,

Though you be not a part that nature favors,

And favoring, carries on. You are a monster;

A most adorable and essential monster.”

He watched her face and waited, but she gave him

Only a baffled glance before there fell

So great a silence there among the flowers

That even their fragrance had almost a sound;

And some that had no fragrance may have had,

He fancied, an accusing voice of color

Which her pale cheeks now answered with another;

Wherefore he gazed a while at tiger-lilies

Hollyhocks, dahlias, asters and hydrangeas—

The generals of an old anonymous host

That he knew only by their shapes and faces.

Beyond them he saw trees; and beyond them

A still blue summer sky where there were stars

In hiding, as there might somewhere be veiled

Eternal reasons why the tricks of time

Were played like this. Two insects on a leaf

Would fill about as much of nature’s eye,

No doubt, as would a woman and a man

At odds with heritage. Yet there they sat,

A woman and a man, beyond the range

Of all deceit and all philosophy

To make them less or larger than they were.

The sun might only be a spark among

Superior stars, but one could not help that.

“If a grim God that watches each of us

In turn, like an old-fashioned schoolmaster,”

Seneca said, still gazing at the blue

Beyond the trees, “no longer satisfies,

Or tortures our credulity with harps

Or fires, who knows if there may not be laws

Harder for us to vanquish or evade

Than any tyrants? Rather, we know there are;

Or you would not be studying butterflies

While I’m encouraging Empedocles

In retrospect. He was a mountain-climber,

You may remember; and while I think of him,

I think if only there were more volcanoes,

More of us might be climbing to their craters

To find out what he found. You are sufficient,

You and your cumulative silences

Today, to make of his abysmal ashes

The dust of all our logic and our faith;

And since you can do that, you must have power

That you have never measured. Or, if you like,

A power too large for any measurement

Has done it for you, made you as you are,

And led me for the last time, possibly,

To bow before a phantom in your garden.”

He smiled—until he saw tears in her eyes,

And then remarked, “Here comes a friend of yours.

Pyrrhus, you call him. Pyrrhus because he purrs.”

“I found him reading Hamlet,” Avenel said;

“By which I mean that I was reading Hamlet.

But he’s an old cat now. And I’m another—

If you mean what you say, or seem to say.

If not, what in the world’s name do you mean?”

He met the futile question with a question

Almost as futile and almost as old:

“Why have I been so long learning to read,

Or learning to be willing to believe

That I was learning? All that I had to do

Was to remember that your brother once

Was here, and is here still. Why have I waited—

Why have you made me wait—so long to say so?”

Although he said it kindly, and foresaw

That in his kindness would be pain, he said it—

More to the blue beyond the trees, perhaps,

Or to the stars that moved invisibly

To laws implacable and inviolable,

Than to the stricken ears of Avenel,

Who looked at him as if to speak. He waited,

Until it seemed that all the leaves and flowers,

The butterflies and the cat, were waiting also.

“Am I the only woman alive,” she asked,

“Who has a brother she may not forget?

If you are here to be mysterious,

Ingenuousness like mine may disappoint you.

And there are women somewhere, certainly,

Riper for mysteries than I am yet.

You see me living always in one place,

And all alone.”
“No, you are not alone,”

Seneca said: “I wish to God you were!

And I wish more that you had been so always,

That you might be so now. Your brother is here,

And yet he has not been here for ten years.

Though you’ve a skill to crowd your paradigms

Into a cage like that, and keep them there,

You may not yet be asking quite so much

Of others, for whom the present is not the past.

We are not all magicians; and Time himself

Who is already beckoning me away,

Would surely have been cut with his own scythe,

And long ago, if he had followed you

In all your caprioles and divagations.

You have deceived the present so demurely

That only few have been aware of it,

And you the least of all. You do not know

How much it was of you that was not you

That made me wait. And why I was so long

In seeing that it was never to be you,

Is not for you to tell me—for I know.

I was so long in seeing it was not you,

Because I would not see. I wonder, now,

If I should take you up and carry you off,

Like an addressable orang-outang,

You might forget the grave where half of you

Is buried alive, and where the rest of you,

Whatever you may believe it may be doing,

Is parlously employed.” As if to save

His mistress the convention of an answer,

The cat jumped up into her lap and purred,

Folded his paws, and looked at Seneca

Suspiciously. “I might almost have done it,”

He said, “if insight and experience

Had not assured me it would do no good.

Don’t be afraid. I have tried everything,

Only to be assured it was not you

That made me fail. If you were here alone,

You would not see the last of me so soon;

And even with you and the invisible

Together, maybe I might have seized you then

Just hard enough to leave you black and blue—

Not that you would have cared one way or other,

With him forever near you, and if unseen,

Always a refuge. No, I should not have hurt you.

It would have done no good—yet might perhaps

Have made me likelier to be going away

At the right time. Anyhow, damn the cat.”

Seneca looked at Avenel till she smiled,

And so let loose a tear that she had held

In each of her gray eyes. “I am too old,”

She said, “and too incorrigibly alone,

For you to laugh at me. You have been saying

More nonsense in an hour than I have heard

Before in forty years. Why do you do it?

Why do you talk like this of going away?

Where would you be, and what would you be doing?

You would be like a cat in a strange house—

Like Pyrrhus here in yours. I have not had

My years for nothing; and you are not so young

As to be quite so sure that I’m a child.

We are too old to be ridiculous,

And we’ve been friends too long.”
“We have been friends

Too long,” he said, “to be friends any longer.

And there you have the burden of a song

That I came here to sing this afternoon.

When I said friends you might have halted me,

For I meant neighbors.”
“I know what you meant,”

Avenel answered, gazing at the sky,

And then at Seneca. “The great question is,

What made you say it? You mention powers and laws,

As if you understood them. Am I stranger

Than powers and laws that make me as I am?”

“God knows you are no stranger than you are,

For which I praise Him,” Seneca said, devoutly.

“I see no need of prayer to bring to pass

For me more prodigies or more difficulties.

I cry for them no longer when I know

That you are married to your brother’s ghost,

Even as you were married to your brother—

Never contending or suspecting it,

Yet married all the same. You are alone,

But only in so far as to my eyes

The sight of your beloved is unseen.

Why should I come between you and your ghost,

Whose hand is always chilly on my shoulder,

Drawing me back whenever I go forward?

I should have been acclaimed stronger than he

Before he died, but he can twist me now,

And I resign my dream to his dominion.

And if by chance of an uncertain urge

Of weariness or pity you might essay

The stranglings of a twofold loyalty,

The depth and length and width of my estate,

Measured magnanimously, would be but that

Of half a grave. I’d best be rational,

I’m saying therefore to myself today,

And leave you quiet. I can originate

No reason larger than a leucocyte

Why you should not, since there are two of you,

Be tranquil here together till the end.”

“You would not tell me this if it were true,

And I, if it were true, should not believe it,”

Said Avenel, stroking slowly with cold hands

The cat’s warm coat. “But I might still be vexed—

Yes, even with you; and that would be a pity.

It may be well for you to go away—

Or for a while—perhaps. I have not heard

Such an unpleasant nonsense anywhere

As this of yours. I like you, Seneca,

But not when you bring Time and Destiny,

As now you do, for company. When you come

Some other day, leave your two friends outside.

We have gone well without them for so long

That we shall hardly be tragedians now,

Not even if we may try; and we have been

Too long familiar with our differences

To quarrel—or to change.”
Avenel smiled

At Seneca with gray eyes wherein were drowned

Inquisitive injuries, and the gray cat yawned

At him as he departed with a sigh

That answered nothing. He went slowly home,

Imagining, as a fond improvisation,

That waves huger than Andes or Sierras

Would soon be overwhelming, as before,

A ship that would be sunk for the last time

With all on board, and far from Tilbury Town.