(To Mrs. Henry Richards)
ISAAC and Archibald were two old men. | |
| I knew them, and I may have laughed at them | |
| A little; but I must have honored them | |
| For they were old, and they were good to me. | |
| |
| I do not think of either of them now, | 5 |
| Without remembering, infallibly, | |
| A journey that I made one afternoon | |
| With Isaac to find out what Archibald | |
| Was doing with his oats. It was high time | |
| Those oats were cut, said Isaac; and he feared | 10 |
| That Archibald—well, he could never feel | |
| Quite sure of Archibald. Accordingly | |
| The good old man invited me—that is, | |
| Permitted me—to go along with him; | |
| And I, with a small boy’s adhesiveness | 15 |
| To competent old age, got up and went. | |
| |
| I do not know that I cared overmuch | |
| For Archibald’s or anybody’s oats, | |
| But Archibald was quite another thing, | |
| And Isaac yet another; and the world | 20 |
| Was wide, and there was gladness everywhere. | |
| We walked together down the River Road | |
| With all the warmth and wonder of the land | |
| Around us, and the wayside flash of leaves,— | |
| And Isaac said the day was glorious; | 25 |
| But somewhere at the end of the first mile | |
| I found that I was figuring to find | |
| How long those ancient legs of his would keep | |
| The pace that he had set for them. The sun | |
| Was hot, and I was ready to sweat blood; | 30 |
| But Isaac, for aught I could make of him, | |
| Was cool to his hat-band. So I said then | |
| With a dry gasp of affable despair, | |
| Something about the scorching days we have | |
| In August without knowing it sometimes; | 35 |
| But Isaac said the day was like a dream, | |
| And praised the Lord, and talked about the breeze. | |
| I made a fair confession of the breeze, | |
| And crowded casually on his thought | |
| The nearness of a profitable nook | 40 |
| That I could see. First I was half inclined | |
| To caution him that he was growing old, | |
| But something that was not compassion soon | |
| Made plain the folly of all subterfuge. | |
| Isaac was old, but not so old as that. | 45 |
| |
| So I proposed, without an overture, | |
| That we be seated in the shade a while, | |
| And Isaac made no murmur. Soon the talk | |
| Was turned on Archibald, and I began | |
| To feel some premonitions of a kind | 50 |
| That only childhood knows; for the old man | |
| Had looked at me and clutched me with his eye, | |
| And asked if I had ever noticed things. | |
| I told him that I could not think of them, | |
| And I knew then, by the frown that left his face | 55 |
| Unsatisfied, that I had injured him. | |
| “My good young friend,” he said, “you cannot feel | |
| What I have seen so long. You have the eyes— | |
| Oh, yes—but you have not the other things: | |
| The sight within that never will deceive, | 60 |
| You do not know—you have no right to know; | |
| The twilight warning of experience, | |
| The singular idea of loneliness,— | |
| These are not yours. But they have long been mine, | |
| And they have shown me now for seven years | 65 |
| That Archibald is changing. It is not | |
| So much that he should come to his last hand, | |
| And leave the game, and go the old way down; | |
| But I have known him in and out so long, | |
| And I have seen so much of good in him | 70 |
| That other men have shared and have not seen, | |
| And I have gone so far through thick and thin, | |
| Through cold and fire with him, that now it brings | |
| To this old heart of mine an ache that you | |
| Have not yet lived enough to know about. | 75 |
| But even unto you, and your boy’s faith, | |
| Your freedom, and your untried confidence, | |
| A time will come to find out what it means | |
| To know that you are losing what was yours, | |
| To know that you are being left behind; | 80 |
| And then the long contempt of innocence— | |
| God bless you, boy!—don’t think the worse of it | |
| Because an old man chatters in the shade— | |
| Will all be like a story you have read | |
| In childhood and remembered for the pictures. | 85 |
| |
| And when the best friend of your life goes down, | |
| When first you know in him the slackening | |
| That comes, and coming always tells the end,— | |
| Now in a common word that would have passed | |
| Uncaught from any other lips than his, | 90 |
| Now in some trivial act of every day, | |
| Done as he might have done it all along | |
| But for a twinging little difference | |
| That nips you like a squirrel’s teeth—oh, yes, | |
| Then you will understand it well enough. | 95 |
| But oftener it comes in other ways; | |
| It comes without your knowing when it comes; | |
| You know that he is changing, and you know | |
| That he is going—just as I know now | |
| That Archibald is going, and that I | 100 |
| Am staying.… Look at me, my boy, | |
| And when the time shall come for you to see | |
| That I must follow after him, try then | |
| To think of me, to bring me back again, | |
| Just as I was to-day. Think of the place | 105 |
| Where we are sitting now, and think of me— | |
| Think of old Isaac as you knew him then, | |
| When you set out with him in August once | |
| To see old Archibald.”—The words come back | |
| Almost as Isaac must have uttered them, | 110 |
| And there comes with them a dry memory | |
| Of something in my throat that would not move. | |
| |
| If you had asked me then to tell just why | |
| I made so much of Isaac and the things | |
| He said, I should have gone far for an answer; | 115 |
| For I knew it was not sorrow that I felt, | |
| Whatever I may have wished it, or tried then | |
| To make myself believe. My mouth was full | |
| Of words, and they would have been comforting | |
| To Isaac, spite of my twelve years, I think; | 120 |
| But there was not in me the willingness | |
| To speak them out. Therefore I watched the ground; | |
| And I was wondering what made the Lord | |
| Create a thing so nervous as an ant, | |
| When Isaac, with commendable unrest, | 125 |
| Ordained that we should take the road again— | |
| For it was yet three miles to Archibald’s, | |
| And one to the first pump. I felt relieved | |
| All over when the old man told me that; | |
| I felt that he had stilled a fear of mine | 130 |
| That those extremities of heat and cold | |
| Which he had long gone through with Archibald | |
| Had made the man impervious to both; | |
| But Isaac had a desert somewhere in him, | |
| And at the pump he thanked God for all things | 135 |
| That He had put on earth for men to drink, | |
| And he drank well,—so well that I proposed | |
| That we go slowly lest I learn too soon | |
| The bitterness of being left behind, | |
| And all those other things. That was a joke | 140 |
| To Isaac, and it pleased him very much; | |
| And that pleased me—for I was twelve years old. | |
| |
| At the end of an hour’s walking after that | |
| The cottage of old Archibald appeared. | |
| Little and white and high on a smooth round hill | 145 |
| It stood, with hackmatacks and apple-trees | |
| Before it, and a big barn-roof beyond; | |
| And over the place—trees, house, fields and all— | |
| Hovered an air of still simplicity | |
| And a fragrance of old summers—the old style | 150 |
| That lives the while it passes. I dare say | |
| That I was lightly conscious of all this | |
| When Isaac, of a sudden, stopped himself, | |
| And for the long first quarter of a minute | |
| Gazed with incredulous eyes, forgetful quite | 155 |
| Of breezes and of me and of all else | |
| Under the scorching sun but a smooth-cut field, | |
| Faint yellow in the distance. I was young, | |
| But there were a few things that I could see, | |
| And this was one of them.—“Well, well!” said he; | 160 |
| And “Archibald will be surprised, I think,” | |
| Said I. But all my childhood subtlety | |
| Was lost on Isaac, for he strode along | |
| Like something out of Homer—powerful | |
| And awful on the wayside, so I thought. | 165 |
| Also I thought how good it was to be | |
| So near the end of my short-legged endeavor | |
| To keep the pace with Isaac for five miles. | |
| |
| Hardly had we turned in from the main road | |
| When Archibald, with one hand on his back | 170 |
| And the other clutching his huge-headed cane, | |
| Came limping down to meet us.—“Well! well! well!” | |
| Said he; and then he looked at my red face, | |
| All streaked with dust and sweat, and shook my hand, | |
| And said it must have been a right smart walk | 175 |
| That we had had that day from Tilbury Town.— | |
| “Magnificent,” said Isaac; and he told | |
| About the beautiful west wind there was | |
| Which cooled and clarified the atmosphere. | |
| “You must have made it with your legs, I guess,” | 180 |
| Said Archibald; and Isaac humored him | |
| With one of those infrequent smiles of his | |
| Which he kept in reserve, apparently, | |
| For Archibald alone. “But why,” said he, | |
| “Should Providence have cider in the world | 185 |
| If not for such an afternoon as this?” | |
| And Archibald, with a soft light in his eyes, | |
| Replied that if he chose to go down cellar, | |
| There he would find eight barrels—one of which | |
| Was newly tapped, he said, and to his taste | 190 |
| An honor to the fruit. Isaac approved | |
| Most heartily of that, and guided us | |
| Forthwith, as if his venerable feet | |
| Were measuring the turf in his own door-yard, | |
| Straight to the open rollway. Down we went, | 195 |
| Out of the fiery sunshine to the gloom, | |
| Grateful and half sepulchral, where we found | |
| The barrels, like eight potent sentinels, | |
| Close ranged along the wall. From one of them | |
| A bright pine spile stuck out alluringly, | 200 |
| And on the black flat stone, just under it, | |
| Glimmered a late-spilled proof that Archibald | |
| Had spoken from unfeigned experience. | |
| There was a fluted antique water-glass | |
| Close by, and in it, prisoned, or at rest, | 205 |
| There was a cricket, of the brown soft sort | |
| That feeds on darkness. Isaac turned him out, | |
| And touched him with his thumb to make him jump, | |
| And then composedly pulled out the plug | |
| With such a practised hand that scarce a drop | 210 |
| Did even touch his fingers. Then he drank | |
| And smacked his lips with a slow patronage | |
| And looked along the line of barrels there | |
| With a pride that may have been forgetfulness | |
| That they were Archibald’s and not his own. | 215 |
| “I never twist a spigot nowadays,” | |
| He said, and raised the glass up to the light, | |
| “But I thank God for orchards.” And that glass | |
| Was filled repeatedly for the same hand | |
| Before I thought it worth while to discern | 220 |
| Again that I was young, and that old age, | |
| With all his woes, had some advantages. | |
| “Now, Archibald,” said Isaac, when we stood | |
| Outside again, “I have it in my mind | |
| That I shall take a sort of little walk— | 225 |
| To stretch my legs and see what you are doing. | |
| You stay and rest your back and tell the boy | |
| A story: Tell him all about the time | |
| In Stafford’s cabin forty years ago, | |
| When four of us were snowed up for ten days | 230 |
| With only one dried haddock. Tell him all | |
| About it, and be wary of your back. | |
| Now I will go along.”—I looked up then | |
| At Archibald, and as I looked I saw | |
| Just how his nostrils widened once or twice | 235 |
| And then grew narrow. I can hear today | |
| The way the old man chuckled to himself— | |
| Not wholesomely, not wholly to convince | |
| Another of his mirth,—as I can hear | |
| The lonely sigh that followed.—But at length | 240 |
| He said: “The orchard now’s the place for us; | |
| We may find something like an apple there, | |
| And we shall have the shade, at any rate.” | |
| So there we went and there we laid ourselves | |
| Where the sun could not reach us; and I champed | 245 |
| A dozen of worm-blighted astrakhans | |
| While Archibald said nothing—merely told | |
| The tale of Stafford’s cabin, which was good, | |
| Though “master chilly”—after his own phrase— | |
| Even for a day like that. But other thoughts | 250 |
| Were moving in his mind, imperative, | |
| And writhing to be spoken: I could see | |
| The glimmer of them in a glance or two, | |
| Cautious, or else unconscious, that he gave | |
| Over his shoulder: … “Stafford and the rest— | 255 |
| But that’s an old song now, and Archibald | |
| And Isaac are old men. Remember, boy, | |
| That we are old. Whatever we have gained, | |
| Or lost, or thrown away, we are old men. | |
| You look before you and we look behind, | 260 |
| And we are playing life out in the shadow— | |
| But that’s not all of it. The sunshine lights | |
| A good road yet before us if we look, | |
| And we are doing that when least we know it; | |
| For both of us are children of the sun, | 265 |
| Like you, and like the weed there at your feet. | |
| The shadow calls us, and it frightens us— | |
| We think; but there’s a light behind the stars | |
| And we old fellows who have dared to live, | |
| We see it—and we see the other things, | 270 |
| The other things … Yes, I have seen it come | |
| These eight years, and these ten years, and I know | |
| Now that it cannot be for very long | |
| That Isaac will be Isaac. You have seen— | |
| Young as you are, you must have seen the strange | 275 |
| Uncomfortable habit of the man? | |
| He’ll take my nerves and tie them in a knot | |
| Sometimes, and that’s not Isaac. I know that— | |
| And I know what it is: I get it here | |
| A little, in my knees, and Isaac—here.” | 280 |
| The old man shook his head regretfully | |
| And laid his knuckles three times on his forehead. | |
| “That’s what it is: Isaac is not quite right. | |
| You see it, but you don’t know what it means: | |
| The thousand little differences—no, | 285 |
| You do not know them, and it’s well you don’t; | |
| You’ll know them soon enough—God bless you, boy!— | |
| You’ll know them, but not all of them—not all. | |
| So think of them as little as you can: | |
| There’s nothing in them for you, or for me— | 290 |
| But I am old and I must think of them; | |
| I’m in the shadow, but I don’t forget | |
| The light, my boy,—the light behind the stars. | |
| Remember that: remember that I said it; | |
| And when the time that you think far away | 295 |
| Shall come for you to say it—say it, boy; | |
| Let there be no confusion or distrust | |
| In you, no snarling of a life half lived, | |
| Nor any cursing over broken things | |
| That your complaint has been the ruin of. | 300 |
| Live to see clearly and the light will come | |
| To you, and as you need it.—But there, there, | |
| I’m going it again, as Isaac says, | |
| And I’ll stop now before you go to sleep.— | |
| Only be sure that you growl cautiously, | 305 |
| And always where the shadow may not reach you.” | |
| |
| Never shall I forget, long as I live, | |
| The quaint thin crack in Archibald’s voice, | |
| The lonely twinkle in his little eyes, | |
| Or the way it made me feel to be with him. | 310 |
| I know I lay and looked for a long time | |
| Down through the orchard and across the road, | |
| Across the river and the sun-scorched hills | |
| That ceased in a blue forest, where the world | |
| Ceased with it. Now and then my fancy caught | 315 |
| A flying glimpse of a good life beyond— | |
| Something of ships and sunlight, streets and singing, | |
| Troy falling, and the ages coming back, | |
| And ages coming forward: Archibald | |
| And Isaac were good fellows in old clothes, | 320 |
| And Agamemnon was a friend of mine; | |
| Ulysses coming home again to shoot | |
| With bows and feathered arrows made another, | |
| And all was as it should be. I was young. | |
| |
| So I lay dreaming of what things I would, | 325 |
| Calm and incorrigibly satisfied | |
| With apples and romance and ignorance, | |
| And the still smoke from Archibald’s clay pipe. | |
| There was a stillness over everything, | |
| As if the spirit of heat had laid its hand | 330 |
| Upon the world and hushed it; and I felt | |
| Within the mightiness of the white sun | |
| That smote the land around us and wrought out | |
| A fragrance from the trees, a vital warmth | |
| And fullness for the time that was to come, | 335 |
| And a glory for the world beyond the forest. | |
| The present and the future and the past, | |
| Isaac and Archibald, the burning bush, | |
| The Trojans and the walls of Jericho, | |
| Were beautifully fused; and all went well | 340 |
| Till Archibald began to fret for Isaac | |
| And said it was a master day for sunstroke. | |
| That was enough to make a mummy smile, | |
| I thought; and I remained hilarious, | |
| In face of all precedence and respect, | 345 |
| Till Isaac (who had come to us unheard) | |
| Found he had no tobacco, looked at me | |
| Peculiarly, and asked of Archibald | |
| What ailed the boy to make him chirrup so. | |
| From that he told us what a blessed world | 350 |
| The Lord had given us.—“But, Archibald,” | |
| He added, with a sweet severity | |
| That made me think of peach-skins and goose-flesh, | |
| “I’m half afraid you cut those oats of yours | |
| A day or two before they were well set.” | 355 |
| “They were set well enough,” said Archibald,— | |
| And I remarked the process of his nose | |
| Before the words came out. “But never mind | |
| Your neighbor’s oats: you stay here in the shade | |
| And rest yourself while I go find the cards. | 360 |
| We’ll have a little game of seven-up | |
| And let the boy keep count.”—“We’ll have the game, | |
| Assuredly,” said Isaac; “and I think | |
| That I will have a drop of cider, also.” | |
| |
| They marched away together towards the house | 365 |
| And left me to my childish ruminations | |
| Upon the ways of men. I followed them | |
| Down cellar with my fancy, and then left them | |
| For a fairer vision of all things at once | |
| That was anon to be destroyed again | 370 |
| By the sound of voices and of heavy feet— | |
| One of the sounds of life that I remember, | |
| Though I forget so many that rang first | |
| As if they were thrown down to me from Sinai. | |
| |
| So I remember, even to this day, | 375 |
| Just how they sounded, how they placed themselves, | |
| And how the game went on while I made marks | |
| And crossed them out, and meanwhile made some Trojans. | |
| Likewise I made Ulysses, after Isaac, | |
| And a little after Flaxman. Archibald | 380 |
| Was injured when he found himself left out, | |
| But he had no heroics, and I said so: | |
| I told him that his white beard was too long | |
| And too straight down to be like things in Homer. | |
| “Quite so,” said Isaac.—“Low,” said Archibald; | 385 |
| And he threw down a deuce with a deep grin | |
| That showed his yellow teeth and made me happy. | |
| So they played on till a bell rang from the door, | |
| And Archibald said, “Supper.”—After that | |
| The old men smoked while I sat watching them | 390 |
| And wondered with all comfort what might come | |
| To me, and what might never come to me; | |
| And when the time came for the long walk home | |
| With Isaac in the twilight, I could see | |
| The forest and the sunset and the sky-line, | 395 |
| No matter where it was that I was looking: | |
| The flame beyond the boundary, the music, | |
| The foam and the white ships, and two old men | |
| Were things that would not leave me.—And that night | |
| There came to me a dream—a shining one, | 400 |
| With two old angels in it. They had wings, | |
| And they were sitting where a silver light | |
| Suffused them, face to face. The wings of one | |
| Began to palpitate as I approached, | |
| But I was yet unseen when a dry voice | 405 |
| Cried thinly, with unpatronizing triumph, | |
| “I’ve got you, Isaac; high, low, jack, and the game.” | |
| |
| Isaac and Archibald have gone their way | |
| To the silence of the loved and well-forgotten. | |
| I knew them, and I may have laughed at them; | 410 |
| But there’s a laughing that has honor in it, | |
| And I have no regret for light words now. | |
| Rather I think sometimes they may have made | |
| Their sport of me;—but they would not do that, | |
| They were too old for that. They were old men, | 415 |
| And I may laugh at them because I knew them. | |
