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The New Coterie  Volume 1   Issue: 6  Summer & Autumn, 1927  Page: 58
 
 The Rival Pastors By F. T. Powys
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F. T. Powys

THE RIVAL PASTORS
 
IT is always a dangerous thing to allow churches to be built too near to each other, for, like old Devon bulls in the same field, they do not often agree. Whenever two churches are but a mile apart their bells are sure to clang angrily and their pastors are as prone to fight, and to be as jealous of one another, as two Dartmoor stags.

Everyone knows that, in political matters, those who hold nearly the same opinions quarrel over them the most, and though High and Low Church ministers are both Catholic Christians, yet either would address themselves more politely to an atheist or Papist than to each other. It is certainly fortunate for the quiet and peace of the modest layman that each church, however near, is set in its own parish for, if two churches — so near as Shelton and Maids Madder — had no legal boundary there would be sure to be murder.

The towers of these two churches were in full view of one another and looked resentful, and their respective ministers were certainly not behind-hand in the battle of tongues.

Mr. Hayhoe of Maids Madder belonged to the evangelical persuasion — a persuasion that is, alas! scarce enough in these forward times, when faith hides in the hollow trees and when so many have gone over to the scarlet lady of Rome. Mr. Hayhoe was all the more bitter in heart for being left so lonely.

Mr. Dirdoe of Shelton, though wearing the same kind of cloth — the deepest black that could be purchased for money — held views that Mr. Hayhoe abhorred. Mr. Dirdoe believed in ritualism and held that any pastor who was too lazy to turn to the East when the creed was being said must be little less than a man of Belial.

Mr. Hayhoe was at heart and in conversation a Calvinist, Mr. Dirdoe, a disciple of Dr. Keble. Mr. Hayhoe was married, Mr. Dirdoe was a single man. Each gentleman kept to his own parish, and so terrified his people with threats of everlasting
The New Coterie  Volume 1   Issue: 6  Summer & Autumn, 1927  Page: 59
 
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damnation if they entered the church of his rival that no one either in Shelton or Maids Madder, ever thought of doing so — except Lily Topp.

Whether it was the devil’s doing or no, it is not possible to tell, but unfortunately the parish boundary that divided Maids Madder from Shelton, went through the middle of Daisy Cottage which was owned by John Topp, though this cottage was but a hundred yards from Maids Madder Church.

When John Topp sat down at his table for tea he took up the knife and cut the loaf of bread in Shelton, and Mrs. Topp, when she filled his cup was in Maids Madder, while Lily Topp more often than not had a foot in both the parishes.

“Maiden,” Mr. Topp would observe with a great laugh, “be in two places at once.”

When Mr. Hayhoe came home from the evening service, Mrs. Hayhoe would anxiously watch her husband, who was in the habit because his own beard was so rough, of calling her a poor weak woman. If Mr. Hayhoe looked sadly at the cold pork that his wife had provided for supper, Mrs. Hayhoe knew that Lily Topp had not been in her pew beside her mother, and so must have committed the crime of visiting Shelton Church, where even incense was used for evensong.

Mr. Hayhoe preached in a black gown — that wasn’t a new one — he was short and thick-set, but with the mildest eyes that any troubled sinner could wish to see. Though he used rough words in his sermons, his acts were the kindest, “but with damnation knocking at one’s door,” he would say, “'tis best to speak plain.”

Mr. Dirdoe, on the other hand, was thin and saintly and extremely nice in all that he did or said. His eyes were kind, too, though melancholy, his fingers were long and his hands as white as a maid’s. He too, as well as Mr. Hayhoe, would be sure to notice whether Lily Topp visited Shelton Church, where the child would sit in a pew in front of the boys, who would throw nuts at her.

As is often the case with men whose thoughts ever dwell in the imagination and seek both their delight and sorrow in religion, neither of the rival pastors ever paid the slightest heed to the earthly or carnal affairs of their people. These pastors were only concerned with the souls of their flocks, and each believed that the soul of Lily Topp was in jeopardy.
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No doctor is more courteous in matters of etiquette than a country minister, for to trespass upon another’s preserves — even to hunt a soul — is considered a very dreadful crime. Mr. Dirdoe dared not call at Daisy Cottage, neither dared Mr. Hayhoe, for neither knew in which village they would find the occupants. But, alas! for Mr. Dirdoe, the manners and warmth of the church at Maids Madder and the fierce pulpit cries of Mr. Hayhoe had captured John Topp and his wife, Alice, who remained safe in the evangelical fold. Only Lily was the sometime wanderer.

In both the reverend gentlemen’s minds there was the awful thought — “What if Lily should be damned?”

Just as Daisy Cottage was in the two parishes so also were John Topp’s fields, for though they were both very little fields, one was in Maids Madder and one in Shelton. The fields were high up upon the down and when John was at plough he could be easily seen from the Eectory windows at Maids Madder or from the Shelton Vicarage garden.

Though so separate in ideas that each believed the other’s doctrine to be most damnable and capable of leading any who listened to it to perdition, yet, besides possessing the same loving-kindness in his eyes, each of the ministers had the same favourite hymn. And they never sang it without thinking of Lily Topp, for the hymn was — “There were Ninety and nine.” No pastors of religion could be more humble either than these two good men, though they never met one another for fear they might say too much. But neither, for one moment, would allow himself to think that the simple peasants under his charge were not quite as interested in matters of religion as he.

When two good men seek so lovingly to save a sinner one can easily conceive that the same idea might come to both at the same moment.

Mr. Dirdoe was an early riser and so was Mr. Hayhoe, and after breakfast each would walk in his parish, visit the sick, talk to any old hedger he might meet and then return to write his sermon. One summer morning when all the fowls of the air were singing their matins, Mr. Dirdoe took a turn in his garden. No one, unless it were Mr. Hayhoe, had more honourable ideas than he. He would have thrust his right hand into the fire and burnt it to a stump sooner than have harmed any, by word, thought or deed. He believed as strongly as his rival in the
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soundness of family life and would never think of addressing Lily Topp upon the subject of religion without asking her father’s leave.

Mr. Dirdoe, as it happened that morning, looked up at the hills and saw John Topp at plough. Mr. Dirdoe knew every field in his parish, and John Topp was ploughing in Shelton.

Mr. Dirdoe returned to his house. A tramp was resting upon the doorstep and the pastor asked him politely if he would mind moving for one moment. The tramp moved sullenly and Mr. Dirdoe fetched his hat and began to climb the downs. As he climbed Mr. Dirdoe sang his favourite hymn. . . .

Although John Topp’s horses were old, they were happy with their master, for John never hurried them, and when they had a mind to rest he permitted them. John liked the horses to stop when he was alone, but he never wished any one to notice that he was resting them for he always affirmed at home that his horses worked as fast as the best and, if they rested at all, it was because they broke the traces with their vigorous motion.

John heard the hymn. He saw Mr. Dirdoe approach him,and his horses stopped. John called out to them but they remained still. He gave the reins a shake but that did no good.

“Maybe ’e won’t notice that they baint moving,” said John eyeing the approaching minister with much concern, “but, all same, ’tis best for I to give they horses their bait.” — John had provided a nosebag for each horse, though for himself he had taken nothing. He now permitted them to eat.

Mr. Dirdoe was not a man, as some are, who is afraid to name the master in whose employment he lived.

“I ask,” he said, “in the name of God, to have a word with you, John.”

But John shook his head.

“Thik baint a name to speak in these fields,” he said. “And why?” asked Mr. Dirdoe.

“Because they horses baint churchgoers,” replied John.

“I wish to ask you,” said Mr. Dirdoe, without heeding John’s reply, “if I may speak of the Eucharist, auricular confession and the penitentiary to your daughter, Lily.”

John Topp laughed loudly.

“Oh!” he said, “thee won’t catch our Lil wi’ they sprats!” “

You give me permission to try,” enquired Mr. Dirdoe eagerly.
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“Thee may try what thee like,” replied John, “but our Lil baint born yesterday, and that I do know.”

Mr. Dirdoe strode down the hill. In his mind’s eye he saw Lily Topp. A young creature, with round legs, running like a fawn, whose black eyes were merry, and whose cheeks might have been jealous of her lips that were like cherries, had not they themselves resembled rosy apples. That was but the carnal child of the flesh. Mr. Dirdoe saw her soul, too — a white virgin pearl hidden in her heart. . . .

Mr. John Topp had been ploughing the last furrow in his Shelton field when Mr. Dirdoe visited him, and upon the very next day he commenced to plough his other field, that was situated in Maids Madder. He had not been there but half an hour — and had already rested his horses four times, and was driving away his own troubles with a whiff of tobacco, at one end of the field — when he saw Mr. Hayhoe approaching from the direction of Maids Madder Rectory.

Mr. Hayhoe, who regarded the field a little contemptuously because it was not a page of the scriptures, at once began to speak of salvation by faith, how few were predestined to be saved and how many were to be damned. “And if,” said Mr. Hayhoe, raising his voice so that even one of John’s horses raised its head, “Lily continues to go to Shelton Church she will be damned, too.”

“No one baint damned,” said Mr. Topp, “for doing what they be minded, and she who do bide most times in two parishes do like to visit two churches.”

“But there is only one God,” replied Mr. Hayhoe.

“So folk do say,” replied Mr. Topp calmly.

“And Him only shalt thou serve,” said Mr. Hayhoe.

“’Twould insult our Lil to tell she so,” answered Mr. Topp, “for she do say she’ll marry a squire, and do go to Shelton Church to see what folk do wear at weddings.”

“You must permit me to reason with her,” pleaded Mr. Hayhoe. “Would you allow your daughter to call at the Rectory every Saturday afternoon at four o’clock?”

“Which door be she to knock at?” enquired Mr. Topp.

“The front door,” replied Mr. Hayhoe, “and I will open it myself.”

John Topp looked at the minister a little suspiciously.

“Our Lil baint one who do fancy any nonsense,” he said.
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“Then she cannot like sacerdotalism,” observed Mr. Hayhoe gladly.

“No, she don’t,” said Mr. Topp. “She don’t like none of they matters, for she be a good maid. . . .”

If the poor weak woman, who had married Mr. Hayhoe because he came as a missioner to her father’s village, had one idea left of her own, it was about her sofa covers. These she liked to keep clean. But when she heard that her husband had invited Lily Topp to have a talk with him on Saturday after­ noons she was sure that he would invite Lily to sit upon the study sofa.

“And her clothes are so dirty,” Mrs. Hayhoe said with a sigh.

“If she goes to Hell they will be dirtier,” remarked Mr. Hayhoe.

Mrs. Hayhoe had only just time to take away the cushion that she feared Lily might lean her head upon, when a quick knock came at the front door, and a young child with a skipping-rope in her hand and a merry look in her eyes was invited to enter by Mr. Hayhoe and conducted to his study.

Had Lily regarded anything else but the furniture she might have been a little alarmed at the extreme deference shown to her by the pastor who, indeed, treated every man, woman and child with the same polite consideration, for he saw them all — sinners though all of them were — as children of God. Mr. Hayhoe handed Lily, with a bow, to the sofa.

“You must pardon me,” he said, “for taking you from your pastimes, but my excuse and warrant is that you have a soul to be saved.”

“Oh, I wasn’t doing nothing important,” replied Lily. “I was only skipping alone. I weren’t playing wi’ Tommy.”

“Lily,” said Mr. Hayhoe, “I long to call you a child of grace and to keep you in our fold.”

“’Taint nor child of grace that our Daddy do call I, nor Tommy neither,” replied Lily, “for ’tis little Devil wi' both one and t' other.”

“Lily,” said Mr. Hayhoe, “do not listen to vain talkers who set snares for your feet.”

“Why,” exclaimed Lily, jumping up with a laugh and skipping across the room, “that’s just what Mr. Dirdoe do say!”
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“I hope you do not listen to him,” said Mr. Hayhoe, turning a little pale.

“Oh, no,” replied Lily. “I don’t take no notice of they men.”

“But you will listen to me, Lily?”

“If thee do talk nice,” answered Lily.

“Mr. Dirdoe promised you heaven, I suppose,” enquired Mr. Hayhoe sadly, “if you curtseyed to the Altar?”

“He promised I a packet of bulls-eyes,” laughed Lily.

“I will give you two packets if you stay with us,” said Mr. Hayhoe.

Lily laughed, kicked up her heels in the air and brought them

down upon the sofa cover. The poor weak woman opened the study door. . . .

Though Mr. Dirdoe hadn’t succeeded in catching Lily Topp when he spoke to her in the lane before she visited Mr. Hayhoe, yet he did not despair of her. Every Saturday afternoon, as soon as she had eaten her dinner, Lily would skip along the Shelton road to meet him, and he would first explain and then condemn the evangelical dogma, while Lily waited patiently and watched the birds in the sky. Presently Mr. Dirdoe would give her, as a reward for her patient listening, a packet of sweets.

Never in his life before had Mr. Dirdoe been so happy, and he secretly began to dread the day when Lily would no more divide her favours between Maids Madder Church and Shelton but come entirely to Shelton, for then he would only think it proper to preach to her from the pulpit. But all means now appeared to be right in his eyes for so good an end, and soon it became a common thing to see Mr. Dirdoe on Saturday afternoons skip­ ping himself — his heels up, his coat-tails flying — or else holding one end of a rope while Tommy held the other as Lily skipped.

Sometimes Lily met Mr. Dirdoe alone, for Tommy would often prefer to go with the other boys to stone the seagulls upon the cliffs, and then Mr. Dirdoe would sit beside Lily upon a log of wood in the Shelton Lane, hold her hand in his and tell her a number of exciting stories all about what happened to him when he was a child. Now and again Lily, as well as Tommy, had occupations at Madder that amused her more than listening to Mr. Dirdoe’s stories, and then Mr. Dirdoe would sit upon the log and wait for her in vain, looking so sad and melancholy that everyone who saw him there laughed loudly.
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One Saturday, Lily, who had taken a little longer than usual over her dinner — for she had the bones of a fresh herring to pick at with her fingers — found Mr. Dirdoe with his face hidden in his hands, looking so disconsolate that she felt pity for him.

“Our Dad do say,” remarked Lily, “that thee’d be happier if ’ee had a young girl to mind out to, an’ ’tis a pity I baint a little older to be thee’s bride.”

“I am seeking you, Lily, as a bride for God,” replied Mr. Dirdoe.

“Be God very old?” asked Lily.

“He is immortal,” answered Mr. Dirdoe.

“Our Dad do say,” continued Lily, “that thee mid kiss me if thee’s mouth do itch, for ’taint worth while to destroy theeself for want of a kiss.”

Mr. Dirdoe sat Lily beside him and stroked her hand.

“I am seeking your soul,” he said, “so that I may give it, blameless, to the angels.”

“Why, that’s just what Mr. Hayhoe do say,” laughed Lily. .

After Lily Topp had been for an hour or two with Mr. Dirdoe she would, as a rule, visit Mr. Hayhoe at Madder Rectory, where he had been wont to condemn all ceremonial. While he talked he permitted Lily to pull out the drawers of a cabinet that was in the study and lay their contents upon the sofa cover. This Lily was pleased enough to do, for, in each drawer, there were a number of curious things — shells and coins, beads and amber charms — that had all been collected by Mr. Hayhoe’s great grandmother.

Seeing her so happy with these toys, Mr. Hayhoe would leave his talk and tell her the same tales that his grandmother had told him about all her travels. They would both be as happy as possible, until the poor weak woman would knock at the door and say that it was high time that Lily went home.

“’Tis a pity old women be so interfering,” Lily would observe, as she helped Mr. Hayhoe to put back the drawers, “for when ’taint their sofa covers, ’tis their chairs they do think of — and ’taint we two who be crabbed” ....

Since Ben Jonson wrote these pretty lines —

 

“Weep with me, all you that read
This little story;
And know, for whom a tear you shed
Death’s self is sorry.”
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some of those whose years have numbered scarce thirteen, finish all too early their happy play in the daytime sun, and so a day arrived when Mr. Dirdoe sat waiting sadly and no Lily came. A car, that he knew to be the doctor’s, went by him towards Madder, though Mr. Dirdoe did not heed it.

Mr. Dirdoe had decided to make one final effort that afternoon to save Lily Topp from the error of her Madder ways. He would not meet her again, for the people of Shelton were already beginning to talk about him and to say horrid things.

Mr. Dirdoe, upon one of his short holidays, had seen in a jeweller’s window at Weyminster a golden chain with a crucifix attached. This he had purchased as a gift for Lily hoping that with this little cross upon her bosom, she would always wish to worship before the more splendid one upon the Shelton Altar.

Mr. Dirdoe waited. The same car that had passed him, going to Madder, returned again. The doctor’s bald head was inside. Mr. Dirdoe wondered what could have happened to Lily. Perhaps, he thought, “Mr. Hayhoe has beguiled her earlier than usual to Madder Rectory, in order to read Spurgeon’s Sermons.”

Mr. Dirdoe jumped up excitedly; a sudden idea came to him. He would go and take the lamb out of the very jaws of the lion.

Madder was unusually silent, as if a cloud of gloom was fallen upon it, when Mr. Dirdoe walked boldly through the village on his way to the Rectory. As he walked he overtook the Madder sexton, Mr. Endor, whom he knew by sight. He walked with him, though neither of the two spoke one word, as far as the churchyard gates.

For all the righteous zeal that burnt in Mr. Dirdoe’s heart, his hand trembled when he knocked at the Rectory door. The door was opened by the poor weak woman who looked extremely surprised to see the visitor. Mrs. Hayhoe held in her hand a new sofa-cover. She conducted Mr. Dirdoe at once to the study.

During his walk Mr. Dirdoe had prepared a torrent of words that he felt must totally destroy all that Martin Luther or Jack Calvin had ever put into Mr. Hayhoe’s head, and after refuting his rival he would offer his gift to Lily and lead her away to the right fold.

But all Mr. Dirdoe’s wonderful arguments were forgotten when he saw his rival, for Mr. Hayhoe, with his arms thrown out before him and his head resting upon the great Bible, was weeping bitterly.
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He recovered himself as Mr. Dirdoe entered and, grasping the rival pastor’s hand, nodded to a picture upon the wall that showed the lost lamb being carried to its fold in the loving arms of the good shepherd.

The church bell tolled.

The rival pastors, weeping together, embraced one another.
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EUROPEAN ANTHOLOGY

I.

FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE.

LUDWIG RUBINER.

AUGUST STRINDBERG.

OTAKAR BREZINA.

GUSTAV KRKLEC.
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EUROPEAN ANTHOLOGY — I
 
FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE

THIRD CHANGE OF SKIN
(From the German).

MY skin bids fair to warp and shred
With zest that new returns.
For earth, — -though much on earth it fed —
The serpent in me yearns.

 

’Twixt stone and grass on crooked way
Now crawl I hungrily,
To eat what I have eaten aye,
Thee, serpent-food, earth, thee!


LUDWIG RUBINER

THE DANCER NIJINSKI

(From the German).

MY space is like a slanting blue wire for which I grope.
Up! From this dingy orb of lamp-bulbs let me away.
And everywhere the smell of ancient plush and harlots' soap.
Afar pale chains of foreheads in the dark aquarium sway.

 

Up! Glassy rungs of air. My arms are thin. My toes
I squeeze together. Green lamps, cuffs, fiddle-bows now have waned.
Above me the hair of my stupid periwig, red and unreachable flows.
Lift hands! Breathers scream in the dark. It is my air you have drained!
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I sink. To your warm dens, lewd curs, shall I enter in!
Carpets, planks, twine you like long worms! In your midst I cease to rise.
Hostile cavities of the boxes, in a dimly whirling gulf you shall spin.
Drown in the distance, you sleepy lights on the over-lofty flies.

My fists twirl. Somewhere you sit. Your brains will spurt.
Palely through gloom and lamplight, apes upon trembling boughs you flit.
In a circle you fly afar from me. I tiptoe hoveringly alert.
The stillness revolves like bowls of skyey whiteness. Light!
Yonder, beings on beings pallidly, mutely sit.


AUGUST STRINDBERG

SINGERS!

(Front the Swedish).

Singers!'
HOW long will you keep on warbling lullabies
And brandishing rattles for pastime of children?
Why do you still offer bottles and comforters?
Do you not see the sweet milk is untouched,
And the baby is teething?

 

Singers!
How long will you keep on frightening children
With bogies bolstered in worm-eaten tatters?
Gather up the rusty armour and weapons
And send them off for a final display
In the Nordisk Museum!

 

Singers!
Why do you mourn just the ideal which proved false?
Every age has its notions of things and affairs:
And we have our ideas of reality!
You remain faithful to your own ideas!
We shall not desert ours.
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Singers!
Why do you sing only in sublime tones of the sublime?
The sublime, that life gives, for us is the sublimest.
Why do you still foist off the feigned fairness for the true?
The true is evil, as long as fairness is feigning,
The evil is truth!

 

Singers!
Have done with pining serenades in the moonlight!
Though in the window a light is still burning,
The ideal has tucked itself between warm sheets,
She begins to grow ancient, the ancient beauty,
And dotes on her slumbers!

 

Singers!
If the night air has not cracked your fine voices,
And if you desire to learn your new songs,
Very well, leave the ancient beauty to her slumbers!
We shall join together in a song for the new day:
The sun has arisen!


OTAKAR BREZINA

O MOURNFUL GRAVEYARD

{From the Czech)

O MOURNFUL graveyard, where souls of the mighty dream,
And throngs of glistening shades pass age-long to the tomb,
Glowings of mystic fires, like to a polar gleam,
Upon thy portals loom.

 

Sleeping, I near thy radiance ’mid my garden-close,
Where night has flooded, like a darksome ocean-bay,
A field of perished flowers, which phosphor-livid glows
In lustre’s blue array.
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Trembling of silenced words, quenched passions’ misty veil
Time with grey woof has spanned amid thy mute despair;
Deep sighs of perished throngs across thy seed-plots trail
And moulder in thine air.

 

Beneath a vault aloof, upon a tiny shrine,
Where o’er a marble city towers thy metal fane,
Eternal One, durst I, marred with blood-lusts of mine,
My mass for Thee ordain?

 

And soak the bread of life in wine of rapture, on
The altar-table, which conceals in hallowed stead
'Neath roses of my dreams and lights of orison
The relics of thy dead?

 

Or will thy body yield marvel of blood, perchance,
Vine-like, in golden goblet, heavy for my weak hands,
And with angelic lustre wilt thou light my glance,
Born amid twilight lands?

 

Upon my pyre of days I bid Thee: Torture, burn,
In sorrow, prison-house blanch Thou my face as snow
Grief to Thy fragrant incense-glory will I turn
’Mid song-craft’s pulsing glow.

 

And foam of ecstasy, as gleaming flowers unfolded,
Flung by love’s ferment, I on dark-tinged floors shall heap,
With bliss of maiden forms, where perfumes, bosom-moulded,
’Mid alabaster sleep.

 

In glowing pillar’s guise my soul shall skywards grasp,
And coffined in my strength, sleeping I shall abide,
Till as a smitten priest, I in the secret’s clasp
Kneel at Thine altar’s side.
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GUSTAV KRKLEC

THE CITY

(From the Croatian)

I.

THE City is a green spider,
The lord of houses, churches, streets, people
Young girls, children and pregnant women.
Factories, barracks, hospitals, institutes,
Workmen who are gloomy with hard toil,
Girls who sell their blissful bodies,
Poets who eternally brood and forebode,
And hands which are fresh as spring-time roses,
And those which clutch at their red weals,
And those which eternally fondle soft silk.

 

It escorts hapless girls to a deep pit,
Slays children in the wombs of pregnant women;
To murderers it proffers knives, keen daggers,
And the red blood in sound bodies it poisons
With venom of swollen veins.

 

Over all its magical net hovers,
And with thin threads binds
Summits of towers,
Roofs of houses
And people . . .
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II.

The City is a green spider.
Eternally it spins, spins and spins:
Eternally it weaves, weaves and weaves,
And twists thin threads into black nets,
And lies in wait.

 

I know that the houses and the beautiful women,
And the yellow streets, the roads, highways, cafes,
And flowers, books, apparel, golden rings,
Liqueurs, drunken nights, Cyprus wines,
Coachmen, automobiles,
Are all its devices wherewith it allures me
Into the magical net
And the dream . . .

III.

The City is a green spider:
It thirsts for my red blood and child-like flesh,
It quivers utterly for my guiltless body,
It trembles . . .

 

Two evil green desires burn in its eyes,
Two evil green smiles
Eternally creep after me
And eternally follow
My every footstep.
Behind my traces it creeps like a thief in the night,
Like a passionate hunter after the fresh spoor of an animal
In the snowy morning.

 

All its hands shriek and burn for me,
All its eyes soar after my footsteps:
It thirsts like an animal in the wilderness,
And lies in wait.
The New Coterie  Volume 1   Issue: 1  November, 1925  Page: 99
 
 The Rival Pastors By F. T. Powys
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IV.

The City is a green spider.
I flee from it upon long and dark ways,
I flee weeping and screaming like a child,
And seize at every straw
If the deep eddy threatens me.

 

I flee from it in vain like a weak child,
I scream in vain:
Eternally it is with me, and eternally it waits and waits,
Once more, the last time.
I flee from it and carry my devout heart.

 

Behind me laugh the houses, black mockeries,
Behind me laugh the streets, crawling snakes,
And glassy eyes of telephone pillars,
Towers,
Roofs,
People.

 

Death.