HOW SHALL WE SING THE LORD'S SONG

New Zealand Listener, Volume 14, Issue 342, 11 January 1946, Page 22

HOW SHALL WE SING THE LORD'S SONG

A SHORT STORY Written for "The Listener" by

BARBARA

DENT

DLY he traced squares and tectangles on the scribbling pad before him. If I had my way, he thought, I'd release all-caged things. Let them out. Let them go free. Now take that mangy lion in the zoo-what if he went walking down the main street, what if he went strolling majestically down the footpath among all the pedestrians and the women in their high-heeled shoes and their fur coats? And the elephant-I’d like to see the elephant lift a man nonchalantly in his trunk and hold him with his legs waving | like a helpless, captured insect’s, right

up above all the people and the cars, But, no, that wouldn’t be right, he corrected himself. To release a beast properly you must turn him loose in his own environment, among his own says to be himself. He rose aod walked across the room to the grimed windows, and stood with his hands in his pockets, looking down at the street below. Must see Miss Jones about getting these windows washed. Now take a man -it’s the same for a man as for a beast. If you free him it must be into his own sort, into his own tribe or clan, or what’s his freedom worth? He might -as well go on learning the foreign language of the place he’s in. Take these refugees here learning our language, living according to our customs, looked on by us with curiosity as a sort of queer species infiltrating our own. Now to free them, they would need to. be returned to their own lands, their own people. They would go back to find those places and people changed but, above all, to find themselves changed. Ah-that’s itthey’d find themselves changed. You can’t live in an alien land without absorbing something of the foreign atmosphere. You can’t exist independent of your environment-you react inevitably -and you change.

That’s it-you change. And you don’t know you’ve changed till you go back to your own land and measure yourself against those things you were once part of, He turned and nervously paced the once or twice. That’s it-you don’t know you've changed till you measure yourself against your own people, your own kind again. Then he knew he was afraid. He wished he had a pocket mirror in which to examine himself to see if he Aad changed. What if she should see him with the impersonal eyes of the past? What if changes he hadn’t realised had refashioned him? She might even not know him. T did not occur to him that she might have changed. Somehow he had al-

known that they would meet again somewhere, even if it were not till death’s dream kingdom. It had simply been indisputable in his mind that their coming together would occur. But it was ten years. And he had lived a different way in those ten years, among aliens. He had lived in an alien land. He had tried to keep himself untouched, with the integrity of his spirit unmarred. But who was to tell? Certainly, he couldn’t measure himself now against that self of ten years ago. He couldn’t do it himself, But she would. She would. He took out his watch. Quarter #o three. She would be there at three. She had never been late for appointmentsshe would be on time now. He opened the door into the outer office. Miss Jones, when the lady comes, show her in immediately. And Miss Jones, 1 don’t want to be disturbed. Take any telephone calls, and if anyone comes, say to call again. Yes, Mr. Herrick, she replied, apparently the well-trained, impersonal office machine-I'll see to if.

Thank you, he said. And she would see to it, he thought gratefully, as he closed the door. She was flawlessly efficient, thank God. No personalities ever intruded between his secretary and himself. It was pleasant, it was relaxation to be with someone so constantly, and so completely without emotion. She’s a good girl, he thought. I hope she gets herself a decent husband some day. She deserves it. Then he forget her and continued his pacing, his thinking, his gazing out the smeared window. T last he heard voices in the outer office. He stiffened and stood still at the desk, his hand unconsciously. reaching out and toying with the paper knife. He stood; silent and tense, and waited. Then the door opened and she entered.

! She came forward, one hand outstretched, the other throwing the veil back over her ridiculous little hat. She was perfectly at ease, perfectly poised. Richard, she said, holding out her hand, He caught it between both his and looked at her without speaking. Then he sighed gently and smiled with that inward sweetness that had always been his with her. I knew you'd be on time, he said. I knew you would. WellHe pressed her hand and tHen released it, touching her shoulders, and turning her to the light. Let me look at you. Ah-the same eyes, so green and so quiet. And your hair hasn’t greyed. Yes --you are the same. She smiled quietly. And you, Richard are you the same? Only you can tell that, he said. Only you can find that out. I don’t know myself. Am I different? Do I look different? Tell me now-let it be the truth. She gazed at him, searching him. He could feel her mind searching him as her fingers would search gently through a pile of drifted leaves, for the certainty of the earth below. And he laid himself bare before her, for he wanted her to find him, he wanted her above all to help him find himself again. At last, smiling gently, she said, Your eyes are the same, Richard, brown and soft as ever. But your hair is greying. She reached up and touched him at the side of his cheek. Here. It’s greying here, But I would have known you anywhere, Richard. I would have known you. Then-I have not changed? Come, let’s sit down, she said. Let’s sit and talk. And he knew she was undecided. He knew she had searched, and had not yet found him. He turned away numbly. He was afraid. SHE sat down and took off her hat. There, now-I feel more at home, more able to relax. I tried to come quite calmly, quite at peace, but-

Well, ten years is a long space, Richard. And yet as I’ came up the stairs, it seemed only like yest@rday. Yesterday, and now to-day, and no in between. And I know- ; Yes, It was like that for me, too. No in between. I knew, too, there had been no in between. I knew it. I’ve always known that time or space could make no difference to us, It was meant to be. It wks, and it has been all this timeand it still is. Isn’t it? Lisette, isn’t it? His very vehemence betrayed his inner uncertainty, his need’ to be r assured. She spoke gently. Yes, it is the same. For me it is the same. It has not changed. We may be ten years older, we may have changed, but it is still (continued on next page)

(continued from previous page) there. It will always be there-what we made together. It is like a citadel, a place of strong refuge-and we can enter it or leave it as we will. It has survived, it is changeless. It will always be there, even though we change. But Lisette, he cried in agony, Lisette, we haven’t changed. No-it hasn’t destroyed me. It hasn’t poisoned me. I’m not polluted. I won’t be. My dear-don’t be afraid. Has it been that bad? He passed his hand over his brow. No, not really. Not bad, at all really. In fact even happiness and content. Even that. But there was something I had that I valued more, much more than happiness or content, something that was most vital, most urgent always in your presence. With her, it never responded, never could. And I have dreaded its atrophy. I have dreaded it. Then you came back — and more than physical death, I dreaded I had lost it+that the years in the backwaters had killed it. I dreaded seeing you, although I longed to. For I knew only you could tell me if it had gone. Only you could reawaken it if it seemed gone but was only dormant. HE was silent. Then she said-Have you worked here all the time, Richatd? Did you never go away as we -as you planned? No, I never went away. I have three more children you know. And she likes to stay where she belongs. He sighed. That’s so with all of us-we all like to stay where we belong. And where we belong is not a street we know or a house we love or a city with which we are familiar-it’s where our souls frepose. Isn’t it, Lisette? Yes, Richard. It is where our souls re-

pose. Mine in yours, and yours in mine. Yes, Richard. It is unaltered then? Yes, it is unaltered. He sighed again, but with a different quality. An infinite calm settled on his spirit, images of things at rest came into his mind, a bird with head under folded wing, a weeping willow in windless sunlight, a flower with closed petals, a lake. ; Walking to where she sat in quiet repose, he cupped her cheek in his palm and turned her face up to him. He smiled at her with a great sweetness. We built better than we knew, Lisette. Yes. We built well. The years have not worn what we built at all. Indeed, I think it has new strength, new beauty. Ten years-not to have seen you, spoken to you, or heard from you for ten years-and then one day the phone goes, I answer, you say, It is Lisette speaking, and then you come, She laughed softly. Then I comeand here I am. He sat down. I could sit and gaze at you all afternoon, without saying anything, and yet we would have talked with each other more intimately than any communication of speech could ever be. I was so afraidYou were afraid we would have lost that unity, that peace? Yes, And above all, I was afraid that it would be some change in me that Would cause our loss. You see, I feel so old nowadays. I get the feeling life is over, and there is only death to come.

Life is only acceptance and waiting now. | And then you come back. And now I don’t know. What is to happen now, Lisette? There was almost the helpless dependence of atchild in his question. As if he were putting his fate in her hands and asking her to do well with it. She answered him quietly. That I can’t tell you, Richard. We must wait, and see what happens. Don’t you remember we learnt that-not to force it, but to wait quietly, and in time we knew? Is that how you knew to come to me again? By waiting quietly? I suppose so. You see, I’ve done many things these last ten years. Many of the things I told you I wanted to do when we used to talk. I’ve travelled, and I’ve loved. I’ve seen things and I’ve done things. I’ve met scores of people of all sorts, made all sorts of friends-but-But-? How can I put it? I don’t know quite what it was we had, Richard. Perhaps it was something so rare and so precious, it was too ethereal to grasp properly. I don’t know yet quite why I went away, except that I felt I should, that it was the right thing to do. And in the same way I felt it the right thing to do to come back. Somehow, not in the workings of my mind, but in something deeper or higher than my mind. Perhaps intuition-perhaps soul-I’m not sure. And now that I have seen you, I know my intuition was right. Yes, I am sure too. We won’t worry. We won't strive or fight. As you saidwe will be calm-and wait. Tell me about yourself in these years. Have you been writing? He shrugged, smiling wryly. I don’t know. The poetry went out like a light turned off when you went. As for the

rest-a story now. and then---but poor stuff. No heart in it somehow. But there has been something else. He hesitated. What, Richard? I suppose you'd call it a philosophya sort of autobiography of the soul. Yet that sounds pretentious-and I don’t mean to give that impression. I think really, it’s a kind of trying to find myself on paper. He smiled again. It’s like chasing something that has the power to become invisible. Just as you think you're close enough really to grasp it at last-puff-it vanishes. you see, the writing I do on such a theme is naturally elusive, he added. And the rest? Still the same as when I left? Much the same. The days and the nights the same. Only in myself sometimes it is different. A weariness, As I told you-a growing old. But Vera? The same. A little plumper, a little blinder-but just as happy, just as easy to live with, like a sort of endless, soft eiderdown you sink into in complete indolence, and just drowse away your life. You sound bitter, Richard. I’m not really. At least, only seldom. If I have failed, I daresay it is my own fault. The kids are nice though. Elva’s 13 now, you know. Yes, of course. I find that hardest to realise perhaps. She was only a tiny girl with soft hair as I remember her. And the others? (continued on next page) 4

| SHORT STORY

(continued from previous page) Two boys, nine and eight, and another girl, five. I like them-they’re nice. But they’re not part of me as ours would have been. You know, Richard, I’ve never doubted till now that I did right to go. I was sure I came too late, that your place was with Vera, that what we were when together was something that couldn’t be sustained, something wonderful, strange, complete in its own way-but not everyday fare. I was sure that we couldn’t have lived on it. That it would have been destroyed by a continuous, everyday contact, and that we would have regretted all our lives that we were so selfish, that we had to grab at it and try to possess it-what was too ethereal to possess. Ethereal perhaps-but enduring too. It has lasted through ten years of silence and separation. Perhaps that is why it has lasted, she said quietly. We will never know. We never put it to the test. We will never know if such things are real or faery. Perhaps we were cowards, Richard. Perhaps we were. I thought I was so brave, so farseeing, so altruistic for us both. Perhaps I wasn’t. Perhaps not. Perhaps it has all been a horrible mistake, Richard. Richard, perhaps you should have left Vera and the baby, perhaps I should have given up my ambitions, perhaps we should have gone away together-anywhere as long as it was together, and built anew. Built in that peace and unity we found so complete, worked at it’ and fashioned it. Richard, who knows what we might have built. A Gothic cathedral even, he eaid quietly. A spire of singing stone, and a hermitage for our souls for eternity. Then. looking. at: her, and seeing her distress, he smiled tenderly. But perhaps we would not have, my dear, he said. Perhaps it would have been as you thought. Maybe we were too close, maybe two people shouldn’t intermingle to that extent. Maybe we’d have driven each other insane. Destroyed each ‘other: Come to hate each other, as Vera ‘and I never could. Maybe we’d have ‘soiled all fhat wonder and destroyed it utterly and killed our souls. "And-‘maybe-he added on indrawn breath, and quietly, as if speaking to himself; maybe we’d have died a glorious death. It would have been a spendid failure, if we had. It would have been splendid, Richard. And what have we in its place, Lisette? He stood before her in the wellknown attitude, one leg bent a little at the knee, his tall figure stooped rather, his hands in his pockets. What have we, eh? You a success in the world’s eyes, the novelist who has produced two bestsellers, the assured woman of the world, beautiful, poised, cultured, travelled and perhaps — yes, perhaps just a little weary, just a little questioning. And I? The successful businessman in the world’s eyes, the happily married, satisfactory husband, the father of four bonny chil-dren-and what else? A poet who might have been. A man who kept on the known road when he might have ventured down the undiscovered bypaths,

been an explorer, a pioneer in the spirit. Who knows, I might have produced great poetry, with you to inspire me? Or died a nonentity. He laughed quietly. I shall do that anyway. That was one of the things I liked so much about you-your ability to see yourself objectively-and to smile, not cynically, but gently, with kindness, as if at a straying child you yet had power to bring back to commonsense. It’s the businessman controlling the poet, Lisette. I know. She rose and drew on her gloves. I must go now, Richard, I have an appointment. I shall see you again? Yes. I will come again. Don’t ask me when-I don’t know yet. I must wait. I must think in quietness and detachment, I don’t know when I'll come again-but I will come. HEY stood in silence, facing each other, two whom years of separatioa had not disunited, whom death even could not part, although in reality they had never been together, She smiled whimsically. You know, Richard, I thik, in fact, I am certain, I loved you more than I ever knew. When I went, I imagined it was because I loved you too little, because that which was between us, though so pure and tender and deep, wasn’t enough. I thought it wasn’t love-that love was more than that-more tense somehow, more possessive. I thought you were safer with a safe person like Vera, not an unstable firebrand like me. But Tf think I was wrong. I think we should have had the courage to venture. I think we should have dared. How shall we sing the Lord’s song in a strange land? he murmured. What did you say? I was thinking about cages. It was cages I was thinking about before you came. He put his hands on her shoulders, and bending, kissed her lightly. You will come again, Lisette. Whenever you come, it will always be the same. We know that now. Yes, we know that now. FTER she had gone, he stood again at the window, idly turning the keys in his pocket. How shall we sing the Lord’s song in a strange land? It had been impossible for him to sing it alone, but if they had entered that other land together, the land that they had once glimpsed, the land of the spirit, vast and glooming, that was not of them, and yet which they could enter only through each other-would they have sung the Lord’s song then? Would it have risen, strong and pure and exultant in their throats, a strange, archaic chant, not known to the world-and yet they not caring about the world’s ignorance? They would never know now. He took his hat and coat and left the office. As he waited for his tram, he watched the people curiously. How many of the faces he saw, the patient, strained faces, the disillusioned faces, the faces young and happy, the faces that were serene, and those that were petulanthow many of them could have pursed their mouths in that chant he had once heard dimly, half comprehended, almost sung himself-how many of them? (continued on next page)

(continued from previous page) I think only the poets, he murmured to himself, and a woman waiting beside him looked up startled. N the tram he thought again about cages. We are none of us free, he mused. This tram conductor, this man in the ragged coat in front of me, this woman with the parcels, even the schoolgirl with the bag, none of us free. We are all caged-you can see it in our faces. We can’t sing the Lord’s song because we are ell in a strange land. We are in a strange land because we have not found our own souls. If we entered through our own souls into the land of the spirit, then we could sing. It seemed again that he looked into Lisette’s inwardly tranquil eyes, green, deep, secretive, yet calm and clear as twin lakes. She should not have gone away, he decided. Yet what could he have done? The very essence of their relationship would have been bruised had he restrained her, had he protested or pleaded, had he fought for her. No-they had always entered and left each other as they pleased. Their communion with each other had been sacred because, although they raised no barriers against each other, yet they. never forced an entry. She had to go, be thought. Perhaps it was our destiny not to be together in this life. Some obscure purpose may be fulfilled because of our separation, because we were not permitted to go hand in hand nor grow together, as tree and soil grow together. "THAT night when everyone in the house was asleep except himself, he Tose qujetly and went out on to the porch. He did not think about what he was going to do. It was not a thinking act, it was sométhing that was done through him, a gesture symbolic of the intent of some power or intuition he did not fully comprehend. He lifted the cover from the canary’s cage where it hung on the porch. The bird was asleep on its perch. He opened the wire door and left it ajar. In the morning the bird would awaken, and finding the open door, would go forth. He went back to bed and slept. S he and his wife had breakfast, his daughter suddenly came in from the porch. Mummy, I went to put back the cover off the bird’s cage, and the door’s open, and he’s gone. What? said his wife unbelieyingly, and she went out on the porch to see for herself. Now who could have done that? Whoever would do a thing like that? And who could have stolen him? Dick-the cariary’s been stolen-Come and see. Richard looked up quietly from his breakfast and spoke through the open door. He wasn’t stolen. I let him out. His wife came in, wide-eyed, amazed. You let him out! What do you mean? How could you have let him out? Whatever for? I just opened the door. I did it in the night. He would have gone when he woke " dawn.

She looked at him as if he were mad. Why on earth did you do that? she asked incredulously. It should not be kept caged, he answered. But Dick, it is cruel to let it go. The other birds will kill it. , That is what I mean, he said. It is better that it should die by its own kind, than live in captivity among us. Really, Dick, I don’t understand you. To do such a cruel thing, apparently for no reason. I don’t understand you. I know, he said, and then stood silently, gazing out into the sunny garden, and his heart was utterly at peace.