“Why do you lie to me and to yourself?”
The severity in his tone startled her.
“Oh!”
He went on, more gently, but not inclined to spare her a wholesome truth or two.
“How can you face life if you are insincere? And that pitiful little air of authority—because, forsooth, you still have the money you married for! Fie, for shame! That is not your definition of life. Did I not tell you that I am a poet? Do you think a poet means only a writer of rhymes? The poet is one who sees God walking wherever there is a foothold of earth! What is your poor little mask to me? It is shaped like a dollar-sign and I can see your eyes—and nose—through it. Yes, and more: your heart. And I tell you that your place is not here. Every hour that you lurk here in the shadows, you cheat yourself of life.”
“Why do you say such things to me?” She was perturbed to the point of resistance. “You—a vagabond—and outcast! This is my life.”
“Why do you throw vagabond in my teeth, eh?”
“From scorn!”
“From envy. You envy me because I have dared to be a vagabond. I had my choice once—as you had yours. I could have forsworn my liberty and my poetry and—written the usual magazine trash. Oh, yes, I had an ‘opening’ as they call it, into the world of spurious literature. But, oh, how quickly I shut up that opening! I could also have taught nice young lads to say S’il vous plaît, madame—or La donna è mobile—and Nein, das will Ich nicht machen! Not me. I have been ridiculed, condemned. I have known poverty and hunger—and despair. But let me tell you, when men cast me out, God received me. Earth took me to her infinite embrace. She has fed me even in her deserts. She has sheltered me among her hills. She has made me little brother to her rains and her winds. And my despair—do you know what she has done to that? She has taught me to make songs of it! And you—poor coward—how you envy me!”
“Stop,” she commanded, hotly. “How dare you compare me with....”