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Gabriel's Second LessonAuthor(s): JAMES MERRILLSource: The American Poetry Review , Vol. 8, No. 5 (SEPTEMBER/OCTOBER 1979), pp. 6-8Published by: American Poetry ReviewStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/27776262Accessed: 25-04-2016 17:26 UTC
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Haw as the furrow wavered. The beasts walked with their heads low, the
worn patches on their pelts gleaming. In the deep trough of the furrow,
the plow blade in the earth, they appeared to be straining to pull j
Lorenzo. Until he arrived, looping the reins about one handle, she might
be filled with pleasurable anticipation.
Lorenzo's great deliberation, his concern for the flynets, his shuffling
about to pull up grass for the team, held Cora's attention as if she were
spellbound but at a remove from what she was seeing. His muttered
remarks were for the horses, the slap and stroke of his hand caresses.
From the pail she had brought him he would take the buttermilk and
drink it half down, then give a rumbling belch. Silently he would eat
while she stood watching. The dark furrows he had just plowed seemed
to please both him and the birds. Orion might encourage Cora to stand
close for a moment, and talk, while he showed her something turned up
by the plow, but neither arrowheads or bones held interest for Lorenzo.
His pleasure was to cup a handful of the moist loam, letting it sift be
tween his fingers, or smooth it out on his rough palm as if looking for
something. It did not please him that Cora took the time to carry food to
Orion, on his own section. In reference to Orion he first called to her at
tention that a woman in her condition shouldn't overture herself. His
manner was that it was something she might have overlooked, if he
hadn't brought it up.
Had Cora ever doubted that the nightmare she had survived would
result in a child ? The logic of it was clear and not to be questioned. The
gift of life was holy, and one paid for it dearly. The drama of creation, as
she now understood it, a coming together of unearthly forces, was not
unlike the brute and blind disorder of her unthinkable experience. So it
j was meant to be, and so she had found it. Toward Lorenzo she felt no per
sonal anger, admitting to the necessity of an accomplice. Only in this
wise could the mortal body bring forth new life.
The pastor in Battle Creek, learning of her condition, referred to her
discomfort as wages. She pondered this, but did not fully understand it.
; Stretched on her back she watched the mound of her body swell to con
j ceal the iron frame at the foot of the bed. In the hollow at her side
j Lorenzo slept soundly and she was grateful for his indifference. Orion
was always up before her to fetch the basket of cobs, build a fire, and fill
j the air w ith the astringent smell of coal oil. The whoosh and crackle of
the flames, the sound of water dipped from the pail to splash in the wash
j pan began a day that Lorenzo would end by winding the alarm clock on
the range hood, the alarm set for 5. That it seldom rang did not arouse his
comment. It was part of the clock, and required winding, to insure that
the sun would rise in the morning. The first cackling of her pullets, before
the first light of dawn, always found Cora awake.
It seemed ordained to her, rather than by chance, as did the sensible
progress of the seasons, that as she grew larger and slower, so did the
days grow shorter and the work lessen, accomodating itself to her situa
tion. At prescribed periods, on the doctor's recommendation, she got off
her feet. Her long tapering hands, one with the blue-scarred knuckle,
rested on her swollen body as if to calm it, or respond to an expected
signal. Appraising her wide hips the doctor assured her that childbirth
would give her little trouble. How could he have known that she found
that prediction disappointing ? Had she endured so much for a birth of
little moment ? From day to day, however, being with child gave her the
satisfaction of work soon to be completed, a harvest to which she could
look forward. One day differed so little from another only Sundays held
her attention. She liked the prayer and the worship less than she did the
singing of the hymns. Although Lorenzo had observed the Baptist sab
bath in Ohio, he had been reared as Methodist, in Zanesville, but no
church of that denomination was nearer than Nehigh, an hour's ride in
the buggy. Cora had been raised a Unitarian but she was not a stickler
for denominations. She would go to the service closest by, if hymns were
sung. She was amazed and troubled to learn, however, that Catholics had
established themselves in the county, although owing their allegiance
neither to God nor country, but the Pope. She would have thought about
it more if urgent matters had not been on her mind.
Just before Christmas, during their first intense cold spell, Cora suf
fered from deep drowsiness, with bad headaches which she assumed to
be part of her wages, but Dr. Geltmayer threw open the kitchen door to
flood the house with icy blasts of air. If she was ill, he said, it was because
she lacked air to breathe. The house with its closed windows, its burning
range, lacked oxygen. To explain Dr. Geltmayer lit a stub of candle and
covered it with one of Cora's jelly glasses. They were silent as they
watched the flame shrink, then sputter out. Lorenzo's astonishment was
boundless. To believe it he had to see it done over, examining the glass
and lighting the candle with his own match. After that occasion he would
say to Cora, * 'The air cold enough for you to breathe it ? " Nothing else he
had heard, read or seen brought him so close to a smile.
The fact was, however, that Cora felt so much better she knew she had
been short of air for sometime. Too much of it, perhaps, hastened to
bring on her labor pains. Orion walked the horse and buggy three miles
to Otto Kahler, whose wife was a midwife, and by the time they had re
turned Cora was stretched on the rack, as if meant to be broken.
Although urged to cry out by Mrs. Kahler, Cora made no sound. Unable
to bear the silence Orion left the house and found Lorenzo in the storm
cave, sorting the sprouting potatoes. The air in the cave was moist and
almost warm, fragrant with the smell of the lantern. When he returned to
the house the child was howling, but the woman on the bed appeared to
be dead. It clarified Orion's first impressions that she was a woman of
remarkable appearance. She was not dead, but in a place so like it no one
but herself might have drawn the distinction. She had lost so much blood
that Mrs. Kahler marvelled how a body so thin had managed to contain
it. From where had it all come ? How could it be replaced ? Just a few
days before Orion had remarked the fever-like pricks of color in her
English complexion, but now her face in the lamplight was like wet
plaster. He wondered if any person should come back from where she had
been. He was sent out to fetch Lorenzo, so that the father might see the
mother and child together, both of them alive. Shown the wrinkled, howl
ing infant he commented that she squawked pretty good for a girl. H
i i
. i
i }
i \
JAMES MERRILL:
Gabriel s second Lesson
James Merrill received the National Book Award twice (1967 and 1978) and was
awarded the Bollingen Prize in 1973.
[From Scripts for the Pageant, the sequel to Mirabell. This seance takes
place in August 1977, in Athens: DJ and JM at the Ouija Board.
Speakers: the archangel Gabriel; Siddartha, the Buddha; Jesus Christ;
Robert Morse (a late friend now studying music in Heaven); Richard
Wagner; and the god Mercury. Also present are Gabriel's brother
angels, and "our poet"?the late W. H. Auden.]
PAGE 6
THE AMERICAN POETRY REVIEW
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Lights in the schoolroom. A confusing blaze:
Torches, votive candles, level rays
Of dawn or dusk, spokes winnowing the air
?In vain. Today the Great Twins are elsewhere.
Gabr. HAIL, PRINCE
Siddartha?saffron robes and sandalled feet,
Palms together, plump as a nut-meat
Goldenly fitted to its cosmic shell?
Advances at the sound of a prayer bell.
Sidd. HAIL, BROTHER DEATH.
Gabr. PRINCE, OUR POET SAYS MAN SET IDEA TO INNOCENCE TO ALLAY HIS FEARS & SAVE
HIS FEEBLE FAITH.
TWO HERE BEING MORTAL-FORGIVE THEIR SCANT ATTIRE, IT IS WARM IN YOUR TEMPLE
(Church We'd forgotten?horrors and have sat
Down in shorts and tank-tops. Well, that's that.)
CANNOT SEE YOUR OWN SPLENDOR RIVALLING EVEN MY DEAR WIN'S SUN.
YET ENOUGH. WE MEET IN THE VAST, FAST-ABANDONED COMPLEX OF RELIGION.
HAS ANY HUMAN ENERGY PRODUCED SUCH A MULTITUDE OF ARCHITECTURES?
PRINCE, AS OUR COMPANY STROLLS THROUGH THIS SUNSET-LIT COMPOUND,
Gothic spires, pagodas, minarets,
Greek columns blazing from each picture-glass?
But it's all tinted like an oleograph
And somehow radiates irreverence.
SPEAK TO US.
Sidd BROTHER LORDS, I WAS GIVEN BY GOD'S MESSENGER
MUCH THE SAME ORDER AS MY BROTHER JESU: TELL
MAN HOW IN HIS LIFE HE MAY ASCEND THE MOUNTAIN
OF EXPERIENCE BY CASTING EVER UPWARD
HIS MENTAL ROPES UNTIL SERENELY STANDING ON
PEAKS HIMALAYAN. I WENT DOWN, MY LORDS, AND SPOKE,
BETRAYING NEVER TO THE MULTITUDES THOSE TRUTHS
OF THE REPEATING SOUL. MY WRETCHED WHORE SHIVA
STOLE THESE FROM ME IN MY SLEEP AND BREATHED THEM EVEN
INTO THE EAR OF THE BRAHMIN COW. IT WAS OUT:
INSTEAD OF A GREAT EARTHBOUND CEREBRALITY
THEY SET GOING A PINWHEEL OF SPUTTERING LIVES
EACH MORE USELESS THAN THE LAST. I TRIED, LORD BROTHERS
I BEG YOU SPEAK TO OUR FATHER ON MY BEHALF.
Gabr. PRINCE, IT IS SPENT, GOD'S POWER IN SUCH MATTERS.
YET HE & WE LOOK KINDLY ON YOU. GO IN PEACE, & BECKON IN THE JEW.
A lean, rabbinical young man in white
Bent under an imaginary weight
Stumbles forward, taking Michaers light
For God's at first; recovering, stands straight.
Jesus. FATHER GOD YAHWEH? AH LORDS, MY BROTHERS, SHALOM
His voice is hollow. Like the Buddha, he
Acts out his own exhausted energy.
WHAT A DEAD SOUND, MY NAME, IN HALF THE WORLD'S PULPITS.
WE, AS MY PRINCELY BROTHER SAYS, SPIN DOWN, OUR WORDS
LIKE GOD'S OWN PLANETS IN ONE LAST NOVA BURST AND
GRAVITY STILLS & OUR POWER LOSES ITS PULL.
HE & I CAME TO DELIVER LAWS, MINE FOR MAN
TO SHAPE HIMSELF IN GOD S IMAGE, BUDDHA'S FOR MAN
TO BECOME GOD. WORDS, WORDS. BUT OUR MESSAGE, BROTHERS
I BEG OF YOU, INTERCEDE. BEFORE THE WINE RETURNS
WHOLLY TO WATER LET OUR FATHER MAKE ME FLESH
THAT I MAY A SECOND TIME WALK EARTH AND IMPLORE
WRETCHED MAN TO MEN, REPAIR WHILE HE CAN. AMEN.
SEPTEMBER/OCTOBER 1879
PAGE 7
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Gabr. DEAR SIMPLE PRIEST, STAY WITH US HERE IN HEAVEN, GREET YOUR FAITHFUL,
GIVING THEM BY YOUR SWEET WAYS COURAGE TO RETURN IN YOUR STEAD.
Shouldering his burden, Christ withdraws.
NOW MUSICIAN, STEP FORTH
From temple to "temple of music" is but one
Half-tone. Components of an Odeon:
Golds, whites, red plush, kid gloves, unheard applause.
Robert, lyre in hand, shyly ascends
The podium.
RM. LORDS, DEAR ONES, OUR POET LENDS
ME WORDS TO WELCOME THIS MOST HONORED GUEST.
Music. He wasn't joking?an offstage choir
Sustains his first original melody:
MASTER, THE CHARMED CIRCLE LISTENING
ABOUT YOU HERE IS YOUR NEW RING
?Plainsong phrase repeated a third higher
Before its resolution into three
Chords from the Overture to Parsifal
Not lost on Wagner who, in flowing tie
And velvets, stands before the company.
RW. LORDS OF LIFE AND YOU, ENVIABLE
ABOUT-TO-BE COMPOSER. I MAKE BOLD
TO SAY THAT MUSICS RIVER GOLD STILL VEINS
A PEDESTAL THE GOD HAS TOPPLED FROM.
NONE NOW BUT THOR, MY LONE PERCUSSIONIST, REMAINS
TO BEAT UPON EMMANUEL'S DRUM
A FAINT DIRGE FOR THAT FURRED & SAVAGE PANTHEON.
LORDS, MORTALS, COME SALUTE AT SET OF SUN
GREAT WOTAN, AS THE ICECAPS MELT
Gabr. COME SPRITE, QUICKSILVER MESSENGER,
TUBE HELD IN EARTH'S DRY MOUTH, COME MERCURY MY OWN
WHAT, ALONE? YOUR SNOW HEIGHT
DOWNTRODDEN BY THE PICNICKER?
QUICK TELL US, YOU WHOSE FACE
GLEAMS WITH THE MAGIC STILL, OF THAT OLYMPIAN RACE
Steps down
To strains of his own death march. Wastes of white
Are scored too briefly by a raven's flight.
Out from the mirror (Robert blinks astonished)
Slips a figure only slightly tarnished?
Wings quivering on silver helmet, wings
At silver heel?and silver-throated sings:
AH LORD GABRIEL
THOUGH MAN WAS ABLE
TO CONJURE US
FROM HIS LOOKING GLASS
OUR SHINING FIELD:
TIME RAN THAT RACE,
THE HORROR WELLD
UP & ACROSS
DO WE OUTGAZE
FOR A BRIEF SPELL EYES
BLIND TO THE PILFER
OF OUR FLAT SILVER
DEEPSEATED DAMAGE,
A BLACKLY TICKING
OVERTAKING
OF EYE & IMAGE
DJ.
JM .
Gabr.
Flown. Silence. Then a grave, deliberate
Glissando of the cup to rainbow's end:
ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ
What's all this?
WHENCE WE ARE NOWHERE
LIKED OR DISLIKED,
ONLY SHOULD FAIR
OR STRONG REFLECT
Looks like the alphabet.
THE NEW MATERIALS, YOUNG POET, FOR A NEW FAITH:
ITS ARCHITECTURE, THE FLAT WHITE PRINTED PAGE
TO WHICH WILL COME WISER WORSHIPPERS IN T I M E
Exeunt.
PAGE 8
THE AMERICAN POETRY REVIEW
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