Letter To A Friend Now Deceased Upon The Death Of His Wife

Armistice de 1918,’99

Dear Joe,

Thanks much for the poem, “the face of your soul.” Arrived yesterday. I appreciate it. I think it’s one of the best “Janet Poems” you’ve written so far.

Reminds me somehow of the ancient legend of Orpheus and Persephone. Have you heard it?

It seems that Orpheus, a young, comely boy, was the best hand with the lyre that anybody in the land had seen. I mean, quite literally, he could charm the beasts with his song (no kidding about that, Joe) and whenever he traveled in the far parts of his country the ground would sway rhythmically with the beat of his instrument. He won every Fair Day contest with the muse and lovely maids would fall down in a faint to hear him play.

But he would only have one woman and that was his wife Persephone; he loved her more than any other. In an age when other men bragged about their conquests poor Orpheus could only fall silent when she came by his side, gave him her smile. They were inseparable, as only the ties that bound would show.

It seems, however, that Pluto, the god of the underworld, where the spirits dwelled, grew jealous for Orpheus’s wife, and sometime in the dark of the night when they lay in each other’s arms, he stole the musician’s wife to have as his consort. The man became disconsolate when he saw his beautiful bride gone from his side, and for several days he did not eat, sleep, or play the instrument with which he had attained such skill. Others tried to comfort him to no avail and the days passed by like years, as the ground grew hard without his song and the crops withered in the field.

Until, that is, one night he dreamed of Persephone calling to him. “Come, Orpheus, sing me your song. Make me laugh again to hear you play.” He walked out into the dream itself, into the very night and began to play. And when he fell into the passages of Pluto’s underworld he thought nothing of it for all the demons were silent around him to hear his song. But still he played, walked, and played. Played his song well enough indeed to make the devil Pluto to take pity in his ruthless heart. “Go forth,” said the devil. “Play your song. But if ever you should look back then I would take your lovely wife.”

So Orpheus sang his way out of the dark of Hades with his wife listening to the sad melody of his soul. Singing well enough to entrance the gods and find his way out of Plato’s shadowed cave of dream into reality with the one who could give birth to his song. ‘Till he stopped to wonder at the footsteps behind him. “Is that you, my girl?” he thought to himself. “My beautiful, beautiful Persephone?” And taking the devil’s last words for granted he turned around.

There was just a shimmer of haze; her wave in the air. Perhaps her beautiful hair also waving in the air before it, too, disappeared. The devil had taken his bride again.

But all did not end there, Joseph. Persephone sat in sorrow in her cave and could not warm to the devil’s arms. For his part, that maddening melody of Orpheus kept playing in his head, distracting him from all his rounds. So, to the man whose instrument had pleased the gods, he made this gift: “For six months out of the year, Persephone shall be your bride. For the rest, she will preside here with me by my throne.” So it was. And so it shall be.

Well, as you know no doubt know from the story, that girl taken away by dark of night and given again to the love of man, so brightened up the world with her presence (her lovely smile, you might say) and Orpheus played so well during those months he was with her, that the crops which had lain fallow while she was gone blossomed forth and gave a good harvest. Thus did Persephone become the goddess of agriculture.

So it is with me, Joe, my dear friend. Though I’ve not lost a bride to death as you have (indeed, in my case, I’ve been too much the scoundrel to stay true to them), sometimes in the dark of night (absent of any stars), when the moon may yet be full, I feel something akin to a song in my heart, the muse in the air. And I wonder whether it was I or some greater god that took away my chance at love in this life. At such times, I may begin to write; such as now, for instance.

As for you, Mr. Verrilli, whenever you write those lines for Janet you bring her back to life for those who haven’t known her. And may the devil take pity on the rest of us who have never taken the time to make love possible in our lives.

Anyway, that’s about it for now.

I remain

yours,

in Fredericktowne,

Will Mayo