A snake came to my water-trough
On a hot, hot day, and I in pyjamas for the
heat,
To drink there.
In the deep, strange-scented shade of the
great dark carob-tree
I came down the steps with my pitcher
And must wait, must stand and wait; for there
he was at the trough
before me.
He reached down from a fissure in the
earth-wall in the gloom
And trailed his yellow-brown slackness
soft-bellied down,
over the edge of the stone trough,
And rested his throat upon the stone bottom,
And where the water had dripped from the tap,
in a small clearness,
He sipped with his straight mouth,
Softly drank through his straight gums, into
his slack long body,
Silently.
Someone was before me at my water-trough,
And I, like a second comer, waiting.
He lifted his head from his drinking, as
cattle do,
And looked at me vaguely, as drinking cattle
do,
And flickered his two-forked tongue from his
lips, and mused a
moment,
And stooped and drank a little more,
Being earth-brown, earth-golden from the
burning bowels of the
earth,
On the day of Sicilian July, with Etna
smoking.
The voice of my education said to me:
He must be killed,
For in Sicily the black, black snakes are
innocent, the gold are
venomous.
And voices in me said: If you were a man
You would take a stick and break him now, and
finish him off.
But must I confess how I liked him,
How glad I was he had come like a guest in
quiet, to drink at my
water-trough
And depart peaceful, pacified, and thankless,
Into the burning bowels of this earth?
Was it cowardice, that I dared not kill him?
Was it perversity, that I longed to talk to
him?
Was it humility, to feel so honoured?
I felt so honoured.
And yet those voices:
If you were not afraid, you would kill him.
And truly I was afraid, I was most afraid;
But even so, honoured still more
That he should seek my hospitality
From out the dark door of the secret earth.
He drank enough
And lifted his head, dreamily, as one who has
drunken,
And flickered his tongue like a forked night
on the air, so
black,
Seeming to lick his lips,
And looked around like a god, unseeing, into
the air,
And slowly turned his head,
And slowly, very slowly, as if thrice adream,
Proceeded to draw his slow length curving
round
And climb again the broken bank of my
wall-face.
And as he put his head into that dreadful
hole,
And as he slowly drew up, snake-easing his
shoulders, and
entered farther,
A sort of horror, a sort of protest against
his withdrawing
into that horrid black hole,
Deliberately going into the blackness, and
slowly drawing
himself after,
Overcame me now his back was turned.
I looked round, I put down my pitcher,
I picked up a clumsy log
And threw it at the water trough with a
clatter.
I think it did not hit him,
But suddenly that part of him that was left
behind
convulsed in undignified haste,
Writhed like lightning, and was gone
Into the black hole, the earth-lipped fissure
in the wall-front,
At which, in the intense still noon, I stared
with fascination.
And immediately I regretted it.
I thought how paltry, how vulgar, what a mean
act!
I despised myself and the voices of my
accursed human education.
And I thought of the albatross,
And I wished he would come back, my snake.
For he seemed to me again like a king,
Like a king in exile, uncrowned in the
underworld,
Now due to be crowned again.
And so, I missed my chance with one of the
lords
Of life.
And I have something to expiate;
A pettiness.
- D.H. Lawrence
