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Title: Out of the Flame Author: Osbert Sitwell Release date: February 11, 2020 [eBook #61369] Language: English Credits: Al Haines *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OUT OF THE FLAME *** Produced by Al Haines OUT OF THE FLAME _BY THE SAME AUTHOR_ TWENTIETH-CENTURY HARLEQUINADE In collaboration with Edith Sitwell (BLACKWELL, Oxford) THE WINSTONBURG LINE Political Satires (HENDERSON, Charing Cross Road) COCK-ROBIN _IN PREPARATION_ A BOOK OF CHARACTERS Short Stories and Sketches DISCURSIONS Essays on Travel, Art and Life [Frontispiece: _The Author_ _from the sculpture by Frank Dobson_] OUT OF THE FLAME BY OSBERT SITWELL LONDON GRANT RICHARDS LTD. 1923 Printed in Great Britain at _The Mayflower Press, Plymouth._ William Brendon & Son, Ltd. CONTENTS BOOK I OUT OF THE FLAME Two Mexican Pieces-- I. Song II. Maxixe Out of the Flame Two Dances-- I. Country Dance II. Fox Trot--When Solomon met the Queen of Sheba Two Garden Pieces-- I. Neptune in Chains II. Fountains Parade English Gothic The Backward Child Nursery Rhyme--The Rocking-Horse Two Mythological Poems-- I. The Jealous Goddess II. Bacchanalia BOOK II SING PRAISES Explanation--Subtlety of the Serpent De Luxe Mrs. Freudenthal Consults the Witch of Endor Night Thoughts The War-horse Chants A Touch of Nature Youth at the Prow, and Pleasure at the Helm The Manner The Open Door Introducing Malgré Soi Paradise Regained Five Portraits and a Group-- I. The General's Wife Refuses II. Aux Bords de la Mer III. Giardino Pubblico IV. Ultimate Judgment V. An Old-Fashioned Sportsman Group: English Tea-rooms Sunday Afternoon Corpse Day My thanks are due to the Editors of _The Nation_, _The Spectator_, _The Weekly Westminster_, _The English Review_, _Art and Letters_, _Form_, _The Dial_, and _Poetry_ (Chicago), for permission to reprint certain of the poems appearing in this volume. BOOK I OUT OF THE FLAME TWO MEXICAN PIECES I. SONG "Ah! Que bonitos Son los enanos, Los chiquititos, Y Mezicanos." _Old Mexican Song._ How jolly are the dwarfs, the little ones, the Mexicans Hidden by the singing of wind through sugar-cane, Out comes the pretty one, Out comes the ugly one, Out comes the dwarf with the wicked smile and thin. The little women caper and simper and flutter fans, The little men laugh, stamp, strut and stamp again, Dance to the bag-pipe drone, Of insect semitone, Swelling from ground slashed with light like zebra skin. The little Cardinal, the humming-bird, whose feathers flare Like flame across the valley of volcanic stone, Fiery arrow from a rainbow That the armoured plants have slain, low Stoops to watch the dwarfs as they dance out of sight. Hair, long and black as jet, is floating yet on amber air Honey-shaded by the shadow of Popacatapetl's cone, Their fluttering reboses Like purple-petal'd roses Fall through tropic din with a clatter of light. The crooked dwarf now ripples the strings of a mandoline, His floating voice has wings that brush us like a butterfly; Music fills the mountains With a riot of fountains That spray back on the hot plain like a waterfall. Smaller grow the dwarfs, singing "I'll bring shoes of satin," Smaller they grow, fade to golden motes, then die. Where is the pretty one, Where is the ugly one, Where is that tongue of flame, the little Cardinal? II. MAXIXE "Los enanitos Se enajaren." _Old Mexican Song._ The Mexican dwarfs can dance for miles Stamping their feet and scattering smiles, Till the loud hills laugh and laugh again At the dancing dwarfs in the golden plain, Till the bamboos sing as the dwarfs dance by, Kicking their feet at a jagged sky, That torn by leaves and gashed by hills Rocks to the rhythm the hot sun shrills; The bubble sun stretches shadows that pass To noiseless jumping-jacks of glass, So long and thin, so silent and opaque, That the lions shake their orange manes, and quake; And a shadow that leaps over Popacatapetl Terrifies the tigers as they settle Cat-like limbs, cut with golden bars, Under bowers of flowers that shimmer like stars. Buzzing of insects flutters above, Shaking the rich trees' treasure-trove Till the fruit rushes down like a comet, whose tail Thrashes the night with its golden flail, The fruit hisses down with a plump from its tree Like the singing of a rainbow as it dips into the sea. Loud red trumpets of great blossoms blare Triumphantly like heralds who blow a fanfare, Till the humming-bird, bearing heaven on its wing, Flies from the terrible blossoming, And the humble honey-bee is frightened by the fine Honey that is heavy like money and purple like wine, While birds that flaunt their pinions like pennons Shriek from their trees of oranges and lemons, And the scent rises up in a cloud, to make The hairy, swinging monkeys feel so weak That they each throw down a bitten coconut or mango. * * * * * Up flames a flamingo over the fandango, Glowing like a fire, and gleaming like a ruby. From Guadalajara to Guadalupe It flies--in flying drops a feather ... And the snatching dwarfs stop dancing--and fight together. OUT OF THE FLAME I From my high window, From my high window in a southern city, I peep through the slits of the shutters, Whose steps of light Span darkness like a ladder. Throwing wide the shutters I let the streets into the silent room With sudden clatter; Walk out upon the balcony Whose curving irons are bent Like bows about to shoot-- Bows from which the mortal arrows Cast from dark eyes, dark-lashed And shadowed by mantillas, Shall in the evening Rain down upon men's hearts Paraded here, in southern climes, More openly. But, at this early moment of the day, The balconies are empty; Only the sun, still drowsy-fingered, Plucks, pizzicato, at the rails, Draws out of them faint music Of rain-washed air, Or, when each bell lolls out its idiot tongue, When Time lets drop his cruel scythe, They sing in sympathy. The sun, then, plucks these irons, As far below, That child Draws his stick along the railings. The sound of it brings my eye down to him.... Oh heart, dry heart, It is yourself again! How nearly are we come together! If, at this moment, One long ribbon was unfurled From me to him, I should be shown Above, in a straight line-- A logical growth, And yet, I wave, but he will not look up; I call, but he will not answer. II From where I stand The beauty of the early morning Suffocates me; It is as if fingers closed round my heart. The light flows down the hills in rivulets, So you could gather it up in the cup of your hands, While pools, The cold eyes of the gods, Are cradled in those hollows. Cool are the clouds, Anchored in the heaven; Green as ice are they, To temper the heat in the valleys With arches of violet shadow. You can hear from the distant woods The thud of the centaurs' hoofs As they gallop down to drink, Shatter the golden roofs Of the trees, for swift as the wind They gallop down to the brink Of the waters that echo their laughter, Cavernous as rolling of boulders down hills; Lolling, they lap at the gurgling waters. * * * * * But nearer rises the sound, Red, ragged as his comb, Of a cock crowing; A bird flies up to me at the window, Leaping, like music, with regular rhythm, Sinks down, then, to the city beneath. III Below, the ants are hurrying down the footways, Dressed, here, in bright colours. Under their various intolerable burdens They stagger along. Stop to converse, move, wave their antennæ. * * * * * The fruit-seller is opening his stall, Oranges are piled in minute pyramids, While melons, green melons, Swing from the roof in string cradles. The butcher festoons his shop With swags and gay wreaths of entrails; Beautiful heads with horns, Are nailed up, as on pagan altars, (Though their ears are fresh from the hearing Of Orpheus playing his lute). The Aguador arranges his glasses, Out of which the sun will strike His varying scales of crystal music This afternoon, round the arena. The Matador prepares for the fight, Is, indeed, already in the Tavern, Where later and refreshed with blood, He will celebrate his triumph Among the poignant kindling Of stringéd instruments. * * * * * --But the child has run away crying; I call--but no answer comes. IV The chatter of the daylight grows As I look upon the market-place, Where there is a droning of bag-pipes, And the hard, wooden music of the hills; The housewife has left her cottage in the forest, Driving here through the early tracks of the sun. The beggars are already at their posts, Their dry flesh peeps through their garments. Their old ritual whining Causes no show of pity. Why should the hucksters, the busy people notice? God himself has stood here, out at elbows, Waiting patiently in the market-place, While they chatter in gay booths. But how I fear for them, These who are not afraid! I shout to them to make them understand. They talk more, cease talking and look up, They all look up, remain gaping. * * * * * I went back into the water-cool room, Put on my coloured coat, my buskin, And mask of Harlequin. They see me, this time. "Come on, come on," they cry, "You are just in time. There is fun down here in the market-place. Two men have been run over, And there's to be a public execution. The gallows are nearly up. --And after, in the evening, We will go round the wineshops, Strumming guitars, While trills Dolores in her wide, red skirt. Oh come on, come on!" --But the paint from my mask runs down And dyes my clothing. V It is not thus in the Northern cities, Where the cold breathes close to the window-pane, Where the brittle flowers of the frost Crackle at the window's edge. From my window in the Northern city I can hear the rattle and roar of the town, As the carts go lumbering over the bridges, As the men in dark clothes hurry over the bridges. They do not parade their hearts here, They bury them at their lives' beginning. They must hurry, or they will be late for their work; Their work is their bread. Without bread, how can they work? They have no time for pleasure, Nor is work any pleasure to them. Their faces are masked with weariness, Drab with their working. (Only the tramp who moves among them Unnoticed, despised, Has eyes that have seen). They must work till the guns go again, Giving them their only pretence to glory. They have no time to fear, No time to think of an end. Foolishly I called to them on the bridges; Only a few stopped, looked up --But these were convulsed with fury. Said one to another "I have never seen a man Behave like that before." But most of them were mute, And could not see. * * * * * Through the murkiness of the Northern dawn, The gas already flares out In the glass palaces, Where to-night, weary and dulled with smoke and with drink, They will seek, in a brief oblivion, Laughter, and the mask of Ally Sloper. * * * * * Thus it is in the Northern cities, Where the cold lies close to the window-pane, Where the grass grows its little blades of steel And the wind is armed with seven whips. VI Happy is Orpheus as he plays, The dumb beasts listen quietly, The music strokes their downy ears, Melts the fierce fire within. Only with music can you tame the beasts, Break them of their grizzly feasts; Only with music can you open eyes to wonder. But if they will not hear? The people have lost faith in music, Few are there to call, and none to answer. * * * * * When the Prince kissed the Sleeping Beauty, He broke the wicked spell of cobwebs; She answered, opened her eyes. When Narcissus looked into the pool, The cruel waters gave him their reply --Even that was a better fate Than to cry out in the lonely night --And not to be answered. VII From my high window in a Southern city, Floating above the geometrical array Of roofs, squares and interlacing streets, One can see beyond Into far valleys, That seem at first To be open blue flowers Scattered here and there on the mountains. The forests are so far away, They creep like humble green moss Over slopes that are mountains. And there sounds other music Than the falling streams, Or the deep penetrating glow Of sunlight piercing through green leaves. VIII When Orpheus with his wind-swift fingers Ripples the strings that gleam like rain, The wheeling birds fly up and sing, Hither, thither, echoing. There is a crackling of dry twigs, A sweeping of leaves along the ground. Tawny faces and dumb eyes Peer through the fluttering green screens, That mask ferocious teeth and claws Now tranquil. As the music sighs upon the hills, The young ones hear, Come skipping, ambling, rolling down, Their soft ears flapping as they run, Their fleecy coats catching in the thickets, Till they lie, listening, round his feet. * * * * * Unseen for centuries, Fabulous creatures creep out of their caverns. The unicorn Prances down from his bed of leaves, His milk-white muzzle still stained green With the munching, crunching of mountain herbs. The griffin usually so fierce, Now tame and amiable again-- Has covered the white bones in his secret cavern With a rustling pall of dank, dead leaves, While the Salamander--true lover of art-- Flickers, and creeps out of the flame; Gently now, and away he goes, Kindles his proud and blazing track Across the forest --Lies listening, Cools his fever in this flowing water. * * * * * When the housewife returns, Carrying her basket, She will not understand. She misses nothing, Has heard nothing in the woods. She will only see That the fire is dead, The grate cold. * * * * * But the child left in the empty house Saw the Salamandar in the flame, Heard a strange wind, like music, in the forest, And has gone out to look for it, Alone. TWO DANCES I. COUNTRY DANCE The Lion and the Unicorn Dance now together, There in the golden corn-- For it is summer weather. The Lion, seen between the sheaves, Is more strong than fair, Yet he lets the singing thieves Rustle through his tawny hair. As he treads, the red-gold grain Curtsies and bows down; The birds tear at his ruffled mane, Stealing seed to feed Troy Town. For famine, in that fabled land, Grows, as the years pass. (Is it golden grain or sand From a broken hour-glass?) Night comes; over azure ground Roves an argent breeze: The Unicorn can still be found Trampling down the fleur-de-lys. Elegant and moon-white As a ghost, the Unicorn Dances for his own delight Under the flowering thorn. While deep in the sleeping wood The Lion breathes heavily, Though every dove in each tree coo'd, Yet would he sleep on wearily. * * * * * The Unicorn and Lion strong Dance now together (But surely they did no wrong-- For it was the summer weather?) In among the red-gold grain, Ankle-deep in the Lilies of France-- And I, for one, could scarce refrain From joining that heraldic dance. II. FOX TROT WHEN SOLOMON MET THE QUEEN OF SHEBA The navy at Ezion-Geba Gazed across the water amazed; When Solomon met the Queen of Sheba Lions in the desert were dazed With wonder at her striped pavilion That blazed like a new parhelion; They roared their admiration At this strange coruscation Till the satyrs Took their tawny children Trampling through the sand To march with the procession, to march with the band. The flaming phoenix flew with its feathers to fan The Queen at the head of her caravan; But, the phoenix, though famously fabulous, Was jealous, envious, and emulous For the Queen of Sheba had a retinue Strictly in keeping with her revenue-- Six thousand camels and camelopards Ten thousand and ninety nigger bodyguards. The camelopards, proud-necked and tall Would scarcely deign to notice the Queen at all, But holding their heads as high as zebras Looked down on a hundred dwarf, harnessed zebras Bred for their stripes, with such success That the Queen could play a game of chess When travelling. The camels kneel Offer their humps for the Queen to feel, Nodding arched-necks and plumes of ostrich-feather, Dyed like her bright Abyssinian weather. The ten thousand niggers beat on gourds and golden gongs, Slashing the air with their piebald songs. * * * * * Thus the Queen met the King of Jerusalem And he Seemed wiser Than Methuselem, With a great black beard, And a nose like a scythe, He lived in the palace, And subsisted on a tithe! He gave the Queen of Sheba a welcome; Proportionate to her income; But this amazing Amazon Was lovable, generous and free. She brought a gift to Solomon of cinnamon, With an Almug and a Nutmeg tree-- These he placed before his palace For the pleased Admiration Of the populace. Each sweet-smelling branch bore a budding bell of gold (Oh! the blood of Israelites ran cold...) When evening-wind blurred the hills with blue The swinging and the singing of the bells sang true, These by some magic stratagem Played the Sheban National Anthem, While the trill of each bell was like an Abyssinian bird, Or the golden voice of the Queen--for each word She spoke, trembled, sparkled in the air, Then spread its wings, and flew from her. But the Queen of Sheba went with Solomon To his country house at Lebanon. She did not bring him any cedar trees For these Would have been de-trop. Instead she brought him some Pekoe-trees In a beautiful Chinese bowl (For she had a very marked objection to Endowing Newcastle with coal) And she brought him gifts of hot-house grapes, Of ivory, Of ebony, Of elephants and apes, Of peacocks, of pearls, and a hundred pygmy slaves With skins like an orange, and hair that waves, And each of them wore a turban, Picked out with the plumes of a pelican, But of all her gifts, by far the rarest, Brought from the terrible central forest, With a vein of gold in its ivory horn, Was a lovelorn Milk-white unicorn; But the King, though sweet as honey, Had an eye for the value of money, So he only gave her a heraldic lion Embossed with the arms (and nose) of Zion. * * * * * Though the Queen of Sheba loved Solomon She was not happy at Lebanon, It was not the woman of the Edomites, The Zidonians, The Moabites, The Hittites, or the Ammonites! She would even listen to his proverbs, she put up with very many wrongs-- But in secretly reading his notebook, she found Solomon's "Song-of-Songs" She knew it at once--it was poetry! And she left The Palace that day, But Solomon knew not where she went to nor why she had roamed away! But every evening in Jerusalem The Almug and the Nutmeg trees Flaunt the Sheban National Anthem Like a banner on the spice-laden breeze. And oh! each golden bell Seemed a turtle-dove That coo'd Within the moonlit shadow Of an Abyssinian wood.... * * * * * But we wonder what she looked like--this fascinating phantasmagoria.... Atalanta, Gioconda, Semiramis--or the late Queen Victoria? TWO GARDEN PIECES I. NEPTUNE IN CHAINS Enslaved are the old Gods; Pan pipes soundlessly For the unheeding bees. Bound by the trailing tresses of the vine To soft captivity, Neptune has left his waves To stand beneath the frozen, green cascades Of summer trees. Is the Sea-God, then, content to rule The rippling of wayward flowers, Lulled by the songs that many birds pour out From their green-cradles, gently-rocked --Songs that foam like hissing rain Among the heavy blossoms? Can he control The music of the wind through poplar trees, --Those trees, an instrument That any wind, however young Or drunk with drowsing scent Of petals, crushed by the flaming fingers of the sun Can play upon? But darkness, the deliverer Comes with dreams. Night's grape-stained waves Cool his aching body-- The song of the nightingale Falls round him Like the froth of little waves; The warm touch of the evening wind Thaws the green cascades Till you can hear Every liquid sound within the world --Fountains, falling waterfalls, And the low murmur of the rolling sea --And Neptune dreams that he is free. II. FOUNTAINS Proud fountains, wave your plumes, Spread out your phoenix-wing, Let the tired trees rejoice Beneath your blossoming (Tired trees, you whisper low). High up, high up, above These green and drooping sails, A fluttering young wind Hovers and dives--but fails To steal a foaming feather. Sail, like a crystal ship, Above your sea of glass; Then, with your quickening touch, Transmute the things that pass (Come down, cool wind, come down). All humble things proclaim, Within your magic net, Their kinship to the Gods. More strange and lovely yet All lovely things become. Dead, sculptured stone assumes The life from which it came; The kingfisher is now A moving tongue of flame, A blue, live tongue of flame-- While birds, less proud of wing, Crouch, in wind-ruffled shade, Hide shyly, then pour out, Their jealous serenade; ... Close now your golden wings! PARADE While vapour rises, the sun shines along A promenade beneath tall trees. In vain Seek thirsting flowers to thread their crystal song Upon the liquid harpstrings of the rain. Sweet air is honey'd with the lulling sound Of bees, gold-dusted. In the avenue Each leaf is now a lens the sun has found To focus light, and cast green shadow through Where walks Zenobia. Her marmoset Perched on the shoulder, grabs at ribbon'd flowers Or youthful curls of elders. Etiquette Is outraged, and a dowager glowers. The Marmoset plays with Zenobia's curls, Clutches the papillon's enamel'd sail; Gesticulates with idiot hands; unfurls, Then counts, the piebald rings upon his tail. Here flutter fan and feather to and fro As eager birds caressing golden sheaves; And like the spray of fountains, when winds blow The froth of laughter foams among the leaves, Till music, thin as silver wire, uncoils --Metallic trap to trip unwary players-- A tune, ringed like the monkey's tail; but foils Any attempt to straighten it--In layers The idlers pause to watch the stage, where leap These masked buffoons to which the Old Gods sank. Over her fan Zenobia may peep At the lewd gestures of a mountebank. The silent lime-trees drip their golden scent; Staccato shrills the puppet, waves a wand, Postures, exaggerates a sentiment.... The little ape, alone, may understand How men make Gods, and place them up above; Then clamber up themselves to throw God down, Dearly pay deities for former love; We hold them captive, make them play the clown. Who knows but that, one day, men may be bound Thus to make war or love for apeish laughter, Until the world of gibbering monkeys round Quiver with laughter at our ape-like slaughter? * * * * * Ends song and antic; players quit the stage To the gloved silence of genteel applause, Splutters El Capitan in Spanish rage, Curses his money. Swathed in quiet, like gauze, The World is still, until a breeze sets free Green leaves, with plucking sound of mandoline. Convulsed the monkey capers--seems to see The wind, that wingéd God and Harlequin. Who, flying down, sounds waters' silver strings And brings soft music from far trembling towers, Snatches a bird-bright feather for his wings And flickers light on many secret flowers. ENGLISH GOTHIC Above the valley floats a fleet Of white, small clouds. Like castanets The corn-crakes clack; down in the street Old ladies air their canine pets. The bells boom out with grumbling tone To warn the people of the place That soon they'll find, before His Throne, Their Maker, with a frowning face. * * * * * The souls of bishops, shut in stone By masons, rest in quietude As flies in amber. They atone Each buzzing long-dead platitude. For lichen plants its golden flush Here, where the gaiter should have bent; With glossy wings the black crows brush Carved mitres, caw in merriment. Wings blacker than a verger's hat Beat on the air. These birds must learn Their preaching note by pecking at The lips of those who, treading fern, Ascend the steps to Heaven's height. --The willow herb, down by the wood, Flares out to mark the phoenix-flight Of God Apollo's car. Its hood Singes the trees. The swans who float --Wings whiter than the foam of sea-- Up the episcopal smooth moat, Uncurl their necks to ring for tea. * * * * * At this sign, in the plump green close, The Deans say grace. A hair pomade Scents faded air. But still outside Stone bishops scale a stone façade. A thousand strong, church-bound, they look Across shrill meadows--but to find The cricket bat defeats the Book --Matter triumphant over Mind! Wellington said Waterloo Was won upon the playing-fields, Which thought might comfort clergy who Admire the virtues that rank yields. But prelates of stone cannot relate An Iron Duke's strong and silent words. The knights in armour rest in state Within, and grasp their marble swords. Above, where flutter angel-wings Caught in the organ's rolling loom, Hang in the air, like jugglers' rings, Dim quatrefoils of coloured gloom. Tall arches rise to imitate The jaws of Jonah's whale. Up flows The chant. Thin spinsters sibilate Beneath a full-blown Gothic rose. Pillars surge upward, break in spray Upon the high and fretted roof; But children scream outside--betray The urging of a cloven hoof. * * * * * Tier above tier the Bishops stare Away, away, ... above the hills; Their faded eyes repel the glare Of dying sun, till sunset fills Each pointed niche, in which they stand, With glory of earth; humanity Is spurned by one, with upturned hand, Who warns them all is vanity. The swan beneath the sunset arch Expands his wings, as if to fly. A thousand saints upon the march Glow in the water, ... but to die. A man upon the hill can hear The organ. Echoes he has found That, having lost religious fear, Are pagan; till the rushing sound Clearly denotes Apollo's car, That roars past moat and bridge and tree, The Young God sighs. How far, how far, Before the night shall set him free? THE BACKWARD CHILD Asleep, asleep with closéd eyes In the womb of time, King Pharaoh lies; Heavy the darkness is, as rust, On the cold sword he holds; while dust Muffles the mocking panoply With quilted silence, dead and grey. Here any wandering sound would skim The sleep off silence, to wake him Till under the too-smooth mask of gold Old parchment wrinkles would unfold, His green and ice-bound limbs expand, The dead flowers blossom in dead hand; But comes no sound, save the flitting scowl Of death-winged bat, or vault-voiced owl, No sound through the ages all forlorn, Unless a padding unicorn Obscures his treasure, ivory white, In the Egyptian grape-blue night; Curling his limbs to rest, untangles His milky mane, while moon-sharp angles Of pyramids enfold him close In their defiant, calm repose-- For their harsh angularity Defeats the hunter's cruelty.... * * * * * No padding unicorn is this To prick the Old King's nothingness, Yet a movement woke, a faint sound stirred The silence, like a spoken word No soft night sound, nor anything But rolling laughter echoing. * * * * * Then King Pharaoh stretched, stood up, with a smile Touched the crowns of the Upper and Lower Nile. Like the jewels in his crown, had grown more deep His gypsy eyes in embalméd sleep, While out of the golden sockets came A very living, curious flame. He dashed the gold mask on the floor, His dry limbs creaked toward the door, And out of it thrust his nodding head, A pendulum to count the dead, --For there below in the lion-coloured sand Salome danced the Sarabande! * * * * * With ruffled plumage, the sun flashed its wing On a double-crowned, parchment-yellow king. The clear bronze sides of the pyramids Shone like polished coffin-lids, Each side a huge triangular mirror To magnify each separate terror, To heighten the shadows, to enhance How dead was the king, how alive the dance, Till ashamed the wicked echoes hid Like bats in the depth of the pyramid, Or hid far-off in the honey-comb hive Of caves, where the bearded hermits live. * * * * * Serapion-the-Sidonite Turned from the strange unholy sight. Left his cave, went up the hill Where aged Anthony dwells still. Disturbed in prayer, St. Anthony, Looks round, recalls a century; Yet in that whole tempestuous age Had beheld never such a mirage (Not even when with book and bell He cleansed the hill he loves so well --That hill of Venusberg, whose name The poor vile heathen still proclaim) Led by two Bishops, with his high crook, The old saint summons round his flock. They, hour by hour, together read The paternoster and the creed, While Christian choirs of shrill-birds bless The Saint's white-bearded holiness. * * * * * Below the heathen nightingales, Embalm, within their seven veils Of song, Salome--swathings fine Scented with fountain, rose and vine-- Tired Pharaoh falls back in his box; The lid snaps down. The golden flocks Of stars browse round the singing trees And orchards of Hesperides. Down here no sound, except forlorn Sad padding of the unicorn Who seeks a refuge from the snare Of cruel hunters; lurking here His horn, his mane, his shape are hid In slumber of the pyramid. Safe here is he; for in this place Hide every legendary race; Saints, satyrs, unicorns, entrance Us with their fabulous elegance; And Pharaoh himself sits up to tea Under the shade of the incense tree Yet nomads, wandering, will find No tree, no murmur, no soft wind! NURSERY RHYME THE ROCKING-HORSE Gentle hills hold on their lap Cloud-rippled meadows where tall trees sigh. The round pool catches in her lap Greenness of tree and breadth of sky. The mottled thrush that sings, serene, Of English worm in English lane, Is left behind. We change the scene For jungle or for rolling plain. I rock the children, carry them On wooden waves that creak like me, From Joppa to Jerusalem Or to a far Cerulean sea, Where flutter winds that bear the balm And breathing of a million flowers That nod beneath a feathery palm; Where dusky figures, in cool bowers Of fretted coral, singing, swim --Forget the missionary who wishes To make them chant a British hymn And hide their nakedness from fishes. * * * * * Within the limits of this stride I can encompass any space; Time's painted gates are open wide, The Old Gods give me their embrace. Now off to Babylon we trot To see the hanging gardens, where Tree, trailing vine and mossy grot Show proudly in the upper air Above the shifting evening throng, Like giant galleons with full sails; These streams have robbed their crystal song From honey-throated nightingales. We've watched the Roman legions pass --The Tower of Babel, waver ... fall; We've stroked the wooden horse that was The hidden breach in great Troy's wall. Softly the rainbow Pantaloon, Slinks down night's alley. (Oh! how still is The evening on this wide lagoon, Where palaces like water-lilies Float palely in the trembling peace Of stars and little waves.) Sails past Jason, who stole the golden fleece To nail it high above his mast.... .... In Toad-stool Farm we're back again; See how the fat and dappled cow Crouches in buttercups; come rain, To make the green lush meadows grow! TWO MYTHOLOGICAL POEMS I. THE JEALOUS GODDESS Silenus left the mainland On a floating barrel of wine, His sail was plaited from peach-leaves, and The leaves of the fig and vine. Small waves seemed masks of laughter As they rose at Silenus agape, For his feet were purple with the slaughter And the crushing of the Phoenix-blooded grape. But the little golden winds of the autumn Flew with him all the way, Like a fleecy flock of Seraphim They waited on him all the day-- When the Syren swam to sing to him From her island where the dolphins play, They pelted her with lemons and with persimmon Till the Syren dived away. They blew down silver trumpets to summon Sea-monsters that peer from the spray. But the sound of seraphic hunting-horn Brayed to the nearing golden strand, Till each ogre, dragon, giant and unicorn Sprang from his cave, to guard his land --This dear, dear land of Venus Where the hippogriff and griffin play! For if the Syren sang to Silenus What would Jealous Venus say? II. BACCHANALIA "... From over-indulgence in wine, and other dietetic peccadilloes." BAEDEKER'S "Southern Italy." Where little waves claw the golden grapes, Springing at the terraced hills like lions, Where pirates swagger in earrings and black-capes And the roses and the lilies grow like dandelions, Silenus, I regret to say, sat On an empty, purple vat, (And his life-long love, the Lady Venus Had left for Olympus, shocked at Silenus). The Syren's voice, like a golden bee, Trembles through the leaves of each lemon tree, Winging, like a bird, from her island grove It brought Silenus a message of love; But, as, rather helpless, he heard the Syren's song He felt that his behaviour was material--was wrong, He tore the tinted vine-leaves from his tousled hair Shouted for his satellites, dragged them from their lair, Mentioned, most severely, the iniquities of drink (Though his speech came thick and indistinct); But his followers were angry, woken out of sleep, Recalled to him that the sea was deep, That if it was water he really would prefer, And the singing of the Syren, he could go to look for her! But, Silenus, though pink and fat, Was strong, for the matter of that... He fought like a lion, and bellowed like a seal, But he had filled his followers with missionary zeal, They swung him high, and swung him low, Then threw him (plomp) where the salt waves blow. The syren stopped her singing at a piteous cry, Saw a spout of water mounting hundreds of feet high, And Jonah aboard a neighbouring sail, Sang "Yo-ho, yo-ho, I spy a whale!" BOOK II SING PRAISES SATIRES EXPLANATION SUBTLETY OF THE SERPENT "Now the serpent was more subtil than any beast of the field which the Lord God had made." GENESIS iii. 1. Through the green masses of the undergrowth, Pools of silent water, Where float large flowers and patches of white light, Crawls the serpent, subtle, sad, And tired of well-doing. Nevermore will he help humanity. Venomously he hisses at the Cherubim Whose flaming sword sears the Heavens, A sword whose flame turns every way To keep the path of the Tree-of-Life. A tropic spring, this first one, With leaves like spears and banners; But the ground is sweet with fallen petals Of great blossoms That heave their hot breath at the droning insects. The air is full of the twittering of birds, Whose innocence appeals to Adam --Already outside the garden-- While, high up in their swaying green cradles The monkeys carry on their high-pitched chatter. The serpent reasoned thus-- "For long time have I been at war With the ape-tribe; Small apes with clutching hands, Great apes (how hideous they are!) Whom the God-of-Man Has made in the image of Man. They tried to kill me: I tried to kill them. But Adam and Eve deceived me, Looking scornfully at the great apes, They pretended to a difference. For a long time I loved them, Fascinated by their words, By their story of the Creation-- But now, O Lord, Give me a good old-fashioned ape Every time --An ape who tries to kill me Without a chatter of clean-hands, law-and-order, Crime passionel, Self-defence or helping-me-to-help-myself. I may be a snake in the grass, But I am not a hypocrite. I may change my skin, But I am not ashamed of it. I have never pretended to be a super-snake Or to walk except on my belly-- * * * * * It is not only the ignorance of good or evil That raises the monkey above the man (Though the man knows evil and therefore prefers it), But the fact that the monkey Cannot yet disguise the good with bad words, Or the bad with good ones. * * * * * Never before have I been cursed; But man has made his God Curse me with black words. Now, therefore, Will I curse Mankind. --Man shall know good, but shall not act on it. He shall know good, and turn it to evil purpose. His twin curses shall be words and knowledge; I, the snake, know a thing-or-two; I know that man is a self-made monkey, --And he knows it too! But he will disguise it With a God of his making, A blustering God, a revengeful God, A God who curses the Serpent With sophistry, subtlety, and--words. But I know that Man is still An ape at heart, A talkative chattering ape. His curiosity shall discover many strange secrets, But he will use them For his two recreations, Lying and killing, Or--as he calls them-- Conversation and Sport. His words shall girdle a continent Swiftly, as a flash of fire; They shall be written down, Every day, For millions of men to read --But they will still be lies--black lies! Men shall journey the world over To kill the beasts of the field, the forest and jungle; He shall kill them secretly, without their knowing As with a thunder-bolt: But his own kind Will he kill in millions, Slaughter and butcher With the last refinements of torture. --And words, words, Shall be the cause and end of it." As the serpent crawled away on his belly Through the silent waters of the undergrowth, He heard two sharp voices, Outside the garden. "You did"--"I didn't." "You did"--"I didn't." --"It was the serpent." A long silence, and then the second act, When the brutal voice of the first statesman Roared out "Am I my brother's keeper?" DE LUXE "The Presence, that rose thus so strangely beside the waters, is expressive of what in the ways of a thousand years man had come to desire."--_Walter Pater._ MRS. FREUDENTHAL CONSULTS THE WITCH OF ENDOR A nose, however aquiline, Escapes detection in a throng; So she hopes; but sense of sin Made her shrink and steal along Streets glazed by mocking summer heat To semblance of a cool canal, Where iridescent insects beat Their wings upon the liquid wall, Where radiant insects, carrion-fed, Buzz and flutter busily, Smile, or frown, or nod the head, Expressing some familiar lie. Enter the house, ascend the stair! Consult the scintillating ball; Beatrice Freudenthal, beware! Eve felt like you before the Fall. Within the shining mystic globe, Lies luck at bridge, or martyr's crown; A modern prophetess will probe The future--for one guinea down. For that amount the future's sword From crystal scabbard she will drag; She can unpack the future's hoard, As we unpack a Gladstone bag. Without the agency of Man, Solely by fasting and by prayer, The wizards of Old Jenghiz Khan Could move a wine cup through the air Until it reached him; then he drank, Fermented juice of rye or grape; The cup flew back, his courtiers shrank Away, astonished and agape. Before the Lama turns to grapple With State-Affairs, he learns to spin (Despite Sir Isaac Newton's apple), In mid-air, sixty times--to win Amusement mixed with approbation From sceptical ambassadors, For any kind of levitation Increases prestige with the Powers! Such things were practised--did not tend To promote war or anarchy --Yet now such things would even end A Constitutional Monarchy. NIGHT THOUGHTS Magic for a holy race Is surely wrong? How strictly hidden The future, in its crystal case, Lies packed--so near and yet forbidden! Though Gentile Kings upon their thrones May weave a spell, or dance like Tich, Yet ponder on the bleaching bones Of Saul, who sought the Endor Witch. Now Mrs. Freudenthal has heard her call Without a qualm--yet how can she obey The bidding of the prophetess (like Saul, She has consulted Endor)? How can she Aspire to feed the lions, yet unlike Daniel, Once there insist on resting in their den, To treat them as one would a King Charles Spaniel With frowns--with bones and biscuits, now and then? For Mrs. Freudenthal is weary of Her auction-bridge and hissing hotel-friend, Seeks spheres where Novelist and Romanoff Eat with Artistic Ladies without end. Money is power--a golden pedestal Atones for beauty that is long, long dead-- As Orpheus, Mrs. Kinfoot has enchanted all, The lions who have not thundered--and then fled. Thus climbing sideways, you entice a throng Of Artists with a biscuit and a bone-- Then use them as a bait, step up a rung-- But how begin? At night she plans alone Within the saxe-blue hotel drawing-room, The silence of South Kensington is deep, No sound except the traffic's wave-like boom --And Mrs. Kinfoot climbing in her sleep! Thus Mrs. Freudenthal, alone, awake, And sad, broods on. Oh how, oh how begin? Till suddenly she melts--as small waves break, So laughter ripples to her fortieth chin. For now she has it--clasps the golden key That shall unbar that stranger--Popularity. How many noses are forgiven thee, Forgotten, in the name of Charity? First fill the coffers of the Sacred Cause, And then the stomachs of the well-to-do, Now Mrs. F. ... will be their Santa Klaus --Until herself becomes a War-horse too. THE WAR-HORSE CHANTS Was there war once, I have forgotten it! Was there war once? --War means more trade. Poor Lady X Has given up her motor-car, Poor Lady Y Has shut up her house. Was there war once? I have forgotten it. Was there war once? --Now food is here. Now I remember How much I suffered-- Very bad form To mention the war. Such dreadful suffering Injures my appetite-- All these brave men Dying for me-- Was there war once? Yes, I remember it. Was there ... was once...? A TOUCH OF NATURE Trained to a charm of manner, to a smile --Enamelled and embalmed by Madame Rose (Shame that an artist of this skill, this style, Can never sign her work), no War-Horse shows Any emotion. The poor Spartan Youth Though the fox gnawed his entrails, would not cry; These never wince, nor hurl the mirror at Truth, Though Old Age disembowel them secretly. Throughout the day, blue shadows in the valley Hover, crouch down, till dusk will let them rend The last light on the hills; so wrinkles rally To overwhelm them at their sudden end-- For Death strikes at the Old as well as Young, And these--and these--may die at balls or races, Or living death may make them loll the tongue, Twitching in doll-like, hideous grimaces. The very dab of rouge, that ghastly shred Of self-respect, makes worse the look so winning Of eyes--dead eyes--that know quite well they're dead-- And yet retain a certain childish cunning. And each day till the end, is dragged along This painted bundle, trundled in its tomb, Toward the sea where wondering children throng, Mocked by this mask, this nodding lisp of doom That almost apes them--save the open eye Which contradicts the mouth, and knows the matter, This terrible eye that moans "I die, I die," While the poor slobbering mouth can only chatter. Then other War-horses pause, nod, go past, --A few months younger these--and laugh together-- (She, too, was hard and bold), nor note how fast An egret's wing becomes a funeral feather. They laugh and mutter, make their little jokes, --And wonder if her lover had been bored "Look at the poor old thing!" The dumb voice chokes; The eye is open yet--each word a sword! YOUTH AT THE PROW, AND PLEASURE AT THE HELM Battista Sforza, led by unicorns, Triumphant, ever set in amber light By Piero, yet keeps her course; adorns Her empty palace, still, that floating height Where Raphael was born--Isotta's name, Near-by, still, rose-like, clambers through the gloom Of Malatesta's temple, built to fame His pagan love, half pleasure-house, half tomb. Then, even tyrants drunk with blood and pride, And ever vaunting poison-cup and knife, No less than angels beauty made; they died, But Art, their pleasure, still extols their life. Thus power, thus gold, sought pleasure in the past But wooed her strangely, in a different mood --As Pallas or Minerva--things that last, Carved both in mind and heart, in stone and wood. Now many palaces and Tuscan towns Crumble upon a half-deserted hill, Slowly their stone surrenders to the flowers; The drip and flowing of their fountains fill The night with cool--the night that is alive With chanting frog and owl and nightingale; Who knows but that these things may yet contrive To please, when tank and war-memorial fail? Gonzaga, D'Este, Medici are gone, Or dreary sons approach their unnoticed fall, Top-hatted, leave a beauty-hating throne To fawn upon a Mrs. Freudenthal, Or find their pleasure at a football match --Express a dullard similarity To other ox-eyes--lifting up the latch Upon a similar vulgarity. For pleasure, too, is old; has lost her realm, --Degraded to a mumbling hag--for now Stands Golf--for pleasure--at an armoured helm, The Cenotaph--for Youth--at iron prow! Yet never cruelty reaped such vast reward As in these latter days, and with such ease, When the whole world became a slaughter-yard And stank with crime, and reeked with foul disease. --No crime of passion--only crime for gold, Or crimes of rulers drunk with their stupidity; The people walk with faces deathly cold, Or marked and masked with their cupidity. But Mrs. Freudenthal knows her own mind, And means to follow up and win the game, Seek pleasure with the others of her kind, Who live and die alike, and share the same Ideals. A horse has focussed in its eyes Exaggerated visions of its rider, So Mrs. Freudenthal now magnifies A War-horse's importance--like a spider She weaves her web, while brain and heart both burn To join their ranks, to rally to their banner; Beside the feeding of them, she must learn To ape the face, the smile, the talk, the manner! THE MANNER Allow no personality to stamp Its wayward lines upon your talk or dress; Smooth out your facial furrows, on them clamp The necessary look of nothingness. You must acquire a careful conversation Remember that War-horses of True Breed Only feel interest--if ever--in relation To other ones--and, never, never read! Know though the names of authors, and conceivably The names of their most fashionable book; But never talk too far, or irretrievably You blunder on the crafty fisher's hook. Then music, as a rule, you love too well To wish to hear. But if you go, you walk About--if not too loud, it helps to swell The frankly social impulse toward talk. You simply love the Opera, and force Your way in late, and romp from cage to cage; The prima-donna is a well-known War-horse Who fills the heart, the ear, the house, the stage! If you see modern pictures, in their glass Ecstatically examine the old strife Between your food and figure--should he pass, Discuss with friends the painter's private life. Though, safety-first, you find it really best To cast your rapture on the gilded air, When you find pictures dead, but smartly drest, Within the mansion of a millionaire. Still you encourage those whom you can hire To fix on canvas, for the future race Of War-horses to simper at--admire, The painted image of your painted face. And any artist, author, or musician, --If second-rate--is useful as a bait To fish for guests--remember words like "Titian" "--Shakespeare" "--Mozart," let go--and trust to Fate To pull you through--avoid ideas--they're common And might crack through the varnish of your smile, Impinge upon your worship of God Mammon Filling your soul with pity, and things vile. THE OPEN DOOR A light, within her glassy car, betrays Folding of chins beneath the aquilinity Of heavy curling features, and displays A likeness to Assyrian Divinity. When comes the dusk, life's cloak is thrown aside; The yellow windows shout their nakedness... Until again the weary buildings hide Their throb and stir with usual drab blackness. So, now, swooped darkness down; outside, each lamp Showed the raw-fingers of the winter night Clutching squat horses, torn by dirt and damp, Like mouldering cardboard boxes; each small light Within, exposed a section harsh and shrill Of life, cut off as the next scene succeeded --A broken chair, a figure standing still, A withered plant--mean drama that, unheeded, Flashes its image on the world's dark screen But for a moment--yet the play goes on, Vibrates through worlds--to mingle in a scene Of final war or crime, or revolution; But though finite to us, this act of blood Is meaningless, when flashed on outer dark Of whirling planets, though a curious God Might for the moment, notice a vague mark. Again we make God in the image of Man --Imagine God has made us in His image-- Reigns Law-and-Order for another span To crush the weak in mad ferocious rage. The wise, poor tight-rope dancers, walk again The thin-drawn wire of art and thought, out-thrust A hand to catch the comet's golden rain, Whose blossom fades within their arms to dust. Can man be falling once more through the black Æons of hunger, ignorance and shame? --But Mrs. Freudenthal pursues her track, Intent upon it, means to win the game. Houses rush past her--but she does not see, Her eyes are glazed, until with clarity She notes the War-horses drawn up for tea Outside the glittering home of Charity. Upstairs, bedecked with plumes, their minds they rest On music and on muffins--all for sake Of Charity; the music gives a zest To whispered conversation--if awake, Yet silent, the unwelcome harmony May cause the facial scaffolding to fall; They lower safety-curtains o'er each eye, And move uneasily within each stall, For music has a strange, unwelcome power Of smearing sentiment about the mouth Like children, after eating jam, they glower In heavy, stupefaction--cross, uncouth. The car arrives, the open door, Expels a scorching flood of light-- The noise outside dies down--the floor Is slippery and very bright. INTRODUCING It takes a camel thirty days To cross the sinister sand of Lop Whose Bedouin chants Allah's praise Without cessation, dare not stop. Though unaware of the subtle danger Of buried learning, of civilisation, He feels himself on his guard--a stranger With Ignorance as his true Salvation. Unknown to him beneath the extent Of ashen sand, old Gods lie hidden With frozen gesture, ears intent On sounds forgotten and forbidden. --For muttering of muted bell Swells music from the nightingales Whose crystal gurglings excel The singing streams that formed these vales So fruitfully luxuriant still To eyes closed like a curving sword --Though now no sound save droning thrill Of shifting sand is ever heard. Yet of an influence here felt Tradition tells the Bedouin. Into grey sand the mirages melt. Spell the Arab's road to ruin. On through the dusk he hears his name Called, then repeated--seek he must That voice which calls, like wealth or fame Only to lead from dust to dust; Or death may come through the burning night With the drumming of a multitude, For the Devil revels in the sight Of death in the desert solitude. Though the camel can kneel, he never prays Careless if God or Devil is near, Stoutly he bears his burden of days With Seven Stomachs--and no fear. Yet Infant Samuel in the Old Priest's house When darkness drowned him with its shadowy torrent Felt fear at hearing his own name (who knows But that he changed it after--by Royal Warrant?) Mrs. Freudenthal, irate, Decides to diet, to get thin. Everyone must deprecate Decay of manners. With no chin The arrogant yet gluttonous camel Never shows satiety; Would rather rest in asphodel Than figure in Society, But Mrs. Kinfoot, spotting a new head To add to her collection--grasps her hand, And Mrs. Freudenthal is gently led Within the portals of the Promised Land. MALGRÉ SOI The voices weave a web of futile sound; A fan is dropped by Lady Carabas; Restored to her: but Mrs. Kinfoot frowned, Guarding the door, as Cerberus his pass, But suddenly, great waves of sound obtrude Upon the pleasant party in this room; While we enjoy the music's interlude, Outside there swells the trumpet-call of doom. Mosaic tombs or unmarked graves--asunder Are rent. King Dodon rises from the dead And while the quivering heavens thunder, He smooths his robe, then calmly shakes his head Free of the ages' dust--but now the voices Of these condemned (for judgment will not tarry) Shrill out in woe; but one, alone, rejoices, For Mrs. Kinfoot scents another quarry. The Army of the Dead are on the march To meet their Maker on his ivory throne; He sits beneath the rainbow's radiant arch, Dispensing judgment. Oh! atone, atone! But Mrs. Kinfoot saw a sailor-sinner [*] --With one arm--leave St. Paul's and walk away And Mrs. Kinfoot longed to give a dinner To meet the Judge upon the Judgment day! [*] Editor's note: Lord Nelson(?). Above God's head a dozen suns kept guard Like sentinels. Her erring feet were led Up to a crowded mount, where God's regard Was fixed upon her, while He gravely said: "Anne Kinfoot, worthy mother, and good wife, Your weakness and your faults are all forgiven; Go you, my child, to everlasting life, And take your husband, also, up to Heaven." But she could see the Counsellors and Kings And brilliant bearers of a famous name, Tangled with snakes and horrid crawling things Sent down to torture and eternal flame. Then Mrs. Kinfoot lied in agony: "Oh, Lord, I am as others of my class and station," She cried, "Oh, have me bound, and burnt and gored Oh! send me down to suffer my damnation. I swear I beat my children!" Oh, despondent She was; "I am a sinner. I will tell How I escaped a Ducal Co-respondent Last year--my God--I must insist on--Hell. But the Great Judge was not deceived--He knew The worthy virtue of the Kinfoot line; Yet as she went to Heaven, constant, true To principle, she murmured, "Will you dine To meet..." but dragged away, she dwells on high And notes, but rather disapproves the eccentricity Of Saints and Early Christians, who try To lessen the burden of her domesticity. She has to play upon a golden harp, Join in the chorus of the heavenly choir; Her answers to the Saints are sometimes sharp, She longs to singe her wings, and share the fire. Night never comes, so when she tries to flee To that perpetual party down below, The angels catch her, shouting out with glee, "Dear Mrs. Kinfoot--you are good!----We know!" PARADISE REGAINED Poor Mrs. Kinfoot closed her wings, leant out From the Gold Bar of Heaven, Shed tears, like icicles, to flout Hell's suffering, to leaven The Torment of the Upper Ten-- --Or was it because now and then She heard the glad hilarious cries, (A party down below again) Till tears formed in her jungle-eyes For torture she could not attain? Or heard the strains that she adored --Not martyrs seeking the Lost Chord As here, nor Heber's hints of ire-- But Russian Music, for the latter Was sent down to eternal fire To promote fashionable chatter, Which, as on earth, when music sounds E'en torture cannot keep in bounds. And Jacob's ladder, as she leans Invites escape; with deep delight She recollects what "climbing" means! --But angels guard her day and night, Or rather day and day, because Eternal glory never thaws To dusk--again strange music blares Its strangled message through all space, While, lit by multi-coloured flares, Hell's blackness gains a certain grace. * * * * * "Oh, Heaven is dull," cried Mrs. Kinfoot, "dull!" --And then the Gold Bar snap'd --And like a bull She charged the universe full-tilt. The roseate domes The golden minarets, the opal towers Of Heaven speed above, while hot wind foams About her, seems to wither them like flowers. Old Jacob climbing up his Freudian stair Bowed down with age--is taken unaware, Slithers, then falls--but, like a shooting-star, Falls Mrs. Kinfoot past him. As she spins, Hell's legions stop to watch her, though still far Away, chant gladly "Mrs. Kinfoot wins! Can you consign to everlasting flame The Woman who beats Jacob at his game?" And oh! the people, oh! the parties here! Musician, Author, Artist, Aristocrat! Dear Lady Carabas, with Mr. Queer; The Cosmopolitan Marquise, with that Old Duchess of St. Dodo, whose tiara Is made of snakes and scorpions--they are a Present from the Devil, whose assistance She claimed on earth--Himself now welcomes in The new arrival, saying "For Persistence You have no equal, so, though free from Sin, We here create you Honorary Member, Beginning from the Fifth day of November, (A Saint's day here)." Now authors and Debrett Mingle their laughing tears to music's swell, For here are some whom she has never met --And Mrs. Kinfoot finds her Heaven in Hell! FIVE PORTRAITS AND A GROUP I. THE GENERAL'S WIFE REFUSES It isn't that I don't like them, My dear Mrs. Kinfoot, But I know I am not clever, And I like your old friends best. As for the General He disapproves of Art, And does not believe in it. He has noticed That Artists Have an odd look in their eyes, And a shifty expression. In fact, The General disapproves of Art. He finds that Artists Are stupid And difficult to talk to-- He remembers meeting one In '97 Who was not interested In Polo, --And appeared To be unaware of the existence Of the old Duke of Cambridge. My husband didn't get angry, He just said to him, like that, "What are you interested in? _ART_, I suppose?" In spite of this The General thinks That music is more dangerous --And subversive of discipline Than painting-- For--in painting-- That is to say In good painting-- You can see put down on canvas What you can see yourself-- --And you can touch it With your finger-- A picture should be the same As a coloured photograph, Except that the camera Reveals things Invisible to the Human Eye; That is wrong! (By the Human Eye The General says He means His own eye) But in Music You can see nothing, And you are unable To touch it With your fingers; The General disapproves of Art, --But it makes him positively nervous To hear music. The General says that, As far as he can make out, All musicians Have been German-- But he can only remember The name of one-- Nietzsche! As the war Was German in origin, It is obvious that it was made By German Composers And _not_ By German Generals --Many of whom were fine fellows Who loved a good joke. The General remembers one Who laughed like anything At one of his stories. The war was made by German musicians --Just as surely As our own Pacific and imaginative policy Was interpreted By Kipling and Lady Butler. "Never trust a Man Who plays the piano," The General says. He thinks that In the main, The British have a sound interest In this matter. Probably Charles I, Played the piano-- And, at any rate, He collected Pictures. The English would never Behead anyone For governing badly; It is only Barbarians, Like the Russians, Who would do this. The General Disapproves of Art. But, of all these things, The General says He dislikes poetry most, Kipling is different; He is a Man-of-the-World. But the General says That if he got hold Of one of these long-haired Conscientious Objectors, Who write things Which don't even rhyme He'd---- So you see, dear, That it's better for us Not to come. II. AUX BORDS DE LA MER Where frightened woolly clouds, like sheep Scurry across blue skies; where sleep Sings from the little waves that reach In strict formation to the beach, Are houses--covers of red-plush, To hide our thoughts in, lest we blush. * * * * * Here live kind ladies--hence they come To persecute us--I am dumb When they give from wide saucer-eye Intolerable sympathy, Or testify solicitude, By platitude on platitude, Mix Law-and-Order, Church-and-State With little tales of Bishop Tait, Or harass my afflicted soul With most fantastic rigmarole Of Bolshevik and Pope in league With Jewish and Sinn-Fein intrigue-- I love to watch them, as they troop Revolving, through each circus-hoop Of new-laid eggs--left at the door-- With Patriotism--for the Poor-- Of ball-committee, Church Bazaar, All leading up to a great war, A new great war--greater by far --Oh! much more great--than any war. Kind lady, leave me, go enthral The pauper-ward, and hospital! III. GIARDINO PUBBLICO Petunias in mass formation, An angry rose, a hard carnation, Hot yellow grass, a yellow palm Rising, giraffe-like, into calm --All these glare hotly in the sun. Behind are woods, where shadows run Like water through the dripping shade That leaves and laughing wind have made. Here silence, like a silver bird, Pecks at the fruit-ripe heat. We heard Townward, the voices, glazed with starch, Of Tourists on belated march From church to church, to praise by rule The beauties of the Tuscan school, Clanging of trams, a hidden flute, Sharp as the taste of unripe fruit; Street organs join with tolling bell To threaten us with both Heaven and Hell, But through all taps a nearing sound As of stage-horses pawing ground. Then like a whale, confined in cage, (In grandeur of a borrowed carriage) The old Marchesa swam in sight In tinkling jet that caught the light, Making the sun hit out each tone As if it played a xylophone, Till she seems like a rainbow, where She swells, and whale-like, spouts the air. * * * * * And as she drove, she imposed her will Upon all things both live and still; Lovers hid quickly--none withstood That awful glance of widowhood; Each child, each tree, the shrilling heat Became encased in glacial jet, The very songbird in the air Became a scarecrow, dangling there, While, if you turned to stare, you knew The punishment Lot's wife went through. * * * * * Her crystal cage moves on. Stagnation Now thaws again to animation; Gladly the world receives reprieve Till six o'clock to-morrow eve, When punctual as the sun, she'll drive Life out of everything alive, Then in gigantic glory, fade Sunward, through the western glade.... IV. ULTIMATE JUDGMENT Within the sunny greenness of the close, Secure, a heavy breathing fell, then rose-- Here undulating chins sway to and fro, As heavy blossoms do; the cheek's faint glow Points to post-prandial port. The willow weeps Hushed are the birds--in fact--the Bishop sleeps. Then, suddenly, the wide sky blazes red; Up from their graves arise the solemn dead, The world is shaken; buildings fall in twain, Exulting hills shout loud, then shout again While, with the thunder of deep rolling drums The angels sing---- At last Salvation comes. The weak, the humble, the disdained, the poor Are judged the first, and climb to Heaven's door. * * * * * * The Bishop wakes to see his palace crash Down on the rocking ground--but in a flash It dawns upon him;--with impressive frown, He sees his second-housemaid in a crown, In rainbow robes that glisten like a prism "I warned them..." said the Bishop-- "Bolshevism!" V. AN OLD-FASHIONED SPORTSMAN We thank thee, O Lord, That the War is over. We can now Turn our attention Again To money-making. Railway-Shares must go up; Wages must come down; Smoke shall come out Of the chimneys of the North, And we will manufacture battle-ships. We thank thee, O Lord, But we must refuse To consider Music, Painting, or Poetry. Our sons and brothers Went forth to fight, To kill certain things, Cubism, Futurism and Vers-libre "All this Poetry-and-Rubbish," We said "Will not stand the test of war." We will not read a book --Unless it is a best seller. There has been enough art In the past, Life is concerned With killing and maiming. If they cannot kill men Why can't they kill animals? There is still Big Game in Africa --Or there might be trouble Among the natives. We thank thee, O Lord, But we will not read poetry. But as the Pharisees Approached the tomb They saw the boulder Rolled back, And that the tomb was empty --They said "It's very disconcerting." I am not at all Narrow-minded. I know a tune When I hear one, And I know What I like-- I did not so much mind That He blasphemed Saying that He was the Son-of-God, But He was never What I call A Sportsman; He went out into the desert For forty days --And never shot anything And when He hoped He would drown He walked on the water. ... No--we will not read poetry. THE GROUP ENGLISH TEA-ROOMS Why do they sit in darkness, Hiss like geese? Outside the sun flashes his strong wings Against the green-slit shutters, Through which you can see Him bathing in the street. Like a bird he preens himself at the windows, Then dances back with the swimming flash of a gold-fish. Why do you hiss like geese, What do you hide, With your thin sibilance of genteel speech? * * * * * The Colonel, usually a rollicking character, In the manner of El Capitano, Simpers, like any schoolgirl. Miss Vera complains that her brother Is suffering from catarrh. On the other hand Hotel-life is easier than home-life, She just rings the bell, Orders anything she wants, --And there it is--punctual to the minute. Both Sir William and his daughter Are pleased with their holiday; Admire the flora and the fauna; Miss Ishmael sketches, and the place abounds In peasants, picturesque old-bit-and-corner-- * * * * * If they should die... Say only this of them, That there's a corner in some foreign field That is for ever England... They travel; yet all foreign things Are barr'd and bolted out of range ... While England benefits by the exchange. SUNDAY AFTERNOON The gilt-fring'd earth has sadly spun A sector of its lucent arc About the disillusioned sun Of Autumn. The bright angry spark Of Heaven in each upturned eye Denotes religious ecstasy. We, too, have spun our Sunday round Of Church and beef and after-sleep In houses where obtrudes no sound But breathing, regular and deep, Till Sabbath sentiment, well-fed, Demands a visit to the Dead. For Autumn leaves sad thoughts beget, As from life's tree they clatter down, And Death has caught some in her net Even on Sunday,--in this Town, Tho' money and food and sleep are sweet! The dead leaves rattle down the street. Fat bodies, silk-enmeshed, inflate Their way along; if Death comes soon They'll leave this food-sweet earth to float Heavenward, like some huge balloon. Religion dims each vacant eye As we approach the cemet'ry. Proudly we walk; with care we bend To lead our children by the hand, Here, where all, rich and poor, must end --This portal to a better land To which--if in good business-- We have hereditary access; Where to afford the Saints relief From prayer and from religious questions, Round after round of deathless beef Flatters celestial digestions; Where, in white robe, with golden crown, We watch our enemies sent down, To other spheres, while we lean out, Divinest pity in our eyes, And wonder why these sinners flout Our kindly pitying surprise, Why look so angry when we play On gold harps as they go away, A hymn tune, dear, familiar? But now we stand within the space Where marble females drape a tear Above a whisker'd marble face. "Isn't it pretty?" Even now Rich and exotic blossoms grow About each granite monument Of men frock-coated, unaware Of Judgment; what emolument Requites a weeping willow's care? Look! Over there a broken column Is watched by one geranium, Whose scorching scarlet tones uphold Damnation and eternal fire To those who will not reckon gold-- Who are not worthy of their hire, For marble tombs are prized above Such brittle things as thought or love. The crystal web of dusk now clings From evergreen to tropic tree, Toss'd by the wind that subtly brings A mingled scent of mould and tea That causes silence to be rent By one scream--childish, but intent. For children will not realise That they should rest without a sound With folded hands and downcast eyes Here, in the Saint's Recruiting Ground. And so, in sorrow, we turn back To hasten on our high-tea track. But after, in the night, we dream Of Heaven as a marbled bank, In which, in one continual stream, We give our gold for heavenly rank, Where each Saint, standing like a sentry, Explains a mystic double-entry. The Director of the Bank is God-- Stares our foes coldly in the face, But gives us quite a friendly nod, And beckons us to share His place. CORPSE DAY _July_ 19th, 1919. Dusk floated up from the earth beneath, Held in the arms of the evening wind --The evening wind that softly creeps Along the jasper-terraces, To bear with it The old, sad scent Of midsummer, of trees and flowers Whose bell-shaped blossoms, shaken, torn By the rough fingers of the day Ring out their frail and honeyed notes. * * * * * Up from the earth there rose Sounds of great triumph and rejoicing. * * * * * Our Lord Jesus, the Son of Man, Smiled And leant over the ramparts of Heaven. Beneath Him Through the welling clouds of darkness He could see The swarming of mighty crowds. It was in the Christian Continent, Especially, That the people chanted Hymns and pæans of joy. But it seemed to Our Lord That through the noisy cries of triumph He could still detect A bitter sobbing --The continuous weeping of widows and children Which had haunted Him for so long, Though He saw only The bonfires, The arches of triumph, The processions, And the fireworks That soared up Through the darkening sky, To fall in showers of flame Upon the citadel of Heaven. As a rocket burst, There fell from it, Screaming in horror, Hundreds of men Twisted into the likeness of animals --Writhing men Without feet, Without legs, Without arms, Without faces.... The earth-cities still rejoiced. Old, fat men leant out to cheer From bone-built palaces. Gold flowed like blood Through the streets; Crowds became drunk On liquor distilled from corpses. And peering down The Son of Man looked into the world; He saw That within the churches and the temples His image had been set up; But, from time to time, Through twenty centuries, The priests had touched up the countenance So as to make war more easy Or intimidate the people-- Until now the face Had become the face of Moloch! The people did not notice The change ... But Jesus wept! *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OUT OF THE FLAME *** Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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