No. 5. Autumn, 1920.




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1920. II. V. 5 COVER DESIGN by MARY STELLA EDWARDS I. .COTERIE. III. O'Brien : Pastiches 23 Gerald Gould: The Unreturning Thing 30 17 7 Russell Green: The Love-song of a Pessimist: 1920 33 Aphorisms 36 E. Powys Mathers: Frederick Olding's Song about Wine Island "Michal": The Furniture Herbert R e a d : Picaresque 53 Sonnet 53 Early Astir 54 Paul Selver: Meditations in a Guard-room 55 Nocturne for Slow Music 59 Perpetuum Mobile : a Pantoum more or less Muspilli 60 5 VI. No. Autumn. IV. 41 IX. Conrad Aiken: Palimpsest: a Deceitful Portrait Otakar Brezina: Eternal Yearning Edward J. VII. VIII.

Frank Goulding Frank Goulding Archipenko Rend Durey 6 . XIII.X. XL Raymond Pierpoint: The Return 62 Benjamin Gilbert Brooks: And if some hard unlovely Woman I draw into myself 68 Aldous Huxley: A Country Walk Iris Tree: Suspense 74 Cafe Royal 75 Wilfred Rowland Childe : The Vision in the W a y 76 69 67 XII. Drawings: I. XIV. II. IV. III.

or I of you ? . And there in a spacious chamber. . . we divine. What do you know of me. as you say. it played before we came. loudly. . . and all with secret meanings— Yet know so little of them. opened.. . on a sun-bright morning. tried it. fade to whisper— And walked in a quiet hallway as before. . behind shut doors— As it continues after our departure. W e set the door ajar Only for chosen movements of the music : This passage (so I think—yet this is guesswork) Will please him—it is in a strain he fancies— 7 W . . . While one tall woman sent her voice above them In powerful sweetness. we suppose (as in ourselves) Goes on forever there. . Just such a glimpse as through that opened door Is all we know of those we call our friends. Beyond which lies the dark. see a playing Of ordered thoughts—and all again is silence. Closing then the door I heard it die behind me. Little enough. brightly lighted.CONRAD AIKEN PALIMPSEST: A DECEITFUL PORTRAIT E L L . only seeing The small bright circle of our consciousness. trying to find A certain door: I found one. swiftly. Some few we know— Or think we know. . . Once. So many mouths. . Seeing so many eyes and hands and faces. we flow and talk together. . So. we live for small horizons: W e move in crowds. . W e hear a sudden music. The music. I walked in a certain hallway. . A hundred men played music. .

" Laugh at this. too. from wall to wall. . this being so.More brilliant. . And steal from floor to floor up shadowy stairways. . carries away our secrets. . and we who know it being So curious about those well-locked houses The minds of those we know—to enter softly. H e eyes me sidelong. Sometimes. " Is he such a fool as this ? Or only mocking?" There I let it end. is seldom. our doors fly open Without intention. Our lovers too. Perplexed with implications . The sombre note that gives the chord its power. or. and the hungry watcher Stares at the feast. I make pretence to think my doors are closed." we say. Wondering. Or a white loveliness—if such we know— Too much like fire to speak of without shame. Well. and when we least suspect it— When we pursue our thoughts with too much passionTalking with too great zeal. Or else? I let him hear a lyric passage. is guesswork) This music strangely subtle. " Marvel at my candour " . And laughs . deep in meaning. of course. H e looks at me bewildered And thinks (to judge from self—this. . he suspects me Of hidden riches. . . only such few clear notes As we shall deem them likely to admire: " Praise me for this. and while he likes it H e will be piqued. unexpected wonders. and. And for the most part we vouchsafe our friends. but this. too. Simple and clear. . than his. all the while he listens. though. all the while Withholding what's most precious to ourselves— Some sinister depth of lust or fear or hatred. From room to quiet room. bewilders him. . This. Pressing our hands and nerves against warm darkness 8 . Breathing deliberately the very air. for many counts. . Or.

Deceiving you—as far as I may know it— Only so much as 1 deceive myself. . a sky Just as I would have had i t . This water says— Shimmering at the sky. . or hint of beauty. If you are clever you already see me As one who moves forever in a cloud Of warm bright vanity: a luminous cloud. And stars that brightening climb through mist at nightfall— In some deep way I am aware these praise m e : When they are beautiful. beauty swaying To mirror beauty. Brightening what lies dark to me. . . 9 . . A frozen strength. . with rigid branches Flung out against the sky—this tall tree says There is some cold austerity in you. Suppose I try to tell you The secrets of this house.To learn what ghosts are there— Suppose for once 1 set my doors wide open And bid you in. or undulating In broken gleaming parodies of clouds. I walk sustained In a world of things that flatter m e . in fact. somehow. They point. to me. . . or sending from cool depths To meet the falling leaf the leafs clear image— This water says. silently responsive To all that circles you. trees and grass Just as I would have shaped and coloured them. with long roots gnarled on rocks. Resonant in the wind. Pigeons and clouds and sun and whirling shadows. . Suppose I tell you who I am. Which falls on all things with a quivering magic. This bare tree says— Austere and stark and leafless. . split with frost. and how I live here. Changing such outlines as a light may change. Rippled in blue. concealing Those things that will not change. . there is some secret in you Akin to my clear beauty.

fragrant of my mind. You need but sit and close your eyes a moment To see these deep designs unfold themselves. are patient. Serene in silence. Towers and labyrinths and domes and chambers— Amazing deep recesses—dark on dark— All these are like the walls which shape your spirit. . Image to image gliding. Walls pierced with windows where the light may enter. and smooth of surface. laugh within them. solid. Walls windowless where darkness is desired. . This deep. I t waits you always at the tops of stairways. You move. Concealing what reserves of power and beauty! What teeming Aprils! Chorus of leaves on leaves! These houses say. bare to outward seeming. . cool room. or dark with rain . familiar to your uses. Soundlessly cries enchantment in your mind . such walls in walls as ours. dream linked with dream. Proud of their depth and strength. walls upon walls. And this embroidery. praise me— 10 . Where you may cease pretence and be yourself.Fertile and deep: you bide your time. When you are bold to blow great horns at the world. Withdrawn. hanging on this wall. name me. are warm within them. Tranquil and cloistral. Hung there forever—these so soundless glidings Of dragons golden-scaled. or sally from them. with shadowed walls and ceiling. . serene. Coilings of leaves in pale vermilion. Such streets of walls. Motionless in the sun. sheer birds of azure. griffins Drawing their rainbow wings through involutions Of mauve chrysanthemums and lotus flowers— This goblin wood where some one cries enchantment— This says. wreathing fires. Such hills and cities of walls. And so. This cool room says: just such a room have you. . . just such an involuted beauty Of thought and coiling thought. all things discern me.

" Beauty !" I cry. Black wheel-tracks line the snow-touched street. now that. regrets. Faint ghosts of memory. Two church bells. velleities. I am eontented. My feet move on. And through these things my pencil pushes softly To weave grey webs of lines on this clear page. I am warned. insubstantial. . 11 . not in a glass. or else. strange recognitions— But all with one deep meaning: this is I. the eaves make liquid music. and take me Between dark walls. and melts. I watch these bubbles veering brightly upward From unknown depths—my silver thoughts ascending: Saying now this. to see my image there— Or in your mind. . Beauty: beheld like some one half-forgotten. A clock ticks clearly. Or huddle in dark again. with black boughs flung Against a luminous snow-filled grey-gold sky. I turn And look one instant at the half-dark gardens Where skeleton elm-trees lean with frozen gestures Above unsteady lamps. You look at me. with orange squares for windows.I walk in a world of silent voices praising. " Praise m e ! " I say. You see me moving. A gas-jet steadily whirs. And into it Come bulging shapes from darkness. . on silent winds. . . . and desires. with alternate beat. hinting of all things— Dreams. This silver-winged wonder. And hearing. And in this world you see me like a wraith Blown softly here and there. . light streams across m e . then. This is the glistening secret holy I. as one who moves For ever at the centre of his circle: A circle filled with light. This singing ghost. loom gigantic. And listen—I am pleased. with interest unfeigned. But in your eyes. . and look. alone. you smile. strike nine. . Snow falls.

. with rain . together With other things. and everything is changed. And you. The lovers. You let it fall. Well. Seemed much preoccupied. and words. And set so many doors of wish wide open. Murmuring in the adjacent room. a door is slammed. and darkness rides my heart. Or on such days as this. So-and-so this morning.Remembered. and would not let me guess Whether you saw it fall. And the word I chose for you. I saw too much. whence rises this ? Well. . with slow pang. 12 . grow silent.. . the golden word. The thing 1 strongly seized Has turned to darkness. If you could solve this darkness. the gas-jet steadily whirs: The pencil meets its shadow upon clear paper. And nothing changes. Hours have passed. and sunlit evenings. .. . Faces. And this in turn drew up dark memories. These things. And chains self-forged that will not break nor lengthen. Voices are raised. . . These skeleton elm-trees— Leaning against that grey-gold snow-filled sky— " Beauty!" they say. Turning all frustrate dreams to chords and discords. . And laughed at m e . and would not stoop for it. wove to music. . and at the edge of darkness Extend vain arms in a frozen gesture of protest. . A clock ticks softly. The thing I strongly seized has turned to darkness. And there I stand. as one neglected. This causeless melancholy that comes with rain. Exultation is dead. and griefs. The word that should have struck so deep in purpose. too little. I am frustrate: life has beaten me. when I saw him.. This music breaks and bleeds me. you would have me.'. still slighter. . Beauty is harlot— And walks the streets. The eaves make liquid music. and would not smile. when large wet snowflakes Drop heavily.. And darkness rides my heart. and you.

. and wished her dead. So.— I smiled and met her kiss. opening. . W e lean unbalanced. The mute last glance between us. Is steadily met: our two lives draw together . revolving me in scarlet. . W e drown in each other's eyes. These you shall have. .And cries that none can answer. . . Wearing a mask of grief so deeply acted That grief itself possessed me. or by my hands Savagely killed. Time would pass. Or. " What are you thinking of ?" . And beauty shines in vain ?"— These things you ask for. And more convinced life yields no satisfaction?" Or "seek too hard. now there. asking. . My first wife's voice Scattered these ghosts. I saw her coffin borne downstairs with trouble. half hesitating. we talk. keeps no perfumed secret ?" Or "one day dies eventless as another. the sight at length grows callous. yielding. . W e laugh. " O nothing—nothing much— 13 . faintly pretending We do not hear the powerful pulsing prelude Roaring beneath our words. talking with my first wife. . I saw myself alone there palely watching. " m y second wife grows tedious. Looking now here. . Have these things meaning ? Or would you see more clearly If I should say. Leaving the seeker still unsatisfied. . . I saw her in her coffin. .— Calling to mind remote and small successions Of countless other evenings ending so. Dead of a sudden sickness. Forward we move to meet. The time approaches. like gay tulip. when she leaned And smiled at me. A t the dark end of evening. with blue eyes weaving webs Of finest fire. few will hear. And I shall meet this girl—my second wife— And drop the mask of grief for one of passion. Profoundly searching.

14 . What's new ? what's old ? All things have double meanings. . ." . The same man stooped to m e . And pity to echoed love. you know m e . . and now.. . . seek to end? You see me.— Pursuing silent ends. Searching and plotting.— Six years ago I dreamed it just as now.— Only to know the same thing comes to-morrow . then. for all my best intentions. This curious riddled dream I dreamed last night. This is my house.— No more for me than you.. and now through shadow. And broke the accustomed order of our days. I move here always. I write a line with passion (Or touch a woman's hand or plumb a doctrine) Only to find the same thing done before. . Now through a beam of light. The pages of our lives are blurred palimpsest: New lives are wreathed on old lives half-erased. and freedom. . And those on older still. Yet I confess. And what we might be doing. And then remorse Turned sharply in my mind to sudden pity. we rose from darkness. . No rest there is. . And struck for the morning world. and warmth. of lies. so too with all things. And. as it is with this. What does it mean? Why is this hint repeated? What darkness does it spring from. from wall to wall. pass up and down these stairways. perhaps. and so forever. . And one more evening Drew to the usual end of sleep and silence. From secret room to room.Just wondering where we'd be two years from now. The old shines through the new and colours i t . I withhold The one thing precious. Once more I have deceived y o u . weaving a web of days. the one dark thing that guides m e : And I have spread two snares for you.— All things return. .

Say "Yes. Deep bells beating. long chords of wind and sunlight. I'll say—my childhood broke through chords of music— Or were they chords of sun ?—wherein fell shadows. days before me Murmured of blue-sea mornings. silent. or such foolish. Confused soft chords of music fled above me. I shall not say why it is that I love you— Why do you ask me. I shall tell in silence. like a mirror. Enchanted. . With wings of death.. I ran and turned and spun and danced in the sunlight. timeless. blue days behind me Stretched like a chain of deep blue pools of magic. have me say what you know better ? Let me instead be silent. if I tell at all. with jonquils in them ?" No. I shall not say. and a face of cold clear beauty." You would not. Or sometimes found a darkness stooped above me. my hands in clover. noons of gold. Your eyes are April-grey... Green evenings. tremulous. I rose through seas of sunlight.. No. half-shy sweetness.—your hair curls darkly back from the temples. Or silences. streaked with lilac.. Your mouth has a humorous. 15 . bee-starred nights. only saying— My childhood lives in me—or half-lives.. if I close my eyes. And drowsed there like a b e e . Sharp shafts of music dazzled my eyes and pierced me. . My chin in a dandelion. cool clouds of music Blow up to m e . Grass blades leagues apart with worlds between them. "This is why I praise you— Because you say such wise things. . . I lay in the warm sweet grass on a blue May morning...No. sometimes. Or crept once more to the warm white caves of sleep.. Shadows of intricate vines on sunlit walls. . . Shrank.. rather— And. Walls rushing up to heaven with stars upon t h e m . with æons of blue between them. from the freezing silence of beauty. save for vanity ? Surely you would not have me.

when your eyes have evening sunlight in them. Swift and blue. they stream above me. What did they mean ? What sinister threat of power ? What hint of beauty ? Prelude to what gigantic music. How should I know—how should I now remember— W h a t half-dreamed great wings curved and sang above me? What wings like swords ? What eyes with the dread night in them? This I shall say. Set those dunes before me.I lay in ray bed.—I lay by the hot white sand-dunes. suddenly touch white cobwebs. and cold green g r a s s . or subtle? Only I know these things leaned over me. . I t is not you I laugh for. And clover. You are the silence (if you could hear you'd hear me) In which I remember a thin still whisper of singing. sapless and squat and spiny. I struggled. was warmed to blossom. I drowse. Day after day. 16 . . Small yellow flowers. I yield and love.. And heard the harsh rain storm at the panes and roof. you I touch! My hands that touch you. Coldly silvered. I am warmed to dream.. Glided and passed. heavily silvered with dewdrops. I loved... beyond our dreams and knowledge. I yielded and loved. or d a r k . You are the window (if I could tell I'd tell you) Through which I see a clear far world of sunlight. heavy with rain. And silently there above us. those salt bright flowers. and over us streamed their shadows. You. Presences swept. I hated. went flowing softly. paused. . . and through the tall night window Saw the green lightning plunging among the clouds. Stared at the sky. Brooded upon me. I desired. These presences. I struggle.

yet do they never part. The images of their spiritual countenances are mirrored side by side. when they have found each other amid radiance of earth. their secret places of treasure-trove. the unatoned guilt. It is from this volume that the following translation has been made. when they quaff weariness from a single fount of eternal waters. through stillness of all night-times. Dying. They range from the subjective pessimism of the first collection to the objective optimism of the last. Brezina has also published Music of the Springs (1903). and even when it seemed as if they parted. a series of prose essays which repeat and amplify the ideas contained in his poetry. mark the development of Brezina's attitude towards the universe and the mystery of life.] A C R O S S all distances of time and space the brethren of a single kindred yearn one for the other. they bequeath one to the other the wealth of their kindred. every secret which has remained mute to them. they approach one to the other upon paths of all spring-tides. Temple Builders (1899) and The Hands.—P. the ungained victories. His five volumes of poems—Secret Distances (1895). They were born at the same hour in eternity.S. As if they were performing the behests. Polar Winds (1897). They are predestined to toil for themselves and to pass their uncompleted labour on from hand to hand. issued by them amid hypnotic sleep in another life.) [Otakar Brezina was born fifty-two years ago in what is now Czechoslovakia. Only from each other do they receive gifts without humiliation. Western Dawning (1896).OTAKAR BREZINA ETERNAL YEARNING (TRANSLATED FROM THE CZECH BY P. Every response which they surmise from silence of earth. SELVES. (1901)—with their strikingly individual style. every dream to which they dreaded to avow themselves. draws them together. Only with the 17 B . Their destiny is fulfilled. the infirmity of their gaze.

other possibilities of life. law-givers. however powerful it be. creators of symbols. Their will labours in a single sphere amid a hierarchy of wills. Words have their treacherous concealments. For it is by the will that kindreds of spirits are distinguished one from the other. Their destinies upon earth have kinship. glitter of stars and soaring of clouds are the medium by which they converse together from distances of all lands and ages. which. From words of all earth's languages they fashion a secret speech of the spirit which the uninitiated cannot comprehend. Every kinship of spirits lives from age to age with a single yearning:—to hold supreme sway over all the earth. Their common annals extend throughout all creation even to the secret beginnings of life upon earth and beyond the earth. weeping and laughter of waters. though led away into a wilderness. Quivering of trees.wounds which they inflict one upon the other are they wounded to the death. In their sudden flashes they reveal the silent and tragic world of our depths. But the will. And convulsively huddled together amid frost of ages. and betray our cosmic kinship. Their hopes are common to them as a hidingplace known to all. Their silence seems to be only an ecstatic suspense of their most fervid embrace. Its glances would not have the magical power which makes them omnipotent. whence they await the sun. if they were not made lustrous with the phantom of another earth. to shatter all powers by the potent urge of its eddies. glances can contrive to evade a fixed gaze. and look steadfastly towards the one bright place in the heavens. another cosmos. but the will is naked as a blazing fire. conquerors. singers. founders of cities. whisper and passion of winds. 18 . they warm each other with their breath. always adjusts even as a wind the unequal warmth of atmospheres above regions of the spirit. In common amid the ranks of their ancestors they have martyrs. which they discover by instinct when they have been overtaken by a storm or hounded by hunters. to render its will a stream of living waters. Their bodies ripen by a single law of sorrow and rapture.

Thus does the kindred of spirits alternate at the unending labour. to grasp all its fields. its exalted tenderness. even as implements of husbandry alternate with the poise of the earth towards the sun and with the advance of the seasons.—all that is invisible to render visible by their breath. And even as the lower humus. they strengthen with new consciousness of earth and wait till conquerors become weary.bestows growth upon the dazzling herbage of the shores throughout its course age after age . and to bestow . With ardent labour do they come to know one the other before works of their forgotten masters. and labour in concealment.—with royal bounty to amass all earth's treasures. all hands for delicate. till government falls drunken. their stamp upon tradition. till their own day arises. to set their aims upon toil. potent spirit-hands. fathoming sense and coherence of the whole labour. their interpretation to life and death . Is not the acme of earth's hope that the highest kindred of spirits should gain sway over the earth ? 19 . shadow-whitened hands turn over pages of their annals. till they enter the building-places which shall be the bliss of their builders. But even the will is subject to a statute. is the spirit's loftiest bliss and pride. for to bestow from one's own.—in a kingly procession to twine their way amid multitudes who step aside with a whisper of reverence in abject awe at the splendour of the court. and when by their will they victoriously impinge upon the toil of myriads. their meaning upon love. which has to be upturned by the plough. to give vindication to their prevailing passion. that it may spread its living stuff for the growth of life. But even when geniuses have achieved power for their spiritkindred.—to constrain every pair of hands to toil on their behalf throughout the whole expanse of the earth. in accordance with which the lower forms toil for the higher. so do hidden powers wait throughout the whole girth of the world for the whirlwind plough of the will. Their trembling. the secret cause of all contest. all eternity to bestow. to impose their symbols upon thought. to bestow throughout ages. they dwell rejected in the depths of life.

But the eternal thirst for unity which. For the sake of their dream. and fanatics of the will. the whole cosmos. Music and image bestow strength on their verses. who are ever seeking fresh paths that bring nations closer across oceans. cities blazed. slaves in mines. and it shall send forth great unifiers to their own age as it has sent them forth. and join in the labour of its spirit-kindred.They passed through the world. Poets dream over ruined statues of bygone conquerors. The most fateful pain of earth arises from constraint and irresistible drooping of the will. that bear the voice into distant places. gave rise to their tragical frenzy. and of bracing the whole earth for ages within the frame of a single law. that they too may labour in the spirit-world at the holy toil of unity. that it cannot enfold the magical exercise of its growth and fruition. commissioners of fleets. fires of all forges blaze. that bind ever more delicate links between beings. the whole of eternity amid struggles of religions and languages. which has maimed the hand of the Creator. because their labour was destroyed in the depths of life by inchoate struggles of spirits. broken beneath the burden of the super-human task of welding into unity the shattered multitudes. Often it lops only the side branches. subjugators. sorrow seethed. I t desires the whole earth. weakened. Upon remains of cities and temples will blossom the gardens of the wise. the sorrow of impotence and decay. princes of marts. martyrs. They came to grief. who vainly with too daring a hand desire to entrap myriads in meshes contrived through ages. Bodily pain of man seldom thrusts its axe so deep as to hinder the ascent of the sap to the loftiest branches of the spiritual tree. I t shall seethe amid spirits as it has seethed. and like a husbandman 20 . over inscriptions covering walls of royal palaces. toilers of science struggle in laboratories. is preserved from age to age in the will of myriads. Between their strong hands nations were kneaded like dough. And at the last they sank down. its radiance flashes from the feverish gaze of inventors. wherein are revived anew the gestures of the triumphant. though they knew it not. I t is the sorrow of a wound.

it yearns to sever the shackles clasping the numberless. that it 21 . when even upon the poverty of our earth we pause in awe before the dazzling possibilities of life and of dream ? There are grades upon which the will knows neither hatred nor contest. and it broods in a brooding boundless as the universe.guides its crown to a height which it otherwise would not attain. thousands of senses. princely and humble. Grades. when the will ceases to be affrighted by the infinity of pain. there arise plights of the spirit which have been fathomed to such depths by religious geniuses of all ages with the vision of seers. and with the strength by which it attained its lofty place. is it also possible to share one's visions of the world with hungry gazes ? But even above this will. there are yet other grades. Ages wane. and all by the belief through which worlds are enraptured. Who has grasped the marvels of their unceasing motion ? Upon what joyful stars does their splendour proceed. wills and beliefs toil engulfed by higher beliefs. Glow of higher worlds is quenched because of it. and the age-long endeavours of nations into meaningless play. What is the harmony of the spheres beside the grievous music of suffering hearts ? In meekness it descends amid throngs of brethren. You will not overcome the horror of emptiness wafted to you as if from a colossal tomb by icy darkness from the cosmos ablossom with stars. and in its thirst it craves to have thousands of lives that it might know all suffering. Its yearning goes no higher. Vainly do you then search amid all frenzies of the senses and amid all venoms of oblivion. when it grasps the mystical need for ages of transition. It has fathomed everything. But if it is possible to share one's bread with hungry lips. But if a secret wound penetrates to the soul and fills it with lethargy and somnolence. thousands of hands. that it might know all toil. In delicate glittering of compassion it fills glances with radiance. These are relapses of mute despair which change the dance of worlds and spring-tides into a burial procession. which desires to see naught beyond earth and toil upon the fields of brethren.

concealing magical gardens not yet in blossom. it does not cease to sing.might possess all things. But the whole heaven of stars. lie between it and its quest. although it could not frame words for it. thrust life forward into all flames. and though perpetually deluded. to believe and to create. " The Music of the Springs. sharpen and quicken its spiritual contests and soar with all wings of thought and reverie until it had achieved the quest whose glory it forebodes. And yet its gaze does not lose the feverish ecstasy of the warrior in the advance. to love." 22 . like springtide mists. all secrets of time.

(T. Gravely quiescent Jumbo lies Contemplating mysteries. S. If the sad shade of Œdipus Were reborn in an octopus. E——. Life dines out on curried eggs.E D W A R D J. Whose ruffled feathers sneered at people. Geoghegan flutters out Trailing a green and purple clout. But children are without surmise.) OCKING from a plush trapeze Arabella hunts for fleas. Mrs. Last obsequies of a parakeet. Complexities would soon arise. — F O U R O'CLOCK : M E N AS TREES WALKING. Decorum marches them out of the room And turns them over to a groom. But a funeral drives down the street. Geoghegan rustles in As if she had a secret sin. And a bell tolls in the Methodist steeple. Mrs. Served by Burmese with tattooed legs. O'BRIEN PASTICHES I . Rumpelmayer rushes in Calling for redbreast and the wren. But Rumpelmayer rushes out And then it all becomes a rout. 23 M .

I I . 24 . P — — . — H O M A G E TO LAFORGUE. And that valvular fluttering Is a maternal summons. Pundits suggest when I leave my nursery A proximate collapse. To have a cup of tea with Gauguin Or mould museum groups for Rodin. (E. I leave Piccadilly behind With the disinterested view of approving a crepuscule. Mine pulsing from coffee-time to coffee-time Is a maternal summons. on the whole. " By Pluto's wounds. They murmur that my passing To similar shades is. But what odds!) The sun's a heart.I'm going to the South Sea Islands Or else to the Montmartre highlands. I may point out. (It is quite irregular. not wholly unlike mine. Ha-ha! My deplored parent. Filtering away its bloody sap. colic of the belly. That the fluttering of my heart's core Is a maternal summons. ) Grave medicoes hint The decease of my maternal parent due to sentimental disturbances. A rummy beggar ! " Not a forward progression Without path-leaving. regurgitation. imminent.

) Robin redbreast in his tree Flutes a crystal song to me. Saving always. And the pattern of the vermilion stair The bourgeoisie climb to the top of a 'bus Myopically giggling at the rest of us. I will dance in a fairy ring Of oranges. Granted that Acheron is in the middle distance.If only Lais Would grasp it competently Before the spring snaps. I would only crave indulgent leave To trespass in similar shades. My heart's core flutters so ! . of course.—Miss SLIPPFR SINGS A ROUND. and I shall sing Of the pointillistic hoops of light That flicker till they meet my sight In the brazen paths of St. . And that she likes cold plunges. S — — . (E. 25 . Is it your maternal summons ? III. Giles' Fair. But no. . That rattling blood-pump (it is becoming a cliche!) Is a maternal summons. the sun's heart. they all rub the salt in my wounds with sadistic pleasure. Her dislike is futile. (Heigh-ho !) And my maternal parent.

C.—CHINATOWN. With a hint of mystery. . its brackish currents swirl To points of light that widen as they twirl.IV. Have you heard what the papers are saying ? Chinamen from Pekin and from Hong Kong too. Flaying fan-tan with little clucking noises. And savages adorned with woad did go Wearily through its channels in leather boats. Lit by the moon. . till you see a fen. Turn back your thoughts a thousand years. XLII. . ) Chinamen gathered in a big top room. Vermilion walls and a great blue table. II. though the wind were harsh And still . V. . Thick smoke raising in a dark blue cloud. Playing fair as far as they are able. Long centuries reclaimed it from the marsh And still the birds sang. know the way Man governed by the light of his little day Still rears proud monuments for sifting Time To file away to ruins gemmed with rime. (V—— L — — y . Chinaman from F u Chow and from far Chefoo. (J. ) I. The city was not builded that we know. . Recitative. Yet did the birds then sing the selfsame notes They sing this golden day of early May Within the Temple Gardens clear and gay.—LONDON. and then Another thousand. A curtain of dusk above that calm-faced crowd. . 26 With light syncopation. S q — — .

Ding-dong. . And the night-bird with silver feathers Sings in the heart of the night The song of Hong That ends ding-dong. Ding-dong. Dreamily. Song of wrong. Chinamen from Frisco and from Malabar. All playing fair as far as they are able. Hovering over the dark blue forest Of smoke the Chinamen weave. All playing round a great blue table. Song of wTong. War of Tong. who should be children playing pirates. Bell from the watch-tower bright. Song of wrong. but with complete abandon. Chinamen from Kingston and from Panama. I see the red roofs of a village Where all the maidens grieve. BUT! Have you heard what the papers are saying ? Over the dark blue forest Of smoke the Chinamen weave. The Yenisei and the Yang-tse-kiang. Ding-dong Rings the song Of the daughters of Hong." W a r of Tong.From the Great Wall of China and the land of Wang. Slowly and plangently. Something's wrong In the upstairs room. Ding-dong And a bell In the downstairs room Says : " Something's wrong. Emotional response must here be assumied by the audience. 27 With a sudden loud crackling.

(A—— L——l. wind. And a Chinaman falls. Crumble. calling. grass. Rising tide Of mirrors. clamouring. quivering. Crumble. And the blue cloud hovers Over terrible wrong. Shock of bodies. Shafted light Ringing metallic music. Whistle. ? VI. Hurtling. Triumph of Tong Over sons of Hong. with a firm resolution of the final harmonies.And a pistol cracks And a Chinaman falls. Had they heard what the papers were saying Exultingly. 28 . Whisper. And a sandbag whacks.— -CYCLE. Death of Hong And the sons of Hong. Gold! Downward javelins. thrusting. And voices boom In that terrible room Around the great blue table. Curl in your sheath. Jagged emerald flashes.) A sword cutting The equal stillness.

Over the flute-player. 29 . Poise. . Tuberoses dreaming Under the frosty moon. Over the basking lizard. diminish. . . Over the wine-foamed river. Ripple of burnished waters. Over the grassblade. Starry points die. Wings hover. Shadow cropping the mountain-side. Over the dust on the pebble. Three poplars.Flight of doves. Over the valley.

GERALD GOULD THE UNRETURNING THING OU see this child Who in to-morrow knows not yesterday: Let him stand for the symbol of that wild Pulse of the world's untaught unteachable heart Where all incredible emotions start Like dust of flowers in the sun's sudden ray. Sagged. How our thought took the colour of the sun ? The waves of apple-blossom broke In brilliant foam against the blue: You moaned upon my lips. The world was you. In long attenuated track Across the thin faint daytime: love grew weak. and forgot its own rememberings: Our hearts. First black. And sicken at your new-remembered sins. —My dear. and stirred. The world was what your loving is —A lane of light through dust of mysteries: The world was what your lips forgot to speak Upon my lips. —You know the hush before The orchestra begins : You shiver at the shutting of a door. I looked up and saw wings Like swords bare in the sunlight: black they rose. And then were still again. then silver—silver again. and spoke. unwilling. knew what music knows: And you went from me as the silence goes A t that first crying of the attempted strings. My arms were hungrier than a mother's breast 30 Y . and black. Do you remember. When for a little silence we were one. in the early year.

That cannot suckle the soft lips it needs. My hopes were bruised and broken reeds. My mouth said: " God knows best," And my heart gave my mouth the lie. The black and silver wings against the sky Flew to the peace that you had robbed me of. —O unforeseen and unreturning love, W e had had our moment! Every moment after Was bitter with the hint of your return, And you returned, and were not you. The laughter Of devils drowns the cries of souls that bum, And that's the secret dreadfulness of hell. Had you been harsh, it had been well; But you were tender when you came, And leant to me with the old smile and kiss; You said: " Do you remember that, and this ?"— And nothing was the same. —You see this child. H e waits, Unconscious, by the undivulging gates: His ear has heard the tuning; and, intent, H e guesses what shall leap and flower To top the tall triumphant hour When instrument is wed to instrument. So is it with the childish heart of man That has learnt nothing since the world began. O infinitely touching!—pilgrim still Up the recurring disappointing hill! O heart as breakable as the first heart was That faltered, strange to loss! O heart as flower-like, with each morning new, Brave to drink disappointment up like dew! O vessel squandered on the careless sea! O my one love, the one love gone from m e ! —It is not age that breaks and stales: I t is not impotence that fails: I t is not weakness that despairs! 31

—The rash and splendid and impatient airs That blow about the meadows and the shores, And search the noon for clouds, and shake the bells To clamour in unconquered citadels, And take the stars and stations in their course —These, it is these that break the heart, that lose What they have learnt not to refuse, Sweet dancing fools, So large, so bold, so ignorant of the span Set for the reach and amplitude of man !— Ours was the summer hour: and now the tune, Rhythmic, returns according to the rules, And ends not late nor soon. You see this child; he, ev'n as you and I, Will watch that black and silver stab the sky, Flying into the silence, flying free. W h y tell him what he will not understand ? The ship for ever puts off from the land, And finds for ever nothing but the sea, I t burns—the flower-flame that the leaves uncover, Setting the heart free to accept the spring —The mendicant of morning, and the lover Of the unforeseen and unreturning thing.






S H A L L not meet you on the painted pavement As I go lonely through the crowded city. You will be dining with a nameless lover, You will be listening to his dull avowals, You will be listening to the unconvincing Romanticisms unfired by mental ardour Of some anonymous and vague suburban. And in my consciousness shall I be wandering, Asking myself a sad eternal question, W h y I pursue you with a tale of love, A tale to which you listen courteously, With wistful silence, with affectionate deference— Then turn again to your versatilities. For when I speak of loving concentration And when I speak of mutual servitude, My sombre words go drifting, drifting by you Like sombre seaweed drifting by a mermaid Playing in the froth and foam of a sunlit sea. On stony ground the seeds of my evangel For ever fruitless fall—you know the parable—; The stony ground is your void scepticism, Silent and void as interstellar spaces, Wherein may fall the very stars of beauty And fall beyond the borders of the starland. My burning words like meteoric flashes Against the purple of a night in August Torn suddenly by the momentary Pleiads, Gleam and and are gone in the clear cold void abysses Of your ingenuous cunning philistinism, Sunk without sound in your sweet and treacherous Dark chosen deliberate girlish shallowness.
* * * *




You cannot pierce the fallacy of pleasures That are pursued. . Have sought. Your tinsel erethisms. I wish that you could see yourself as I do. A victim bound upon the ribboned treadmill. lost . You prefer your dances. abandonments. Whose feet will soon be wearied with recurrence. your carousals.Love is an arc of light upon the darkness. Hopes. You find it so much easier to follow Your customary stale routine engagements Prescribed by cavaliers who rather like you. imagined. Your dull. mechanical routine engagements. mechanical. Whereby the human body is commuted Into a perfect and eternal symbol Of incarnated beauties. Here is the road that anchorites and mystics. Your drunken midnight revels whence you fling Back to your suburb in a cushioned motor. The silent symphony of unheard music. The living art of two creative artists. # # # # I can but think your nerves are of a fibre Too coarse to feel these delicate vibrations Enough to reach your central ganglion 34 . ecstasies. permanences. foretold. The only earthly transubstantiation. ambitions. The rhythm concealed in the uncarven marble. external. A phosphorescence curving like a rainbow Of flame between conspired imaginations. Philosophers and devotees and dreamers. * *** All this I tell you. Creaking recurrence of an endless sequence— The serpent pleasure that devours itself In pitiless infinities of ennui. .

receding— Receding goes my hope to be immortal. 35 . unfired by love. But in your blood. I fear that you will feel no more the lovely. Swift sweet reactions of the blood eternal From all the fragrance of a summer morning Washed with warm dew and south-west rain and sunshine. # * * * Blood is a god of infinite intelligence Mute in deliberate creative cunning.To light the flame of an ideal reaction. I can but think your blood is far too viscous To tremble with the shaking flame of love. You have transmuted blood into an idol To which you offer bloated sacrifices Of baked dead flesh and nauseous synthetic Loud scents and artificial wines and cognac. To quiver with the old ideal ardours. Building the slow red coral of humanity Into the ultimate reef that shall bar out The ancient sullen surges of death and darkness Beating for ages on the organic foreshore.

T H E polygamy of the body challenges the monogamy of the heart. I T is because the strong eat each other that the meek shall inherit the earth. but imagination is omniscience. is a melodrama in the evening.RUSSELL GREEN APHORISMS A R T is memory attempting immortality. a farce on the morning after. abandonment HUMANITY hates change and loves variety. ALTRUISM is the disguise which desire steals from honour. MARRIAGE is a form of emotional insurance. ROMANCE to the imagination is distance. L E T US live with a will and die without one. I t compromises in optimism. How great the insight of the patrons of immoral novels !—they can read between the sheets. KNOWLEDGE may be power. LIFE is an experiment in the art of living. Only the apotheosis of retrospect raises it to the sublimity of tragedy and comedy. E A C H year one rises from the dead past to find a humorous satisfaction in dancing on one's own tombstone. W H E N argument comes up the stairs of the past. WOMAN is the sea of barbaric flesh beating in desire for destruction against the base of the lighthouse of the brain. to the emotions. divorce a realisation of your surrender value. T I M E is like a poor relation: it stays too long and when it goes takes something away with it. love flies out of the window of the future. 36 . FREEDOM of choice is useless without the instinct of selection.

MIND.Do not reason with the cynic. How curious to imagine that one cannot be a man unless one is a devil! T H E atheist is one who cannot see wood for trees. RELIGION is more popular than art because prevention is better than cure. EMOTION is the fourth dimension of the mind. A CYNIC is one who tells you the truth about your own motives. A MAN wants first sympathy. ONE cannot be a law unto oneself without being a lawbreaker to others. it might be true. SENTIMENTALITY is a name given to the emotions of others. then sin. is the name that cowards give to truth. 37 . A wife is a woman who gives him both. CYNICISM is an anticipation of the historical perspective. T H E divine myopia of desire is spared the vision of the ultimate horizon of despair. BREVITY is the soul of passion. REPRESSION is the refuge of the weak. a device to facilitate self-deception. both are attempts to put God in his place. retaliate. Imagination is the disease. T H E god of the rationalist is himself. T H E only criterion of love is the degree of impatience with which you wait for the postman. T H E illusion of immortality is the mirage of the memory of the race. IMAGINATION is the separate memory of the senses. CALL no man genius till he is dead. INDISCRETION F R E E will is the refinement of anthropomorphism. FATALISM is the tribute that indolence pays to enterprise. CONSERVATISM is fear masquerading as wisdom.

Where me an' Henry Simpson went an' ghost-girl laughed at me. Seen God sitting down. Never holding at Wine Island. Which the water-beetles limps on Drunk as swine. Dirty gold. I tell yer. Your only song. strike me.E. For they moans as they slips Over seven thousand leagues. And it lays beside the red rick 38 . Henry Simpson. On lavender at Wine Isle And whispering all angry: " H e n r y Simpson. P O W Y S MATHERS FREDERICK OLDING'S SONG ABOUT WINE ISLAND (very. Leave ghost-girl with her eyes er gold. Frederick Olding. Henry Simpson. And drink the green-rock pool er wine I sell yer: For it's mine. very slowly.) SING your song. Frederick Olding Tired er ships. I t is mine. Never holding. to Frederick. er white untidy sea. never holding.

And yer pays me with the sears Of yer soul Henry Simpson. very slow. I tells meself. Her tongue. 39 . And he would er-swimming go Round an' round. her tongue. Like a wriggling purple butterfly her tongue.Of the straw that bore the stars. And plucky nearly purple was her tongue. they ups And they wags as she lurches With ole Frederick round the pool Which is strong and red and cool. And. an' I will make 'em whole In a little while. Ghost-girl had a calling note Like silver water laughing in a throat. And clever-like I calls: George Robey. And they drops jest a little as she rests. Like a naked Spanish queen That is young. It was old Jew merricles of a sort." Ghost-girl's big golden breasts They was like to gildy cups That you sometimes sees in churches. The atol it was natural-baked adobe Where a' n'ape with parts er red would play A t half before the sun-power every day. Her hair was blue and black Down a gold moised back. And Harry was a red dead buffalo In the middle rolling round. Ghost-girl she was yellerish against the red an' green. It was sticky like the Doctor's port. lad. round an' round.

Gerobay. Who's that er-calling so sweet ? Lighten our darkness. Who's that er-calling? Her hair it fell adimpsydown adimpsydown her back. O Lord. 40 . A naked golden ghost that swings Its trollibubs And sings: Gerobay.Gerobay. Her eyes were gold and wet and black. lots er bottles er beer. Lots er bottles er beer. lots er bottles er beer: Lots er lots er lots er bottles. Gerobay. we beseech thee. old lady. Gerobay. I hear it in the Pompey pubs.

tick tock. YOU always interrupt just when I'm in the most delicious part! You say yourself it's half-past ten. they belong to some one who doesn't care. The chair occasionally shivers to itself. And more . I'm so hungry. Why. an imitation Sheraton. T H E CLOCK : An oak grandfather clock. because. T H E CHAIR. The candle smoke went up quite straight 41 . And sighed and turned and looked again." MICHAL " THE FURNITURE SCENE : A room. H O W T H E MIRROR. night. T H E MIRROR : A large swinging mirror. you're slow —Perhaps you thought I didn't know ?— But I was talking to the Chair: Where had I got to? Let me see. T H E CLOCK. did she look ? She laughed and cried And in my face her face espied. Tick tock. and sometimes the light of the low fire is reflected on its face. and shiny mahogany. When the clock speaks it sways a little from side to side. of course. sometimes moonlight from between the curtains. These pieces of furniture are quite out of keeping with each other and the room. or even dislikes furniture. narrow oval. its door slightly ajar and swinging. everything alert and murmuring. he's in bed an hour ago. Where's that little boy? MIRROR. with claw feet. on curved mahogany legs. green damask. The mirror slithers on its feet. T H E CHAIR : A straight arm-chair. eight feet high. Tick tock. with spindly bars. The mirror has a very slight foreign accent. tick tock. and the door swings. And then unclasped the silver chain.

With his black eyes he watched her so! She stood there. H e was quite tall and young and strong. CHAIR. Oh. and. Oh. She shook her foamy petticoat Down from her waist. although I t was quite fourteen years ago). not the usual one. without. The one that married her. With underneath a heart that beat So hard her breasts shook up and down. could laugh and run. As her last lace she stooped to loose H e came in. I should think. and round. slim hands in front of me She took the combs out of her hair. naked. opening Wide her blue eyes to him. soft. With hasty hands she loosed her dress. Then she drew off the small gold ring And held it straight above her head. she said: ' I hold to you.Each side of me into the air. within. With long. Only I think he didn't lie Just like a log all night and snore 42 . (How I remember it. Then let it drop. quick. CHAIR. That she who'd been so white of late Was all a-tremble feet to head. her little feet Kicked off the pointed satin shoes. oh no ! This. Witness the mirror and the clock!" Then blew the two thin candles out. And then she slipt her bodice off. Which he ? MIRROR. And half her breath was little cries. all I saw. And was that all ? MIRROR. with laughing eyes. They looked and shook and made no sound .

I mean. MIRROR. ghosts. Though it was quiet by-and-bye. Tick tock. He'll be fourteen before you know. Now they let children question so (Not like when you and I were made). now. has got the keen Bright eyes. our prey. And did the other never know ? The man who married her. we claim The child who from that pledging came. And soon he'll be beyond your reach. You and the Clock ? CLOCK. MIRROR. Does he believe in God to-day ? 43 . tick tock.) He's grown to doubt of both of you. And you were witness to the pledge. SO for our own. Where's my little boy! CHAIR. Why have you never claimed him yet ? You stand there dozing in the shade. black wings That used to wave behind the screen. {THE MIRROR makes a "moue" at this.(That's what the man she married did) ! They didn't simply turn and sleep When in the cool white sheets they slid. Oh n o ! oh far too dull and slow ! But Robin. And by the door The little ring lay on the floor. For years he's not believed in things He's read. CHAIR. CLOCK. Fairies and witches. quick body. How I should love to scare him dead ! CHAIR. or half seen. been told of. I'm so hungry. And when the morning light came grey On to the pillow where they lay —His black head rested on her fair Masses of tangled silky hair— They were asleep. and black head.

(SHE covies in. More for m e ! MIRROR. She'll do it. eyes turned. he'd be much more frightened now! I t will be done. Great brute ! While I keep calm to hear The breath come jerking in the throat. And through her womb we stared at him. I know . and of you H e dreams less often. Big. does not stay To glance at you across the room.You know he doesn't. H e thinks of bones and blood and hate. Tick tock. tick tock. But here's the rule (Somebody's always making rules): His mother pledged him first with us. W e might have had him as a babe. Coarse thing! H e can't appreciate The pleasure of creating fear. See the mouth gape. God ! I t is mostly now. let him grow. a shawl over her dress. big. She sits down on a couch. With Robin asleep in bed. And if he altogether stops How could you take him? MIRROR.) SHE. Time more sureness brings. Hush ! A step is near. One knows some things are certain things. Yes. That I see the cheeks. tick tock. Still in your place: she's coming here. Oh. So she must give him up herself. her head in her hands. CLOCK. little boy. 44 . and note The fingers— CHAIR. His head like his father's head. But then we waited. Tick tock. a woman of about thirty-five. the brow.

How happy one could be if children grew Straight from oneself. Or great cold fish that flop and goggle at one! Or if they could stay children all their lives. The treacherous mirror and the pitiless clock. rest from it. peace. peace. she comes forward into the room wildly. love: I'm old. Horrible. above— CHAIR. were only all! I know there is more to find grows strong and tall. scratch. If this But As he His MIRROR. dirty. comes back. but I'm not blind! And when he'd touched and kissed his fill. ten years. below.And it all comes back. His hand like his father's hand. perhaps. neck. When there by his side I stand. mind like his father's mind. laugh with. Five years. 45 . horrible ! And in this house All thick with memories—that. not mixed with any man. ruin the sweet things. she'll hear you. oh. Breast. oh. must be bad. And see the fingers slack. Oh. lie with.) SHE. and he'll be quite a man. and arms. But they grow up—Robin grows up—he feels The first vague achings of his man-ness come. Men are half beasts: monkeys and pigs and dogs That tear. I'm sure she liked them well enough —That father's body and his mind— (Although you can't divide the stuff) To live with. do keep still ! (She has not noticed. Women alone are human. Oh. Or if men were clean And kind like women. peace. hush. peace. and there'ld be a white world With only women. If men could go.

The things I've seen . . Robin. going. Ah God. But spray and waves unnumbered. No one desire yet to formulate. how tall and white. no thought. No. She makes me think of evenings. Mares to a stallion. When she lets droop her eyelids slow. they used me so. . the things I've heard. When she was only weeks a bride. No doubt he had no wish. No fishes in the deep. SHE. soft body in their arms. But then his father peered out of his eyes. . And each man a child at first! MIRROR. And the nights followed when she cried And struggled like a wounded bird. thin neck Between the curls and frock—walk with her hoop Past him. his childhood's going. . bright With many candles. . Somewhere in the country The leaves are quiet and green. too. . if I could take you! No use. High elms in the edges And the blue sky between .) MIRROR. Yes. baby. salt sea. they hurt me so! (SHE stands looking down. ewes to a ram! Wide sea. shaking. and the whole fierce race of men that hunt For women. . put to any bull. years ago. there'ld be cows there. Yet she was willing to be prey With that young hunter at her heels! 46 . with her soft. H O W white she is. .They most remind me still of those two men W h o had my young. . deep and shoal. South Pole and sweeping waters and North Pole . and no land anywhere. no gulls in air. no use. To-day he watched a girl-child in the road —Little fair Lily. Oh.

I'm so hungry. shame. the never-will-be! (She goes out of the room. shame. Mirror. who'll grow up And bring more pain than joy. Then there was Robin. to show that bend— Neck. my poor baby. how it feels— Last dance! the hunt draws to its end: Drive home. bed. Tick tock. husband's One pleasure—hurting something. none better. breast.To see her now you wouldn't say She's known. though all the pains of birth Should leap on me again. But it was not my fault—oh. grow still and small and formless. Out of all self. Back into me. doomed. more bad than good. tick tock. the CLOCK ticks greedily. shame. lean back the whirling head. Tick tock. Into the never-has-been. And bed. touch ! Oh. bed! SHE {wildly). the MIRROR wrinkles into a smile. Now. My weakness and his father's evil mixed To form a child. bad. tick tock. all memory. I made him. body and mind. and laughing at me! Then when he came it seemed at first escape: Escape! There is none in a world of men. laugh. Unlive nine months. and further back. So kissable. Be quiet! 47 . his wife. Back out of consciousness. his innocent childhood. The way they look. back out of life. will he come To-night ? MIRROR. would I could unmake! Backwards. babyhood. Hurting me. Oh Mirror. best. throwing up her arms. now. Ah God.) CLOCK (eagerly). all will. little boy ! CHAIR. a man-child. not my fault ! What could I do—eighteen? My old. Upstairs.

let's make friends! EOBIN (rapidly). Hullo. . . I don't believe in furniture that walks about! MIRROR. and Greek!) Come. Tick tock. What does it mean ?. I wish I knew more Greek. She doesn't hear. Well Robin. . What a horrible idea—the Furies : after all. last week perhaps. . my good mirror. Rotten being awake. Just as nasty for good people as bad—worse . Mother! . . more all sorts of things. That's it. the BOY sees it. that's funny . . . These things happen in dreams: not really. When 48 . Perhaps she's downstairs . . Look here. I know English. What on earth was that ?. I'm glad I remembered that. MIRROR. look. One does hear such queer noises in the night. . French. That Greek? MIRROR {softly) CHAIR. . I wish Mother were in her room. our power extends: You've always known that we could speak. Hssh! ROBIN. . Orestes was quite right. so that the light shines into its face. . . I do hate waking up suddenly. . rubbing his eyes. (Why. .O h ! I'm dumb. CLOCK. ugh ! I'll go to bed again. sending him mad . it must have been someone . But it never seems to matter what people are like. the MIRROR comes a little forward. No. . I'm dreaming. If I could only remember that Greek! What was it ? I'll get it in a moment. . half-hearing something. ROBIN. ROBIN {dreamily). . Yes. the Furies . ( The BOY comes in. don't be frightened. {He moves away. I wonder who quoted i t . . I shall wake up. . . I'm so . singing over a victim . that's history . in pyjamas. Damn.) ROBIN. tick tock. (calls) Mother!. . his hair tousled with sleep).



cross old thing Won't hurt you. I must see what he's doing. I say—that's me coming in! Oh. ugh. Don't you. tick tock. How pretty! Standing there like a flower ! She's taking off her frock. thank you very much. . Look ! you can't call me frightening! I've lived so long and seen so much: Wouldn't you like yourself to see Some things I've seen—or well might see? ROBIN. oh. oh. She's not to go on! Very well. Oh. Mirror! she's taking off her petticoat! She mustn't! It's not fair. tick tock. I never could have! I don't want t o ! Why is she looking at me that beastly way ? Oh. Clock. it's beginning. Aren't you. I can't stand that. I'm so hungry. ROBIN (flinchingly). Oh. . I'm not afraid! CLOCK. no ! . I like her better in her knows one's dreaming. what jolly legs she has—Oh. tock. do shut u p ! What nasty things she wears 49 D . look here. There. What is it now ? That's a servant. Oh Lord. Only please don't trouble. . Oh. I'm touching her! I never have. I won't look. anything. . . . Mirror. one wakes up. please don't! I'll believe in you . oh.) There's Lily Cavendish. there. then at the MIRROR. oh don't! {much more frightened) Oh.) CLOCK (menacingly). Tick tock. . Tick. tick tock.) Oh really—she's quite undressed ! She's looking at the door. (He shuts his eyes. She's taking off her stockings . Mirror. Oh. Oh. (Looks at the CLOCK. don't you ? Tick tock. Chair—I don't believe in you. Tick tock. . she's not going to undress too! Oh. the stupid. Always. (violently) You things—Mirror. Thank God that's gone. aren't you ? ROBIN. tick tock. . which has not moved. Only trust in me. you've never seen her undress. (Pictures come in the face of the MIRROR. I do—I'll do anything you like ! Only don't! MIRROR (soothingly).

) ROBIN. Oh. Here. I do hate pink bows. (ROBIN is now standing. the Things whisper among themselves. How ugly women are! All floppy and bulgy and soft.underneath . very silly. I swear I'll never marry one.) MIRROR. But he's not man yet. . Not breast and belly. they can't b e ! Oh. . When he sees women passing by. There. A woman again. He winces as the mirror pictures begin again. H e only thinks of face and hand. it makes me sick. It's a spider. Mirror. do stop ! I will shut my eyes! CLOCK. his hands against the wall. .) ROBIN. I won't! . . hip and thigh. if I don't look he gets closer! It's not so unfair—not quite so unfair—looking at this though. Mirror. . . Oh. . Don't women do anything but undress ? . oh. She has got ugly feet. don't let them ! Oh. ! (Comes a little nearer. H e knows pure beauty. only boy! CHAIR. he's tough. . Not more undressing! No. I thought they would have been enough —My pictures—but he's tough. Tick tock. . stop it—it makes me feel so uncomfortable—oh. how beastly—is that what they do! Oh. Or is it that the passage is so long ? It's a hairy spider. . . The filthy beasts! Oh. . she's passed. pink dirty bows. tick tock . Why on earth is she doing t h a t ! No. One mustn't trust what women say. Besides he doesn't understand. Coming towards one.) I t was quite a little spider. Oh. . But suited to the fourteen years. . oh. More pictures ! You must move his fears. it moves very quickly. I won't have i t ! I won't. there's a man coming in. Mirror. His mother was quite wrong to-day. it's Mother! (He shudders down on to the floor. with legs. Now she has pretty clothes. Isn't she excited ! . but it grows. . only silly . Why need there be women at all? I t would be such a decent world without. I won't. . (More and more horrified. and he hasn't got any clothes on either! How can t h e y ! . knows pure joy. I couldn't 50 .

In. Oh. If it got out. leave him to me. of course. no. . trying to fend off something. in my wheels. Suppose you were to die of fright (A thing. It's at the edge. in my doors. with long arms reaching out ? Big eyes. speak out of rhythm just before striking). but now you know you can't. what you'd hear and touch and see ! ROBIN. it's got him! An arm round his body. Sucking you in. stop. I shall wake up in my bed. it will! I'm coming row. Up to his arms. Now it stops. Fool Mirror. that's i t . that couldn't be).tread on it. don't be so afraid ! It can't be real. I too. Oh.) Gone. His eyes! Oh. out of the light. take my share! 51 . oh. of course. Or in the room? MIRROR (a little menacing). no. Is it coming—is it coming— {he flattens against the wall). . Oh. Arrgh! Boy. it can. . Is it behind? . Oh Mirror. Oh. . stop. hurry. . N O . . green. stop! Give me the women. H e will be drowned. dear Robin. no.) CLOCK (suddenly. let him be drowned: the water to his neck. twining. Behind the glass. you're mine. H e can't climb those walls. and eat you. A glass that magnifies some things? A glass. quick. still! It's mask head. the pictures! The water is rising. mine. I've caught you up. it listens. . black . How can it see me ?. Then drops it. It's coming on. be drowned ! God. I'll crunch you and crush you. whirring under its breath. no. . In jerks. Oh. for ever there. . But it is. . No spider is as big as that. I shall wake up. one leg out! (he screams and throws one arm over his face. The last stroke! (He begins to strike eleven. These things. I would absorb you all at once. Oh. I'm getting measles. what's that in the water. You woke up before.) MIRROR. the heart of me. where you've looked. oh please! It's eating him! I'd rather be dirty than dead like that! Won't you ? {He is sobbing violently. Are you afraid ? Is your body crumbling already ? Arrgh. unless through a magnifying glass.

(The CLOCK advances at each stroke. there. there! (He jerks violently backwards three times. Mother. ROBIN ( forward a little from the wall). his arms up. The CLOCK over him strikes the eleventh time. there. N o ! I'm dreaming.) THE END. . N o ! (Screams) Mother. the MIRROR slithers forward. Mother!. the CHAIR leans towards them. T/ie third time his head hits against the wall with a great crack and he falls limply. You shan't get me—you can't touch m e ! I shall wake up—I'm waking. 52 . .

HERBERT READ PICARESQUE IMBS. H E cannot disentangle The genesis of any scope. Falling house-reek 53 . filling the leafless vales With felt sound. Its tinctures interblent in the haze Of autumnal moistures. Legs of caravanners. picnickers. A rocking bell Peals in a grey tower. Winged arms of walkers Are tented above the impious pools Of memory. His limbs Dangle Like marionettes' Over a mauve Sea. Outfanning from my feet like a ribbed shell. steam-boaters. L SONNET T H I S plain is a full arena for my eyes.

Along the roads Beech-boles evade the shuffling mists. EARLY ASTIR A R L Y . Yarrol! Yarrol! I cried exultingly: Passing dogs lifted wet noses And housemaidens the blinds of their gables. Bearing into vision like furled masts.Scatters against the fallow fields Or drifts into furry woods which break The sky like black buffaloes bent To assail the myriad-bellied clouds. Berries in hedges are splashes spilt In this massed conflict. early I walked in the city: The river ran its strength from misty valleys And the sun lit the wings of stone angels. E 54 .

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I.—has thrust me in the stale Sourish miasma of this padlocked barn. Empty. Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon's mouth. for the nonce. SELVER. .—behold me branded with All serfdom's brutish badges.—trudge and skirmish. and snores amid A splash of his pale vomit. in a faded mustard livery. Imbecile gabble. sacks. SHAKESPEARE. axes. . I muse upon My fellow men-at-arms. who. . Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard. . panoplied In suits of sorry fustian. Jealous in honour. fuss of protocols. pouches.—now recline Across this touzelled grabatus. Half-bravo and half-convict . hunched with cargoes of Oddest impedimenta. sweat and fume 55 B . I shall dally with a blunderbuss The while some simian-visaged corporal Bloodily gibes at me . who in Headlong abandon sleeps off nocturnal surfeit Of swipes and jellied eels. Cowed by a quondam footpad's h-less rant. . . weighted down Like dromedaries.—canisters. R A M A R B A S with mock-awesome rites and pomps.PAUL SELVER MEDITATIONS IN A GUARD-ROOM Then a soldier. And pug-dog scowls. muskets. with head Shorn. until My turnkey's next behest. save for a blotchy oaf. prancing musketeers. Valises. And semi-empty-bellied. . sudden and quick in quarrel. P. Stilettos. Brandish of bayonets. W. countershorn.

Scourged. From which are ladled out our daily draughts Of slimy potions. We. (For thither are we bound) Us chafes the yoke Of sluggard and of despot. Jews. Yorkshiremen.Beneath the swelter of the August sun Whose glint darts mockingly upon the tinsel Furbish of brassy gear. upon a myriad. We. evil twain Of oath-bound bosom henchmen. and yet. Maltese and Muscovites. a shortening tether's irk. Bewail our fateful lack of eld. The pangs of shackled freemen. pent in our shared squalor. The swiftly tapering gulley. Ticketed. lavished from a cornucopia Upon a score. harried With leers and threats. . O. whose false tunes Mar morning's early stillnesses! The troughs. in this open jail. gyveless bondsmen. still Grants an unwaning quota unto each. travail of Captives at large. we scuffle through a bout 56 . Fosters new brotherhoods . Of skulking rancours. the chill ache That curdles in the spirit at the rasp Of slumber-slaying trumpets. Which. And I rehearse In petto the bleak annals of these months. through whose gloom Our lives are hounded. numbered in a monstrous tally. whose raw sway Here hatches broods of hatreds and despairs. or yearn Even more speedily to set free foot Where with his giant pace death stalks abroad. pitched among A ravening herd that brawls and snarls! Our days Are garish dreams that haunt our nights. nauseously mingled with Flabby and lukewarm gobbets. and crave Distemper in the lazaret. willy-nilly. .

lest we wax Unfit to die as heroes. . sharp-nosed presbyter. And with Your iron-shod boots trample on faces. where W e laud our Maker's lovingkindness for So having fashioned us. when bevies of Beribboned.Of mad cotillions. . And we Muster each Sabbath morn. for polls uncropped to bare The scalp's crude cuticle. . Gouge entrails out. . pouting scrutineers swoop down Upon us jaunty starvelings. . whereupon W e bawl a brace of hymns. we strut in stiff quartettes To a low. and speed Your bullets into bowels and lungs . Prowess in maiming. . attest your gusto with Rut's husky bellow . while ministers More glibly prate in council-chambers. . all the motley antics Wherewith the paths of glory may in good time Be trod by humble heels. zinc-wrought tabernacle. Meekly we endure A peaky. So while The pyre more redly flares. For uncleansed napes. As arrant heathen. till They jelly to a shapeless pulp .—Jab the poniard deep. whom they scan For ill caparisons. who frets A t carnal lures. unscoured apparel. And from the lips Of domineering butchers we are taught The hired assassin's trade. not otherwise. . Hurl grenades. and straitly bids us shun Welters of lust that gird us. gloat! Revel in briny tang of blood .—Prying achieved. . . Gloat. while 57 . and drop a coin From our mean pittances into a wallet Alertly emptied by the man of God Whose benison dismisses us . deftness in slaughter. Remissness booked.

and rail In concert on our loathings. 58 . to hearten us.—and stirs Hobbledehoy lineaments that twitch in throes Of nascent discourse. For I am not the I Who from another age. So brief a span agone was hurled into The simmer of this limbo. for a witless Chop-licking rabble. while. while amid Fleet Street's rank purlieu-strongholds vats are crammed With oozing ordure. lest Christendom Wither and perish. Vintage of grape or barley. Now in our blunt argot Shall we exchange. and attain Septennial transformation within scarce The tale of weeks. —Haply the portent of a clarion-call To what hereafter may ensue. Stepsons and stepsons' stepsons of the Great Ensconse them in Whitehall. baled out thrice a day By them who thrive on stenches. while civic virtues prosper. But hark. while the pontiffs yell For gallons more of blood. My duress's co-inmate bates his snore. while the bygone season's Yield of our like grows sparser. In fine. that upon Our advent we may have due elbow-room. And terrify the foe. brothers-in-law and cousins.—our Sovran Lord Brooks not at his repasts.—like visiting-cards elsewhere. with the zest That comforts them who loathe the selfsame things . we Brood upon dour enigmas. Comptrollers of Bees'-wax and muffins. in his abodes. hark. . another planet.— Recitals of our several griefs.Nephews and bastards.

e got run i n . . " O wave-drenched shores of lonely. . " " . .. I soon ticked im orf. that's that. hee. . And Jobble says that Bibson's Dante's peer. . . . met her at a r a g ." " . . . eh. . . .. Botchell commands: " W a t c h Pimpington's career !"— Pimpington writes a book on Trodger's brain. " " . I seh. " " . my d e a r . . . .. . . . ... . .. " " . . . . . Swinburne's got no guts . on the t i l e s . . the stuff to give e m . how praieeless ." " . fair done him in the eye . . " " . . ." " . FOR SLOW MUSIC YES.—" What A r t ! " he cries. PERPETUUM MOBILE: A OR LESS PANTOUM. . .. " " . I ses . . " " . . Dubkin swears Botchell's odes will never wane. . can't paint for nuts . no more gin?." " ." " . let's ave a fag . . had a topping spree . . While Pagg is sure that Dubkin is a seer. . . . whiskey with a splash. " " ." " . you bet. . . h a w . .. " " . I seh. hee. . .NOCTURNE ". . . " " . . ... . " " . haw. h e e . . . hee. . how praiceless. dirt-cheap fer tventy b o b . " " . . . . . . While Pagg is sure that Dubkin is a seer. . distant isles. ." " . hee. . . . .. hee. " " . 59 P . . .. . " " . MORE I L K lauds the verse of Jobble to the skies. haw. . . haw. . . Bibson is great on Pagg. . . no bleeden fear. . . " " . . . ... . . . h a w . " " .. . . . . what a rotten s h o w . . s u r e s t thing you know. . . no bleeden I fear . I can't stand Whitman's t r i p e . ever heard this one ? ." " . . you op it quick. dirt-cheap fer tventy bob . " " . . .

And Trodger shrieks: " Glabb's genius stirs my soul!" Glabb raves of Cringely's rhymes with might and main.. And wrests all ores from earth's most jealous clasp In simmering cascades. Cringely pens Gummitt's name on glory's scroll. its poise Shall swerve. Then shall earth snap and split Unto her very sockets as the strength Of sinews clutching her aorta droops. spilling shreds Of coloured ferment.Pimpington writes a book on Trodger's brain. 60 AND . That day shall see no sunset. And as they sear The fabric of the wincing world. waxing at a pace That outspeeds time. . Cringely pens Gummitt's name on glory's scroll. And Gummitt sees in Sludd new worlds arise. From earth's clefts Livid and crimson gusts of fire shall dart With sudden havoc. Their myriad forking tongues Shall utter spells whose dreadful potency Smelts boulders wax-like to a crackling flux. Sludd bids us hear Pilk's mighty rhythms roll. Pilk lauds the verse of Jobble to the skies. its shape shall warp. Upon the seas Shall frenzied archipelagoes aflame Stampede like bergs of swimming sodium In luminous flotillas. MUSPILLI a day shall dawn Whereon this random-kindled dream shall wane.

reeling from its orbit With crumpled axis. keen-eyed watchers may perchance Against the dimness of their firmament Fleetingly glimpse. And in A hazard speck of time the puny world Shall pass for ever.And bares her glowing entrails. all earth's manifold travail Shall founder in a patch of flaky sparks That distant. the seas Shall yield their ancient secrets: but these things No eye shall live to gaze upon. 61 . Without a judgment-day. shrieking vapours to the affrighted stars. For when man perishes. . with him shall perish The god whom he created . All statutes. without ascension. Then vomit in a boundless nausea Dense. All desires. Beleaguered by this blinding holocaust. And this shall be the end. She shall suck The madly eddying oceans to her core. for man. all lore. Shall have returned unto his elements Before the elements in brutish throes Of final contest grapple and writhe. . Hissing in agonies of death.

I was hot from the warm gold of the East. a man who will be violent. This omission annoyed you. I had come miles to see you—down through that narrow valley of the sand-locked river. and the Times under the other. over the sea: that toy sea of the ancients. Cold. expected you in the doorway. and I remember wondering which book it was which you had lately read that had given you the " tip "—I think you said Welcome. in the train. when found. and lake-like stupidity of motion. secondly. And you sent down to greet me this young girl who searches—searches life—for firstly. Intensely cold. because you had told her to pity me. and the oblique glance under the lowered lids of the eyes. who was later to ask me to dine with her at her club because she thought me interesting—and. dark amber holder. I could not lift them up to a high-enough level. but that. up through this land of ours during the night.RAYMOND PIERPOINT THE RETURN H A D come back—miles—and you sent down to greet me a pale young woman (the sister of a man whom I had fought beside). with two hands outstretched. for an hour. but then you might. so that the first. your twisted smile. with artificial blueness. have left the knitting and newspaper upstairs. of course. where one changed. How like her brother she was: a subversive replica—the same laugh. I know I wanted to kiss your hands. logs piled high. as you had knitting under one arm. as she laughed when I told her of my waiting on the station. I think. for mental sensations which will excite. and back in the flinty coldness of this Northerly village I froze. 62 I . may be the more eluctable. and lastly. You had greeted me once before like that. I know. And you sent down this girl—I had come back to see you—why didn't you come down ? I had. The girl smoked cigarettes through a long.

that if I didn't hurry home I should be forgotten. sly man who leered with greasiness which evoked immediately scullerysinks and the swilling of pans. About mid-day you came downstairs from your room : on the way down you knew that I was waiting for you in the large hall by the fire. you told me he was a perfect fool. When you reached me and held out your hand I saw that the lapse of time had left you unchanged. you were that). practically untouched. who smoked cigarettes through a long amber tube. this was apparent. and you thought of what to say first. and that you were going through the normal process of meeting a guest. The new man was your husband's man. This time I could see that obeisance over the proffered hand was not expected. I 63 . but the grin was the same. unashamedly claiming surrender from the earth. you with that slight lean towards me. I with a stiff spine and head tilted back. he had been used to talk out of the corner of his mouth. too—no longer the quaint. As he collected my clothes for brushing. Perhaps a little reserved (yes. flaunting powerfully its heat. How cold it was ! I had been three years in the sun—the sun tumultuously splendid. that you were coming downstairs as you ever did. almost told you that it was because you had written to me saying. naked. Atop of these thoughts for me. You sat down on the fire-seat and I too. W e were not to get on any further with one another than we had ever been. whilst I ate my boiled eggs. you often wondered how I knew so much. You asked me what I was doing at " home. even more so when." I very nearly told you the truth. as was also the oblique look. At once our attitudes were struck. You once told me that you could trust yourself to travel round the world with me.This time you sent me down this pale-faced girl in her knitted jersey and tweed skirt. you also thought that you would not think of me at all. later. and flickerings from the biographies of the great tumbled through your mind as you searched for a formula of suitable greeting. There was a new butler.

to whom one would be a round not a flat. the road. brazenly battening the decent stiffness out of the earth. viscous. They were good but you didn't know it. before whom one would stand nude. and that sea by boat. the friends to whom one could be really true. After luncheon we again sat over the fire. wound away for miles. Then you produced a boy's poems over which you rhapsodized. Miles of land by train. forgotten with the dropping of them into the house post-box. it had been pleasant for once to sprawl a heart 64 . Of course you meant that sentence when you wrote it in your letter to me. without gesture. climbing the countryside. Grey birds took my thoughts with them. under a rainwashed sky." This was after I had said that 1 had been sent home. Then you suddenly told me the size of the pale girl's income. I decided that it was not enough—enough for what. the longed-for friends. One sentence and a packet of well-told lies had landed me beside your fire. full of puddles of grey glassiness. towards evening.—burnt paper fluttering past a white silk screen. There was no future—a blue haze of shadowy hopes and unresolved desires cannot be called a future. written in a hurry." you said within the first minutes of our reunion. the bare boughs of the stark trees moaned their keen sadness. you never really knew. Flocks of crows speckled the sky. I wanted to write a poem about friends. the sphinx. I walked through the wild air. " What are you going to do now ?" you asked. and your words on the paper. the sand. That is why I kept my manuscripts up in my room.would have made you see that wild sun. Your husband had loomed and gone off with the pale girl into the wood. I was not quite sure about. flying. But I said that I should go back to the sun. clouds flying. You said that you were sure it would be better so. locked away. The future was indeterminate. One sentence— " You should have stayed over the winter. " This climate. mutable.

a snow-capped hill. at your request. just after you had all gone to bed. and on his left hand the pale girl with the named income. Lady Decima and I. After all. A black bulk topped with white hair. I wanted to say that it was the sentence that sat me by your fireplace. The lie grew. I sat on your right: you were at one end of the table with the husband the other. I ought to have known. As the courses followed one another she became the "life and soul of the party. pusillanimity—he told me a Rabelaisian tale. about a secret agent. The lie piled up. to sit over a fire and read another man's poems. painted. . But it would have flattered you too much. diffident one of the other. 65 E . and she had therefore become a victim of cerebral onanism. Blown sea spume before a gale. and you would so have swallowed it. but it was the sentence in your letter which created the awareness of the nausea. On the right hand of your spouse sat Lady Decima. Sea that can engulf a thousand ships without alteration of level. it was mostly nausea which drove me to travel those miles home . cool coloured discords strayed in through the open door. We drank champagne. . Your husband and I were left alone for about a quarter of an hour. mostly witty . The others were listening to the pale girl playing Debussy. to whom you seldom gave a kind word. When I returned from my walk Lady Decima had arrived. Over the dinner-table it grew larger. The sea running out over a long beach of wet sand. How 1 wish I had got drunk and then had wept in your lap as we sat over coffee in the library. So I had lied to get to you. the sea a million little receding waves quarrelling . the rest of you cider. she asked me what I was doing.across a sheet of paper." She told endless tales. On your left sat your daughter. Loquacious. Next to me was the French governess who had lost her lover during the war. but were always perfectly reasonable. and you knitted and smiled. . Afterwards you had forgotten— fluctuating modality. staccato phrases. .

trimmed. 66 . Bleak towers of granite closed their ranks. spluttered—died.A t the end of my visit we were to go to London together. on the way to my rooms.—as your husband was remaining behind to shoot. forming a solid phalanx. would I mind if we travelled together. He was living in your Town house. Now—the lie flamed. W e three had travelled in a railway carriage together. We three had formed a trio before. This I had learned earlier. until I received that sentence. was not concerned— never was. I. swiftly. and you two had shared a rug. H e had been sure and firm. only his name had not imaged a human being to me. A wire was sent to some person in Town to meet us on our arrival at the terminus. In the cab. This assurance I gave you. you and I . It was then that the pale girl asked me out to dine with her. this man who had met us came out of the field of memory to me. there he was. at some time previous to my going East—he was better-looking now. where you were dropping me. H e was there on our reaching King's Cross. A few days later you wrote asking me to assure you that you had not failed me. I remember that between you the flow was placid. Now. tittivated. at that time. implacably onward. you were passing through on your way to somewhere.

. . . had not taken the body And touched anew the fibres of its flesh To that more exquisite tune: You'd say. 67 . . And fall on discourse of them. . Aye. . and a scribble of smoke Grows faint across it from some long-sped vessel. Streaks its plane. . A N D if some hard unlovely woman Acrid and stern of lip Should suddenly wake to melody. in recall Of that momentary likeness. ever more lucent and dim. With brown and faded photographs of all the dear forgotten dead. . . And lo! there comes a noon When blue sky glows and all the waves are still And pale fair azure. and the bright toy ships move on With a senseless joy of red paint over the sea.) . . .— When a ghost of moon's in the air. . or be caught In such strange graciousness of mood. . " And then you'd look Into old musty albums by the fire. dead grey. Some sweet dead woman. such strange graciousness of mood As would set you wondering if some ancestor. " Ah ! She's like one that's dead ! . . maybe. (As when in the winter season Wind cuts the sea in desolate hunks. .B E N J A M I N G I L B E R T BROOKS AND IF SOME HAED UNLOVELY WOMAN .

Or perchance There'd be no soul living could speak of her. The poor dead thing. I go Against the fluttering foe As one Ambushed to spy the cloud-wet way of the sun. were all Their immortality! . on the wind-swept borders that fend his kind. But yet. In hopes that when a shout Raises the birds of thought (The chattering horde That wheels about Above the mist-clogged marsh. Moulding the living flesh like a mood. the reeds mud-caked and brown) With luck. . seeking his selfformed ends In the fastnesses of mind Wandering to and forth. I DRAW INTO MYSELF D R A W into myself. . I prowl abroad With shot and fowling-gun. None of my friends Respond. How if these vagrant glimpses of our dead. Hid in the rushes. I am grown to be one. And men would say : " Oh! An effect of light and shade!" And smile it off. I may bring down— One! 68 I .

is profoundly religious and symbolical. H e enjoyed walking: it was a process which encouraged in him a kind of contemplation that came delightfully near to blankness. At the moment he was chiefly preoccupied by the telegraph poles. Denis could cover long miles in perfect happiness. observing the dusty faces of wayside flowers. his pockets bursting with tobacco. occupied not with judgments. Even the telegraph wires affirm the glory of God to those who have eyes to see and ears to hear. counting the telegraph wires. through which slow clouds floated and disappeared. But all the time. Each one punctually crossed itself three times. And the wires hummed nasally. such as : What would have been the effect on the rhythms of poetry and music if man had been created with three legs ? What can the derivation of " caterpillar " be ? What does it feel like to be a Great Man ? Ruminating thus. How pleasant it was to go striding along on automatic legs. he was 69 D .ALDOUS HUXLEY A COUNTRY W A L K E N I S had made an expedition into the local metropolis and was now returning. looking at the shadows on the trees. I t was six miles from Crome to the market town. unactual nature. His mind. I t was a portent. In hoc signo vinces. the woolliest and most vaporous of thoughts. but Denis had chosen to go on foot. was like a quiet transparent sky. as he walked. in the midst of his reflections. For a mile along the straight level road he could see them receding and receding. old books. tooth-powder. like a priest intoning. Denis reflected. The world. and the other spoils of a day's shopping. but the merest constatations of fact. Or if he did think it was in a leisurely fashion and on subjects of a purely speculative.

clatter.conscious of a disturbing influence. as a gallant man. the act. Rowley. Rowley entered. sympathy. They entered into conversation. Then it was that fate undid his boot-lace. By the time he was on his feet again. would be a sign of weakness on his part. and he speedily gave up his efforts to force one. or rather Mrs. " It's hot work pushing this here pram. he had to kneel down and do it up. Rowley. and resumed his march. for as she was almost totally deaf there could be no entrance. as soon as he got beyond the noise of the town. a remorse." Mrs. Mrs. he had been overtaken. But it was no good. negation. and it was only necessary for Denis to punctuate the incessant stream of words with a few appropriate nods and becks expressive of assent. resolving itself into an ancient perambulator. and a curiously assorted pair. but the noise was always there. or disgust. he felt. I t was like a guilty conscience. Denis tried at first not to notice the viperous thong whipping round his ankles. Mrs. that a certain curious jingling and rattling sound was pursuing him along the road. and Denis had been wondering. The clattering had come abreast with him. with a face that looked as though it had been casually fashioned with a thumb and forefinger. 70 . a little embarrassed. Denis found. and the clay daubed afterwards with an equally casual smear of low comedy red. a kettle tied to his tail. I t obviously was. H e quickened his pace. a guardian fiend. clink. ever since she first forged up alongside. from his side. a victory for the mysterious powers of evil. in the end. Mrs. whether he ought. the mother of the odd-job boy at the farm at Crome. two miles. they must have looked— he with his swaying elongation of form and air of melancholy distinction. three—the noise was still there. Denis thought. however. could talk enough for two. Rowley bolt upright and jerky in her rusty black clothes. Rowley began. One mile. overflowing with parcels and propelled by a person whom he recognised as Mrs. at his heels. Denis obstinately refused to look round to see what was chasing him . Rowley and he were walking abreast now . Denis nodded to her. clatter.just behind. H e had noticed.

and had written only a week ago saying how much he wished he were home again. Alice was in service and had been so homesick in her first place that she had had to leave and come back to Crome for a spell. and here Denis rather lost count. Rowley. H e only remembered that one of them was called Ernest and that all of them had had scarlet fever. but still. had had two children. the bike was clearly out of the question. " Doctor says as how I ought to have a bike and go for rides on it. Harry—everybody knew Harry. Bob worked on the railway . he really couldn't push it. but the other was all right and had weathered the measles. who did the odd jobs at Mr. " There's a lot of them. " and a deal of trouble they've been. with saying: " Yes. I been here twenty-four years this year. Not so bad as economic positions go among the families of agricultural labourers . but they want the money all at once. 71 . and let her have twelve bob a week out of his wages for housekeeping. Mrs. Two pound thirteen and six all at once—it couldn't be done. I can tell you. But he didn't." went on Mrs. he says." Damn it all. After that came the little ones. one of them overlaid at three weeks old. And now-with the war and all it's very hard. Riding on a bike's the best way. he was getting good wages before the war and conscription came. Now he was in offer to push the thing. Rowley concluded. You ought to get air into them. he says. That was asking too much. I don't see as how I shall be able to get a bike. My lungs is rotten." Mrs. Kate was married. so as to get air into my lungs." With a growing sense of discomfort Denis listened to the details of the Rowley family's economic position. I see one there to-day for two pound thirteen and six. however. More than ever Denis felt that he ought to offer to push that hideous pram. It's a lot to pay out all at once. Denis heard the fullest history of every member of it. H e was a good boy. Wimbush's farm. Rowley. very hot. The Rowley family was a large one. " I t takes me the whole day to get into town and back. H e contented himself.

and steering the perambulator into a gateway. He lit a cigarette. " Funny. very funny. or I wouldn't have taken a labourer. I'd never have known this place at all if I hadn't been deaf." This was the last straw. wrapped in newspaper. She should have been the heroine of a Lyrical Ballad—Goody Rowley. and Denis nodded. he did. feeling that it would be impolite. My father was a farmer down Newbury way. " I don't like this war bread much. " Have some ?" she offered. symbolised by that antique. " It's pleasanter outside these days. Denis declined. isn't it ?" Mrs. " Nor do I. Rowley turned her scarecrow face in his direction." Denis agreed. dusty perambulator waiting there. Ought he to have offered one to his companion ? Mrs. by the roadside. full of a gay resignation in spite of all the troubles of a painful life. " You can't say what it's made of. hospitably. whose name would rhyme with holy as providentially as that of Betty Foy with her Idiot Boy and his outbursts of slobbering joy. " I often brings my food into the fields and eats it there. containing several pieces of slightly soiled bread." Denis looked at her curiously. Rowley began eating with an appetite. I got abscesses when I was a girl. If 1 hadn't been so deaf I'd never have married a poor labourer like Rowley. Funny.but I don't come from these parts. " I'm going to take a rest. Mrs. Farmed two hundred acres. Wordsworth would have made something great out of this deaf and faintly insane scarecrow of a woman sitting down with her grey bread among the daisies. But at this moment Mrs. burdened. he was determined to push the pram now." said Mrs. Rowley produced from somewhere about her person a packet." she said. to walk on alone. can you ? And you got to 72 . Rowley halted. he reflected. A very Wordsworthian figure. though he longed to take the opportunity. repeating. Denis followed suit. Rowley." she said. on the score that he was smoking. she plumped heavily down into the grass at the roadside.

stunted and yet pitifully alive. from which Denis made haste to avert his eyes. Rowley opened her mouth in a blackened horse-like grin. His thoughts were becoming altogether too cosmic. A frightful memento mori. in spite of stink and worm-eaten flesh and all the inconceivable cruelties of unconquered nature. I'm afraid. did not purge the soul. in moving bits of matter from one place to another. Rowley's smile was almost a disproof of the existence of God. and a tragedy that. Mrs. when all is said. And yet. At all costs one should live terre-a-terre. But I don't want to have them all pulled out. those plague-ridden folk. sang their love-songs. And they believed. but rather left it swollen with a black venom of despair and anger. fantastic thing. believed in a providence that concerned itself directly in human affairs. Mrs. But I had very much rather sit still and read. twisted. more precious than rubies. the age of disease. The laden perambulator mounted it slowly but triumphantly. snipping roots. Disease—that was your real tragedy. Denis checked himself. I finds it hard for my teeth. paring twigs and buds. all at once like that. rang their bells. I had as soon push this perambulator. All the same. as win the battle of Waterloo. the agues and mortal sweats." Mrs. till he had made what should have been a tree into a wizened. They must have seen in their god a kind of Japanese gardener. thought Denis. danced and laughed in spite of all the buboes and mormals. Cling to that wisdom. Rowley pushed from behind. The proper study of mankind is books. The main street of the village of Crome climbs straight up a singularly precipitous hill.get it stale now. carved their Gothic philosophy into a million intricacies. They built their cathedrals. Doctor says I ought to have all my teeth pulled out and new ones put in. should also have been the age of faith. 73 . Incredible that the Middle Ages. Denis pulled. they're very bad. my teeth. All human action consists. they were happy enough. Look here.

Time is suspended as a swaying bridge Over the drowning waters hurrying beneath.IRIS TREE SUSPENSE O U T S I D E the rain is falling in long folds Straight and austere as carven drapery. Seems an unreal refuge. And that my dust is pregnant with a seed. Fate is suspended hiding in an omen Behind our laughter. Borrowing pauses from the everlasting To shield me now against all mortal laws. This lighted room surrounded by the rain A roaring darkness vast and shadowy. No voice but in the rain's inaudible whisperings. a gold trap Set for the trysts of fatal consequence. I wait my judgment here. and wait in vain. sinister Like a house haunted by the future. The noise of many centuries within its sound Makes it immortal as the silence—and I feel Walled in this brittle shell of fleeting hours As though eternity were gathering round With withering breath to blow my dust away. falling unawares While we are weak and laugh because we fear. 74 . The long night stands between my destinies Conspiring with me against time and fate.

too. ' And shall we drink together ?' The echoes still come back Thinly from many mirrors. Only the buried will return. I. indifferent eyes. loved here. I.— One shadow leading forward Raising his hat and beckoning me. . Where all wheels drone and slacken. return. as before I smile and raise my glass. The looking-glasses smeared with smoke Slashed with low gleams of light— Eyes turned uneasily toward the door. E 75 . died within me. This is a graveyard. the dark. The disappointed and still hopeful eyes No newcomer will fold them Secretively upon some psychic recognition. Now surges in the mesmeratic pause. A monotone of voices gliding through Vibrating on the senses. She leading me by memories.CAFE ROYAL N T E R I N G here a sham playfellow To one who in the first flush of vanity Lived. warm smell. Slanting obliquely down into my heart Through some neglected window left unshuttered. thought is stilled . was buried here.— Now with my younger ghost returning. Probing my sentiments with wistful touches With perfumes long grown stale. . too. The plush. And my new self parading Before these shadows spreading out my tail Of bright.

passed him singing. Before that the homely decencies of the small shopkeepers had entertained him. and on either side of the road. girt with a silver rain of falling spears. or piled with dusty sacks. and he ate some small scraps of meat and bread in the shadow of an ancient. lustrous. and God had broken into infinite atoms the elaborate hell of that Egypt out of which H e had called His Son . . dark-green ilex. between the tall and glimmering poplars. Thuribius. Now. and great painted wagons. Oxen passed him. with moon-broad horns and brimming. through whose delicate fronds danced the cold. the grey mist slowly dissolving from the face of the meadows. and tasted at supper of the holy humilities of the very poor.' The morning broadened. all alone. He had slept the night before under a haystack. rejoicing the heart of the Pilgrim. beside a fountain that was all overgrown with maidenhair. in the midst of which sat the blinking miller. their skins white or fawncolour . The brown countrymen. often wreathed with flowers. Also he saw 76 . ' The regal Virgin standing in the East. he trod the Royal Road of the Holy Cross towards the tall and castellate city that is called by the troubadour. and they gave him Good-morning. with his eyes now turned towards Moncontour. rustling. and the birds began to pipe from thicket and copse. scarlet and blue and yellow. beheld the long silver streaks lengthening in the E a s t . laden with fragrant hay. black water. elegantly shambling. who keep hanging in their parlours eikons of Matthew and Zacchæus. Sylvester de Leriis. Dew dripped on everything. .W I L F R E D ROWLAND CHILDE THE VISION IN THE WAY T H E 'modern world' had passed in flame. agate eyes. like those thorns whose crackling is compared to the laughter of fools.

Suddenly he caught his breath: at a turn of the road. . even as the oil 77 . as Jesus Christ had commanded. and all the swift and sacred innocence of the pictures a child sees when it first peeps into a painted book of hours. very small and distinct. dotted with white and scarlet sails. A single white dove separated itself from that wheeling flock. the boys in white and gold . and he saw it. Moncontour had all the august simplicity of Holy Church. leaning on his stick. . When he came nearer to the city the crowds increased. for by now his left foot pained him." As he looked upon the whiteness of the bridal city and the virgin beauty of exalted Moncontour. delicately washed in the young mist and sheer above the rich and vivid sapphire of the sea. but all walking as they say Madonna walked when she went to the well. whose daughter she is. and Thuribius was forced to go slowly. H e remembered also his God and. ave Maria !—Hail Mary. I t seemed to the returning Wanderer like an emblem of his own errant and repentant soul.. all silver. some very beautiful.. cling with flutterings to the golden cross above the fleche of the tallest of those churches. Who is Lord of the world to come.. et vide. Virgin and tall. et visita vineam istam. he cried in his heart with the Psalmist: Deus virtutum convertere: respice de coelo. and women. some old and wrinkled. " and as he prayed he saw a flight of white doves detach itself from one of the rosy belfries and float daringly over the silver roofs . down to the skirts of its garment. Thuribius knelt upon the grass and prayed to the Lady Who loves the city as one of Her chiefest jewels: " Ave. The oil of joy flowed over the soul of Thuribius. with vanes and high roofs. precipitous belfries and aery embattled towers. and he heard the faint and remote noise of a multitude of tender bells.many children : the girls clad in pink and pale blue. the sacred City stood up into the morning. full of grace ! . the plaintive pricking of whose multitudinous sweetness brought tears into his tired eyes. he prayed. between a dark ilex and a small rose-washed chapel. . using the words " Pater Noster Qui es in Caelis. from afar off.

who beheld the solemn stepping of the Camels of the Magi. Crowned. held out towards the kneeling crowds with the other an alabaster lily. in white raiment. 78 . His Garments dyed scarlet in the winepress of Bozra. that went twisting and climbing up. to whom the Lord of Incarnate Love. the Lord mighty in battle. revealed the flaming Paradise of His Sacred H e a r t . Angela of Foligno to whom the Holy Spirit showed in a vision the goodness of His Creation. past churches and convents. The Lord had them in derision: H e had delivered His darling from the power of the dog: H e that sat above the water-floods had laughed them to scorn. the Mother. even the Lord strong and mighty. H e did not fear his foes any more: they were confounded and sent backward. lifting into the spotless blue the silver of its pinnacles and the sun-smitten fire of its vanes. and he remembered certain Virgins who had seen into the secret Treasuries of God. schools and palaces. .once flowed down the beard of Aaron. and the roses which Our Lady received from Saint Anne. nursing in one arm Her Child. The dream of the undying Faith entered into his brain with the vision of those towering churches. The Cathedral was covered with carven Saints. to the edges of the mantle of the High Priest. but in the middle of the market-square. those that sought after his soul. After a time he went up with the crowd along the narrow winding way into the streets of the sacred City. he heard the melody and murmur of her bells. which whoso could touch with his lips became immediately healed from all temptations and infirmities. on a tall and slender white pillar. and that Margaret-Mary. resembling a fountain of mystical lace flung forth from the secret deep. pilgrims crowded round it on their knees. Multitudo sonitus aquarum: vocem dederunt nubes. . never to leave it any more. For a long time he stared and stared at the silver city and the sapphire sea: he saw the very banners flapping from her balconies. stood the miraculous Image of Our Lady of Moncontour. and AnneCatherine Emmerich. into the lofty square over which soared the Cathedral of the Precious Blood. his forehead was bathed in a pure and cool wind.

et germina mea argento electo . quia per te ad nihilum redegit inimicos nostras . Melior est enim fructus meus auro. Mecum sunt divitiae. . . pulchra ut luna. under Her Title of " Perpetual Succour". et lapide pretioso. et gloria.That day was a Feast of Our Lady. . . . and in the Cathedral Thuribius heard these words pronounced: " Tota formosa et suavis es. Ego diligentes me diligo: et qui mane vigilant ad me. . electa ut Sol. . alleluia. Ave Maria gratia plena : Dominus tecum: benedicta tu in mulieribus. . invenient m e . opes superbae. Alleluia. Alleluia. Benedixit te Dominus in virtute sua. terribilis ut castrorum acies ordinata ." 79 . et justitia. filia Sion.

net. ANTON TCHEHOV The Schoolmistress By CONSTANCE GARNETT. 6s. 8vo. LANE. Translations from the Russian of ALEXANDER BLOK The Twelve By C. Chatto and Windus publish this autumn o r i g i n a l w o r k s by W. 3s. 9 of the collected edition of the Stories. 7s. Large post 8vo. Fcap. MARTIN'S L O N D O N : STRANGEWAYS. BECHHOFER & illustrated by MICHAEL LARIONOV. net. net. net. 8vo. Vol. 4to. net. E.Messrs. 2. P. 6d. 6d. N. MARJORIE STRACHEY Savitri & Other Women Narrow Cr. 6s. . Pott 8vo. BASIL CREIGHTON The Amorous Cheat Cr. net. 6s. 8vo. W. 5s. W I L F R E D Poems O W E N Small With a Preface by S I E G F R I E D SASSOON. PRINTERS. 97 & 99 ST. C. B A R B E L L I O N A Last Diary Cr.


5.COTERIE N o . AUTUMN.a .Crown The Bomb Shop Hendersons 66 Charing Cross Road London . 1920 Half.

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