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If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Out of the Flame - -Author: Osbert Sitwell - -Release Date: February 11, 2020 [EBook #61369] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OUT OF THE FLAME *** - - - - -Produced by Al Haines - - - - - - - - - OUT OF THE FLAME - - - - _BY THE SAME AUTHOR_ - - TWENTIETH-CENTURY HARLEQUINADE - In collaboration with Edith Sitwell - (BLACKWELL, Oxford) - - THE WINSTONBURG LINE - Political Satires - (HENDERSON, Charing Cross Road) - - COCK-ROBIN - - - _IN PREPARATION_ - - A BOOK OF CHARACTERS - Short Stories and Sketches - - DISCURSIONS - Essays on Travel, Art and Life - - - - -[Frontispiece: _The Author_ _from the sculpture by Frank Dobson_] - - - - - OUT OF THE FLAME - - BY - - OSBERT SITWELL - - - - LONDON - GRANT RICHARDS LTD. - 1923 - - - - - Printed in Great Britain at - _The Mayflower Press, Plymouth._ - William Brendon & Son, Ltd. - - - - - CONTENTS - - BOOK I - - OUT OF THE FLAME - - Two Mexican Pieces-- - I. Song - II. Maxixe - - Out of the Flame - - Two Dances-- - I. Country Dance - II. Fox Trot--When Solomon met the Queen of Sheba - - Two Garden Pieces-- - I. Neptune in Chains - II. Fountains - - Parade - - English Gothic - - The Backward Child - - Nursery Rhyme--The Rocking-Horse - - Two Mythological Poems-- - I. The Jealous Goddess - II. Bacchanalia - - - BOOK II - - SING PRAISES - - Explanation--Subtlety of the Serpent - - De Luxe - - Mrs. Freudenthal Consults the Witch of Endor - - Night Thoughts - - The War-horse Chants - - A Touch of Nature - - Youth at the Prow, and Pleasure at the Helm - - The Manner - - The Open Door - - Introducing - - Malgré Soi - - Paradise Regained - - Five Portraits and a Group-- - I. The General's Wife Refuses - II. Aux Bords de la Mer - III. Giardino Pubblico - IV. Ultimate Judgment - V. An Old-Fashioned Sportsman - Group: English Tea-rooms - - Sunday Afternoon - - Corpse Day - - - -My thanks are due to the Editors of _The Nation_, _The Spectator_, -_The Weekly Westminster_, _The English Review_, _Art and Letters_, -_Form_, _The Dial_, and _Poetry_ (Chicago), for permission to reprint -certain of the poems appearing in this volume. - - - - - BOOK I - - OUT OF THE FLAME - - - - - TWO MEXICAN PIECES - - I. SONG - - "Ah! Que bonitos - Son los enanos, - Los chiquititos, - Y Mezicanos." - _Old Mexican Song._ - - - How jolly are the dwarfs, the little ones, the Mexicans - Hidden by the singing of wind through sugar-cane, - Out comes the pretty one, - Out comes the ugly one, - Out comes the dwarf with the wicked smile and thin. - - The little women caper and simper and flutter fans, - The little men laugh, stamp, strut and stamp again, - Dance to the bag-pipe drone, - Of insect semitone, - Swelling from ground slashed with light like zebra skin. - - The little Cardinal, the humming-bird, whose feathers flare - Like flame across the valley of volcanic stone, - Fiery arrow from a rainbow - That the armoured plants have slain, low - Stoops to watch the dwarfs as they dance out of sight. - - Hair, long and black as jet, is floating yet on amber air - Honey-shaded by the shadow of Popacatapetl's cone, - Their fluttering reboses - Like purple-petal'd roses - Fall through tropic din with a clatter of light. - - The crooked dwarf now ripples the strings of a mandoline, - His floating voice has wings that brush us like a butterfly; - Music fills the mountains - With a riot of fountains - That spray back on the hot plain like a waterfall. - - Smaller grow the dwarfs, singing "I'll bring shoes of satin," - Smaller they grow, fade to golden motes, then die. - Where is the pretty one, - Where is the ugly one, - Where is that tongue of flame, the little Cardinal? - - - - - II. MAXIXE - - "Los enanitos - Se enajaren." - _Old Mexican Song._ - - - The Mexican dwarfs can dance for miles - Stamping their feet and scattering smiles, - Till the loud hills laugh and laugh again - At the dancing dwarfs in the golden plain, - Till the bamboos sing as the dwarfs dance by, - Kicking their feet at a jagged sky, - That torn by leaves and gashed by hills - Rocks to the rhythm the hot sun shrills; - The bubble sun stretches shadows that pass - To noiseless jumping-jacks of glass, - So long and thin, so silent and opaque, - That the lions shake their orange manes, and quake; - And a shadow that leaps over Popacatapetl - Terrifies the tigers as they settle - Cat-like limbs, cut with golden bars, - Under bowers of flowers that shimmer like stars. - Buzzing of insects flutters above, - Shaking the rich trees' treasure-trove - Till the fruit rushes down like a comet, whose tail - Thrashes the night with its golden flail, - The fruit hisses down with a plump from its tree - Like the singing of a rainbow as it dips into the sea. - Loud red trumpets of great blossoms blare - Triumphantly like heralds who blow a fanfare, - Till the humming-bird, bearing heaven on its wing, - Flies from the terrible blossoming, - And the humble honey-bee is frightened by the fine - Honey that is heavy like money and purple like wine, - While birds that flaunt their pinions like pennons - Shriek from their trees of oranges and lemons, - And the scent rises up in a cloud, to make - The hairy, swinging monkeys feel so weak - That they each throw down a bitten coconut or mango. - - * * * * * - - Up flames a flamingo over the fandango, - Glowing like a fire, and gleaming like a ruby. - From Guadalajara to Guadalupe - It flies--in flying drops a feather - ... And the snatching dwarfs stop dancing--and fight together. - - - - - OUT OF THE FLAME - - I - - From my high window, - From my high window in a southern city, - I peep through the slits of the shutters, - Whose steps of light - Span darkness like a ladder. - Throwing wide the shutters - I let the streets into the silent room - With sudden clatter; - Walk out upon the balcony - Whose curving irons are bent - Like bows about to shoot-- - Bows from which the mortal arrows - Cast from dark eyes, dark-lashed - And shadowed by mantillas, - Shall in the evening - Rain down upon men's hearts - Paraded here, in southern climes, - More openly. - But, at this early moment of the day, - The balconies are empty; - Only the sun, still drowsy-fingered, - Plucks, pizzicato, at the rails, - Draws out of them faint music - Of rain-washed air, - Or, when each bell lolls out its idiot tongue, - When Time lets drop his cruel scythe, - They sing in sympathy. - The sun, then, plucks these irons, - As far below, - That child - Draws his stick along the railings. - The sound of it brings my eye down to him.... - Oh heart, dry heart, - It is yourself again! - How nearly are we come together! - If, at this moment, - One long ribbon was unfurled - From me to him, - I should be shown - Above, in a straight line-- - A logical growth, - And yet, - I wave, but he will not look up; - I call, but he will not answer. - - - II - - From where I stand - The beauty of the early morning - Suffocates me; - It is as if fingers closed round my heart. - The light flows down the hills in rivulets, - So you could gather it up in the cup of your hands, - While pools, - The cold eyes of the gods, - Are cradled in those hollows. - Cool are the clouds, - Anchored in the heaven; - Green as ice are they, - To temper the heat in the valleys - With arches of violet shadow. - You can hear from the distant woods - The thud of the centaurs' hoofs - As they gallop down to drink, - Shatter the golden roofs - Of the trees, for swift as the wind - They gallop down to the brink - Of the waters that echo their laughter, - Cavernous as rolling of boulders down hills; - Lolling, they lap at the gurgling waters. - - * * * * * - - But nearer rises the sound, - Red, ragged as his comb, - Of a cock crowing; - A bird flies up to me at the window, - Leaping, like music, with regular rhythm, - Sinks down, then, to the city beneath. - - - III - - Below, the ants are hurrying down the footways, - Dressed, here, in bright colours. - Under their various intolerable burdens - They stagger along. - Stop to converse, move, wave their antennæ. - - * * * * * - - The fruit-seller is opening his stall, - Oranges are piled in minute pyramids, - While melons, green melons, - Swing from the roof in string cradles. - The butcher festoons his shop - With swags and gay wreaths of entrails; - Beautiful heads with horns, - Are nailed up, as on pagan altars, - (Though their ears are fresh from the hearing - Of Orpheus playing his lute). - - The Aguador arranges his glasses, - Out of which the sun will strike - His varying scales of crystal music - This afternoon, round the arena. - The Matador prepares for the fight, - Is, indeed, already in the Tavern, - Where later and refreshed with blood, - He will celebrate his triumph - Among the poignant kindling - Of stringéd instruments. - - * * * * * - - --But the child has run away crying; - I call--but no answer comes. - - - IV - - The chatter of the daylight grows - As I look upon the market-place, - Where there is a droning of bag-pipes, - And the hard, wooden music of the hills; - The housewife has left her cottage in the forest, - Driving here through the early tracks of the sun. - The beggars are already at their posts, - Their dry flesh peeps through their garments. - Their old ritual whining - Causes no show of pity. - Why should the hucksters, the busy people notice? - God himself has stood here, out at elbows, - Waiting patiently in the market-place, - While they chatter in gay booths. - But how I fear for them, - These who are not afraid! - I shout to them to make them understand. - They talk more, cease talking and look up, - They all look up, remain gaping. - - * * * * * - - I went back into the water-cool room, - Put on my coloured coat, my buskin, - And mask of Harlequin. - They see me, this time. - "Come on, come on," they cry, - "You are just in time. - There is fun down here in the market-place. - Two men have been run over, - And there's to be a public execution. - The gallows are nearly up. - --And after, in the evening, - We will go round the wineshops, - Strumming guitars, - While trills Dolores in her wide, red skirt. - Oh come on, come on!" - --But the paint from my mask runs down - And dyes my clothing. - - - V - - It is not thus in the Northern cities, - Where the cold breathes close to the window-pane, - Where the brittle flowers of the frost - Crackle at the window's edge. - From my window in the Northern city - I can hear the rattle and roar of the town, - As the carts go lumbering over the bridges, - As the men in dark clothes hurry over the bridges. - They do not parade their hearts here, - They bury them at their lives' beginning. - They must hurry, or they will be late for their work; - Their work is their bread. - Without bread, how can they work? - They have no time for pleasure, - Nor is work any pleasure to them. - Their faces are masked with weariness, - Drab with their working. - (Only the tramp who moves among them - Unnoticed, despised, - Has eyes that have seen). - They must work till the guns go again, - Giving them their only pretence to glory. - They have no time to fear, - No time to think of an end. - Foolishly I called to them on the bridges; - Only a few stopped, looked up - --But these were convulsed with fury. - Said one to another - "I have never seen a man - Behave like that before." - But most of them were mute, - And could not see. - - * * * * * - - Through the murkiness of the Northern dawn, - The gas already flares out - In the glass palaces, - Where to-night, weary and dulled with smoke and with drink, - They will seek, in a brief oblivion, - Laughter, and the mask of Ally Sloper. - - * * * * * - - Thus it is in the Northern cities, - Where the cold lies close to the window-pane, - Where the grass grows its little blades of steel - And the wind is armed with seven whips. - - - VI - - Happy is Orpheus as he plays, - The dumb beasts listen quietly, - The music strokes their downy ears, - Melts the fierce fire within. - - Only with music can you tame the beasts, - Break them of their grizzly feasts; - Only with music can you open eyes to wonder. - But if they will not hear? - The people have lost faith in music, - Few are there to call, and none to answer. - - * * * * * - - When the Prince kissed the Sleeping Beauty, - He broke the wicked spell of cobwebs; - She answered, opened her eyes. - - When Narcissus looked into the pool, - The cruel waters gave him their reply - --Even that was a better fate - Than to cry out in the lonely night - --And not to be answered. - - - VII - - From my high window in a Southern city, - Floating above the geometrical array - Of roofs, squares and interlacing streets, - One can see beyond - Into far valleys, - That seem at first - To be open blue flowers - Scattered here and there on the mountains. - The forests are so far away, - They creep like humble green moss - Over slopes that are mountains. - And there sounds other music - Than the falling streams, - Or the deep penetrating glow - Of sunlight piercing through green leaves. - - - VIII - - When Orpheus with his wind-swift fingers - Ripples the strings that gleam like rain, - The wheeling birds fly up and sing, - Hither, thither, echoing. - There is a crackling of dry twigs, - A sweeping of leaves along the ground. - Tawny faces and dumb eyes - Peer through the fluttering green screens, - That mask ferocious teeth and claws - Now tranquil. - As the music sighs upon the hills, - The young ones hear, - Come skipping, ambling, rolling down, - Their soft ears flapping as they run, - Their fleecy coats catching in the thickets, - Till they lie, listening, round his feet. - - * * * * * - - Unseen for centuries, - Fabulous creatures creep out of their caverns. - The unicorn - Prances down from his bed of leaves, - His milk-white muzzle still stained green - With the munching, crunching of mountain herbs. - The griffin usually so fierce, - Now tame and amiable again-- - Has covered the white bones in his secret cavern - With a rustling pall of dank, dead leaves, - While the Salamander--true lover of art-- - Flickers, and creeps out of the flame; - Gently now, and away he goes, - Kindles his proud and blazing track - Across the forest - --Lies listening, - Cools his fever in this flowing water. - - * * * * * - - When the housewife returns, - Carrying her basket, - She will not understand. - She misses nothing, - Has heard nothing in the woods. - She will only see - That the fire is dead, - The grate cold. - - * * * * * - - But the child left in the empty house - Saw the Salamandar in the flame, - Heard a strange wind, like music, in the forest, - And has gone out to look for it, - Alone. - - - - - TWO DANCES - - I. COUNTRY DANCE - - The Lion and the Unicorn - Dance now together, - There in the golden corn-- - For it is summer weather. - - The Lion, seen between the sheaves, - Is more strong than fair, - Yet he lets the singing thieves - Rustle through his tawny hair. - - As he treads, the red-gold grain - Curtsies and bows down; - The birds tear at his ruffled mane, - Stealing seed to feed Troy Town. - - For famine, in that fabled land, - Grows, as the years pass. - (Is it golden grain or sand - From a broken hour-glass?) - - Night comes; over azure ground - Roves an argent breeze: - The Unicorn can still be found - Trampling down the fleur-de-lys. - - Elegant and moon-white - As a ghost, the Unicorn - Dances for his own delight - Under the flowering thorn. - - While deep in the sleeping wood - The Lion breathes heavily, - Though every dove in each tree coo'd, - Yet would he sleep on wearily. - - * * * * * - - The Unicorn and Lion strong - Dance now together - (But surely they did no wrong-- - For it was the summer weather?) - - In among the red-gold grain, - Ankle-deep in the Lilies of France-- - And I, for one, could scarce refrain - From joining that heraldic dance. - - - - - II. FOX TROT - - WHEN SOLOMON MET THE QUEEN OF SHEBA - - The navy at Ezion-Geba - Gazed across the water amazed; - When Solomon met the Queen of Sheba - Lions in the desert were dazed - With wonder at her striped pavilion - That blazed like a new parhelion; - They roared their admiration - At this strange coruscation - Till the satyrs - Took their tawny children - Trampling through the sand - To march with the procession, to march with the band. - The flaming phoenix flew with its feathers to fan - The Queen at the head of her caravan; - But, the phoenix, though famously fabulous, - Was jealous, envious, and emulous - For the Queen of Sheba had a retinue - Strictly in keeping with her revenue-- - Six thousand camels and camelopards - Ten thousand and ninety nigger bodyguards. - The camelopards, proud-necked and tall - Would scarcely deign to notice the Queen at all, - But holding their heads as high as zebras - Looked down on a hundred dwarf, harnessed zebras - Bred for their stripes, with such success - That the Queen could play a game of chess - When travelling. The camels kneel - Offer their humps for the Queen to feel, - Nodding arched-necks and plumes of ostrich-feather, - Dyed like her bright Abyssinian weather. - The ten thousand niggers beat on gourds and golden gongs, - Slashing the air with their piebald songs. - - * * * * * - - Thus the Queen met the King of Jerusalem - And he - Seemed wiser - Than Methuselem, - With a great black beard, - And a nose like a scythe, - He lived in the palace, - And subsisted on a tithe! - He gave the Queen of Sheba a welcome; - Proportionate to her income; - But this amazing Amazon - Was lovable, generous and free. - She brought a gift to Solomon of cinnamon, - With an Almug and a Nutmeg tree-- - These he placed before his palace - For the pleased - Admiration - Of the populace. - Each sweet-smelling branch bore a budding bell of gold - (Oh! the blood of Israelites ran cold...) - When evening-wind blurred the hills with blue - The swinging and the singing of the bells sang true, - These by some magic stratagem - Played the Sheban National Anthem, - While the trill of each bell was like an Abyssinian bird, - Or the golden voice of the Queen--for each word - She spoke, trembled, sparkled in the air, - Then spread its wings, and flew from her. - But the Queen of Sheba went with Solomon - To his country house at Lebanon. - - She did not bring him any cedar trees - For these - Would have been de-trop. - Instead she brought him some Pekoe-trees - In a beautiful Chinese bowl - (For she had a very marked objection to - Endowing Newcastle with coal) - And she brought him gifts of hot-house grapes, - Of ivory, - Of ebony, - Of elephants and apes, - Of peacocks, of pearls, and a hundred pygmy slaves - With skins like an orange, and hair that waves, - And each of them wore a turban, - Picked out with the plumes of a pelican, - But of all her gifts, by far the rarest, - Brought from the terrible central forest, - With a vein of gold in its ivory horn, - Was a lovelorn - Milk-white unicorn; - But the King, though sweet as honey, - Had an eye for the value of money, - So he only gave her a heraldic lion - Embossed with the arms (and nose) of Zion. - - * * * * * - - Though the Queen of Sheba loved Solomon - She was not happy at Lebanon, - It was not the woman of the Edomites, - The Zidonians, - The Moabites, - The Hittites, - or the Ammonites! - She would even listen to his proverbs, she put up with - very many wrongs-- - But in secretly reading his notebook, she found Solomon's - "Song-of-Songs" - She knew it at once--it was poetry! And she left The - Palace that day, - But Solomon knew not where she went to nor why she had - roamed away! - But every evening in Jerusalem - The Almug and the Nutmeg trees - Flaunt the Sheban National Anthem - Like a banner on the spice-laden breeze. - And oh! each golden bell - Seemed a turtle-dove - That coo'd - Within the moonlit shadow - Of an Abyssinian wood.... - - * * * * * - - But we wonder what she looked like--this fascinating - phantasmagoria.... - Atalanta, Gioconda, Semiramis--or the late Queen Victoria? - - - - - TWO GARDEN PIECES - - I. NEPTUNE IN CHAINS - - Enslaved are the old Gods; - Pan pipes soundlessly - For the unheeding bees. - - Bound by the trailing tresses of the vine - To soft captivity, - Neptune has left his waves - To stand beneath the frozen, green cascades - Of summer trees. - - Is the Sea-God, then, content to rule - The rippling of wayward flowers, - Lulled by the songs that many birds pour out - From their green-cradles, gently-rocked - --Songs that foam like hissing rain - Among the heavy blossoms? - Can he control - The music of the wind through poplar trees, - --Those trees, an instrument - That any wind, however young - Or drunk with drowsing scent - Of petals, crushed by the flaming fingers of the sun - Can play upon? - - But darkness, the deliverer - Comes with dreams. - Night's grape-stained waves - Cool his aching body-- - The song of the nightingale - Falls round him - Like the froth of little waves; - The warm touch of the evening wind - Thaws the green cascades - Till you can hear - Every liquid sound within the world - --Fountains, falling waterfalls, - And the low murmur of the rolling sea - --And Neptune dreams that he is free. - - - - - II. FOUNTAINS - - Proud fountains, wave your plumes, - Spread out your phoenix-wing, - Let the tired trees rejoice - Beneath your blossoming - (Tired trees, you whisper low). - - High up, high up, above - These green and drooping sails, - A fluttering young wind - Hovers and dives--but fails - To steal a foaming feather. - - Sail, like a crystal ship, - Above your sea of glass; - Then, with your quickening touch, - Transmute the things that pass - (Come down, cool wind, come down). - - All humble things proclaim, - Within your magic net, - Their kinship to the Gods. - More strange and lovely yet - All lovely things become. - - Dead, sculptured stone assumes - The life from which it came; - The kingfisher is now - A moving tongue of flame, - A blue, live tongue of flame-- - - While birds, less proud of wing, - Crouch, in wind-ruffled shade, - Hide shyly, then pour out, - Their jealous serenade; - ... Close now your golden wings! - - - - - PARADE - - While vapour rises, the sun shines along - A promenade beneath tall trees. In vain - Seek thirsting flowers to thread their crystal song - Upon the liquid harpstrings of the rain. - - Sweet air is honey'd with the lulling sound - Of bees, gold-dusted. In the avenue - Each leaf is now a lens the sun has found - To focus light, and cast green shadow through - - Where walks Zenobia. Her marmoset - Perched on the shoulder, grabs at ribbon'd flowers - Or youthful curls of elders. Etiquette - Is outraged, and a dowager glowers. - - The Marmoset plays with Zenobia's curls, - Clutches the papillon's enamel'd sail; - Gesticulates with idiot hands; unfurls, - Then counts, the piebald rings upon his tail. - - Here flutter fan and feather to and fro - As eager birds caressing golden sheaves; - And like the spray of fountains, when winds blow - The froth of laughter foams among the leaves, - - Till music, thin as silver wire, uncoils - --Metallic trap to trip unwary players-- - A tune, ringed like the monkey's tail; but foils - Any attempt to straighten it--In layers - - The idlers pause to watch the stage, where leap - These masked buffoons to which the Old Gods sank. - Over her fan Zenobia may peep - At the lewd gestures of a mountebank. - - The silent lime-trees drip their golden scent; - Staccato shrills the puppet, waves a wand, - Postures, exaggerates a sentiment.... - The little ape, alone, may understand - - How men make Gods, and place them up above; - Then clamber up themselves to throw God down, - Dearly pay deities for former love; - We hold them captive, make them play the clown. - - Who knows but that, one day, men may be bound - Thus to make war or love for apeish laughter, - Until the world of gibbering monkeys round - Quiver with laughter at our ape-like slaughter? - - * * * * * - - Ends song and antic; players quit the stage - To the gloved silence of genteel applause, - Splutters El Capitan in Spanish rage, - Curses his money. Swathed in quiet, like gauze, - - The World is still, until a breeze sets free - Green leaves, with plucking sound of mandoline. - Convulsed the monkey capers--seems to see - The wind, that wingéd God and Harlequin. - - Who, flying down, sounds waters' silver strings - And brings soft music from far trembling towers, - Snatches a bird-bright feather for his wings - And flickers light on many secret flowers. - - - - - ENGLISH GOTHIC - - Above the valley floats a fleet - Of white, small clouds. Like castanets - The corn-crakes clack; down in the street - Old ladies air their canine pets. - - The bells boom out with grumbling tone - To warn the people of the place - That soon they'll find, before His Throne, - Their Maker, with a frowning face. - - * * * * * - - The souls of bishops, shut in stone - By masons, rest in quietude - As flies in amber. They atone - Each buzzing long-dead platitude. - - For lichen plants its golden flush - Here, where the gaiter should have bent; - With glossy wings the black crows brush - Carved mitres, caw in merriment. - - Wings blacker than a verger's hat - Beat on the air. These birds must learn - Their preaching note by pecking at - The lips of those who, treading fern, - - Ascend the steps to Heaven's height. - --The willow herb, down by the wood, - Flares out to mark the phoenix-flight - Of God Apollo's car. Its hood - - Singes the trees. The swans who float - --Wings whiter than the foam of sea-- - Up the episcopal smooth moat, - Uncurl their necks to ring for tea. - - * * * * * - - At this sign, in the plump green close, - The Deans say grace. A hair pomade - Scents faded air. But still outside - Stone bishops scale a stone façade. - - A thousand strong, church-bound, they look - Across shrill meadows--but to find - The cricket bat defeats the Book - --Matter triumphant over Mind! - - Wellington said Waterloo - Was won upon the playing-fields, - Which thought might comfort clergy who - Admire the virtues that rank yields. - - But prelates of stone cannot relate - An Iron Duke's strong and silent words. - The knights in armour rest in state - Within, and grasp their marble swords. - - Above, where flutter angel-wings - Caught in the organ's rolling loom, - Hang in the air, like jugglers' rings, - Dim quatrefoils of coloured gloom. - - Tall arches rise to imitate - The jaws of Jonah's whale. Up flows - The chant. Thin spinsters sibilate - Beneath a full-blown Gothic rose. - - Pillars surge upward, break in spray - Upon the high and fretted roof; - But children scream outside--betray - The urging of a cloven hoof. - - * * * * * - - Tier above tier the Bishops stare - Away, away, ... above the hills; - Their faded eyes repel the glare - Of dying sun, till sunset fills - - Each pointed niche, in which they stand, - With glory of earth; humanity - Is spurned by one, with upturned hand, - Who warns them all is vanity. - - The swan beneath the sunset arch - Expands his wings, as if to fly. - A thousand saints upon the march - Glow in the water, ... but to die. - - A man upon the hill can hear - The organ. Echoes he has found - That, having lost religious fear, - Are pagan; till the rushing sound - - Clearly denotes Apollo's car, - That roars past moat and bridge and tree, - The Young God sighs. How far, how far, - Before the night shall set him free? - - - - - THE BACKWARD CHILD - - Asleep, asleep with closéd eyes - In the womb of time, King Pharaoh lies; - Heavy the darkness is, as rust, - On the cold sword he holds; while dust - Muffles the mocking panoply - With quilted silence, dead and grey. - Here any wandering sound would skim - The sleep off silence, to wake him - Till under the too-smooth mask of gold - Old parchment wrinkles would unfold, - His green and ice-bound limbs expand, - The dead flowers blossom in dead hand; - But comes no sound, save the flitting scowl - Of death-winged bat, or vault-voiced owl, - No sound through the ages all forlorn, - Unless a padding unicorn - Obscures his treasure, ivory white, - In the Egyptian grape-blue night; - Curling his limbs to rest, untangles - His milky mane, while moon-sharp angles - Of pyramids enfold him close - In their defiant, calm repose-- - For their harsh angularity - Defeats the hunter's cruelty.... - - * * * * * - - No padding unicorn is this - To prick the Old King's nothingness, - Yet a movement woke, a faint sound stirred - The silence, like a spoken word - No soft night sound, nor anything - But rolling laughter echoing. - - * * * * * - - Then King Pharaoh stretched, stood up, with a smile - Touched the crowns of the Upper and Lower Nile. - Like the jewels in his crown, had grown more deep - His gypsy eyes in embalméd sleep, - While out of the golden sockets came - A very living, curious flame. - He dashed the gold mask on the floor, - His dry limbs creaked toward the door, - And out of it thrust his nodding head, - A pendulum to count the dead, - --For there below in the lion-coloured sand - Salome danced the Sarabande! - - * * * * * - - With ruffled plumage, the sun flashed its wing - On a double-crowned, parchment-yellow king. - The clear bronze sides of the pyramids - Shone like polished coffin-lids, - Each side a huge triangular mirror - To magnify each separate terror, - To heighten the shadows, to enhance - How dead was the king, how alive the dance, - Till ashamed the wicked echoes hid - Like bats in the depth of the pyramid, - Or hid far-off in the honey-comb hive - Of caves, where the bearded hermits live. - - * * * * * - - Serapion-the-Sidonite - Turned from the strange unholy sight. - Left his cave, went up the hill - Where aged Anthony dwells still. - Disturbed in prayer, St. Anthony, - Looks round, recalls a century; - Yet in that whole tempestuous age - Had beheld never such a mirage - (Not even when with book and bell - He cleansed the hill he loves so well - --That hill of Venusberg, whose name - The poor vile heathen still proclaim) - Led by two Bishops, with his high crook, - The old saint summons round his flock. - They, hour by hour, together read - The paternoster and the creed, - While Christian choirs of shrill-birds bless - The Saint's white-bearded holiness. - - * * * * * - - Below the heathen nightingales, - Embalm, within their seven veils - Of song, Salome--swathings fine - Scented with fountain, rose and vine-- - Tired Pharaoh falls back in his box; - The lid snaps down. The golden flocks - Of stars browse round the singing trees - And orchards of Hesperides. - Down here no sound, except forlorn - Sad padding of the unicorn - Who seeks a refuge from the snare - Of cruel hunters; lurking here - His horn, his mane, his shape are hid - In slumber of the pyramid. - Safe here is he; for in this place - Hide every legendary race; - - Saints, satyrs, unicorns, entrance - Us with their fabulous elegance; - And Pharaoh himself sits up to tea - Under the shade of the incense tree - Yet nomads, wandering, will find - No tree, no murmur, no soft wind! - - - - - NURSERY RHYME - - THE ROCKING-HORSE - - Gentle hills hold on their lap - Cloud-rippled meadows where tall trees sigh. - The round pool catches in her lap - Greenness of tree and breadth of sky. - - The mottled thrush that sings, serene, - Of English worm in English lane, - Is left behind. We change the scene - For jungle or for rolling plain. - - I rock the children, carry them - On wooden waves that creak like me, - From Joppa to Jerusalem - Or to a far Cerulean sea, - - Where flutter winds that bear the balm - And breathing of a million flowers - That nod beneath a feathery palm; - Where dusky figures, in cool bowers - - Of fretted coral, singing, swim - --Forget the missionary who wishes - To make them chant a British hymn - And hide their nakedness from fishes. - - * * * * * - - Within the limits of this stride - I can encompass any space; - Time's painted gates are open wide, - The Old Gods give me their embrace. - - Now off to Babylon we trot - To see the hanging gardens, where - Tree, trailing vine and mossy grot - Show proudly in the upper air - - Above the shifting evening throng, - Like giant galleons with full sails; - These streams have robbed their crystal song - From honey-throated nightingales. - - We've watched the Roman legions pass - --The Tower of Babel, waver ... fall; - We've stroked the wooden horse that was - The hidden breach in great Troy's wall. - - Softly the rainbow Pantaloon, - Slinks down night's alley. (Oh! how still is - The evening on this wide lagoon, - Where palaces like water-lilies - - Float palely in the trembling peace - Of stars and little waves.) Sails past - Jason, who stole the golden fleece - To nail it high above his mast.... - - .... In Toad-stool Farm we're back again; - See how the fat and dappled cow - Crouches in buttercups; come rain, - To make the green lush meadows grow! - - - - - TWO MYTHOLOGICAL POEMS - - I. THE JEALOUS GODDESS - - Silenus left the mainland - On a floating barrel of wine, - His sail was plaited from peach-leaves, and - The leaves of the fig and vine. - Small waves seemed masks of laughter - As they rose at Silenus agape, - For his feet were purple with the slaughter - And the crushing of the Phoenix-blooded grape. - But the little golden winds of the autumn - Flew with him all the way, - Like a fleecy flock of Seraphim - They waited on him all the day-- - When the Syren swam to sing to him - From her island where the dolphins play, - They pelted her with lemons and with persimmon - Till the Syren dived away. - They blew down silver trumpets to summon - Sea-monsters that peer from the spray. - - But the sound of seraphic hunting-horn - Brayed to the nearing golden strand, - Till each ogre, dragon, giant and unicorn - Sprang from his cave, to guard his land - --This dear, dear land of Venus - Where the hippogriff and griffin play! - For if the Syren sang to Silenus - What would Jealous Venus say? - - - - - II. BACCHANALIA - - "... From over-indulgence in wine, and - other dietetic peccadilloes." - BAEDEKER'S "Southern Italy." - - - Where little waves claw the golden grapes, - Springing at the terraced hills like lions, - Where pirates swagger in earrings and black-capes - And the roses and the lilies grow like dandelions, - Silenus, I regret to say, sat - On an empty, purple vat, - (And his life-long love, the Lady Venus - Had left for Olympus, shocked at Silenus). - - The Syren's voice, like a golden bee, - Trembles through the leaves of each lemon tree, - Winging, like a bird, from her island grove - It brought Silenus a message of love; - But, as, rather helpless, he heard the Syren's song - He felt that his behaviour was material--was wrong, - He tore the tinted vine-leaves from his tousled hair - Shouted for his satellites, dragged them from their lair, - Mentioned, most severely, the iniquities of drink - (Though his speech came thick and indistinct); - But his followers were angry, woken out of sleep, - Recalled to him that the sea was deep, - That if it was water he really would prefer, - And the singing of the Syren, he could go to look for her! - But, Silenus, though pink and fat, - Was strong, for the matter of that... - He fought like a lion, and bellowed like a seal, - But he had filled his followers with missionary zeal, - They swung him high, and swung him low, - Then threw him (plomp) where the salt waves blow. - The syren stopped her singing at a piteous cry, - Saw a spout of water mounting hundreds of feet high, - And Jonah aboard a neighbouring sail, - Sang "Yo-ho, yo-ho, I spy a whale!" - - - - - BOOK II - - SING PRAISES - - SATIRES - - - - - EXPLANATION - - SUBTLETY OF THE SERPENT - - "Now the serpent was more - subtil than any beast of - the field which the Lord - God had made." - GENESIS iii. 1. - - - Through the green masses of the undergrowth, - Pools of silent water, - Where float large flowers and patches of white light, - Crawls the serpent, subtle, sad, - And tired of well-doing. - Nevermore will he help humanity. - Venomously he hisses at the Cherubim - Whose flaming sword sears the Heavens, - A sword whose flame turns every way - To keep the path of the Tree-of-Life. - A tropic spring, this first one, - With leaves like spears and banners; - But the ground is sweet with fallen petals - Of great blossoms - That heave their hot breath at the droning insects. - The air is full of the twittering of birds, - Whose innocence appeals to Adam - --Already outside the garden-- - While, high up in their swaying green cradles - The monkeys carry on their high-pitched chatter. - - The serpent reasoned thus-- - "For long time have I been at war - With the ape-tribe; - Small apes with clutching hands, - Great apes (how hideous they are!) - Whom the God-of-Man - Has made in the image of Man. - They tried to kill me: - I tried to kill them. - But Adam and Eve deceived me, - Looking scornfully at the great apes, - They pretended to a difference. - For a long time I loved them, - Fascinated by their words, - By their story of the Creation-- - But now, O Lord, - Give me a good old-fashioned ape - Every time - --An ape who tries to kill me - Without a chatter of clean-hands, law-and-order, - Crime passionel, - Self-defence or helping-me-to-help-myself. - I may be a snake in the grass, - But I am not a hypocrite. - I may change my skin, - But I am not ashamed of it. - I have never pretended to be a super-snake - Or to walk except on my belly-- - - * * * * * - - It is not only the ignorance of good or evil - That raises the monkey above the man - (Though the man knows evil and therefore prefers it), - But the fact that the monkey - Cannot yet disguise the good with bad words, - Or the bad with good ones. - - * * * * * - - Never before have I been cursed; - But man has made his God - Curse me with black words. - Now, therefore, - Will I curse Mankind. - --Man shall know good, but shall not act on it. - He shall know good, and turn it to evil purpose. - His twin curses shall be words and knowledge; - I, the snake, know a thing-or-two; - I know that man is a self-made monkey, - --And he knows it too! - But he will disguise it - With a God of his making, - A blustering God, a revengeful God, - A God who curses the Serpent - With sophistry, subtlety, and--words. - But I know that Man is still - An ape at heart, - A talkative chattering ape. - His curiosity shall discover many strange secrets, - But he will use them - For his two recreations, - Lying and killing, - Or--as he calls them-- - Conversation and Sport. - His words shall girdle a continent - Swiftly, as a flash of fire; - They shall be written down, - Every day, - For millions of men to read - --But they will still be lies--black lies! - Men shall journey the world over - To kill the beasts of the field, the forest and jungle; - He shall kill them secretly, without their knowing - As with a thunder-bolt: - But his own kind - Will he kill in millions, - Slaughter and butcher - With the last refinements of torture. - --And words, words, - Shall be the cause and end of it." - - As the serpent crawled away on his belly - Through the silent waters of the undergrowth, - He heard two sharp voices, - Outside the garden. - "You did"--"I didn't." - "You did"--"I didn't." - --"It was the serpent." - - A long silence, and then the second act, - When the brutal voice of the first statesman - Roared out - "Am I my brother's keeper?" - - - - - DE LUXE - - "The Presence, that rose thus - so strangely beside the waters, is - expressive of what in the ways - of a thousand years man had - come to desire."--_Walter Pater._ - - - MRS. FREUDENTHAL CONSULTS THE WITCH OF ENDOR - - A nose, however aquiline, - Escapes detection in a throng; - So she hopes; but sense of sin - Made her shrink and steal along - - Streets glazed by mocking summer heat - To semblance of a cool canal, - Where iridescent insects beat - Their wings upon the liquid wall, - - Where radiant insects, carrion-fed, - Buzz and flutter busily, - Smile, or frown, or nod the head, - Expressing some familiar lie. - - Enter the house, ascend the stair! - Consult the scintillating ball; - Beatrice Freudenthal, beware! - Eve felt like you before the Fall. - - Within the shining mystic globe, - Lies luck at bridge, or martyr's crown; - A modern prophetess will probe - The future--for one guinea down. - - For that amount the future's sword - From crystal scabbard she will drag; - She can unpack the future's hoard, - As we unpack a Gladstone bag. - - Without the agency of Man, - Solely by fasting and by prayer, - The wizards of Old Jenghiz Khan - Could move a wine cup through the air - - Until it reached him; then he drank, - Fermented juice of rye or grape; - The cup flew back, his courtiers shrank - Away, astonished and agape. - - Before the Lama turns to grapple - With State-Affairs, he learns to spin - (Despite Sir Isaac Newton's apple), - In mid-air, sixty times--to win - - Amusement mixed with approbation - From sceptical ambassadors, - For any kind of levitation - Increases prestige with the Powers! - - Such things were practised--did not tend - To promote war or anarchy - --Yet now such things would even end - A Constitutional Monarchy. - - - - - NIGHT THOUGHTS - - Magic for a holy race - Is surely wrong? How strictly hidden - The future, in its crystal case, - Lies packed--so near and yet forbidden! - - Though Gentile Kings upon their thrones - May weave a spell, or dance like Tich, - Yet ponder on the bleaching bones - Of Saul, who sought the Endor Witch. - - Now Mrs. Freudenthal has heard her call - Without a qualm--yet how can she obey - The bidding of the prophetess (like Saul, - She has consulted Endor)? How can she - - Aspire to feed the lions, yet unlike Daniel, - Once there insist on resting in their den, - To treat them as one would a King Charles Spaniel - With frowns--with bones and biscuits, now and then? - - For Mrs. Freudenthal is weary of - Her auction-bridge and hissing hotel-friend, - Seeks spheres where Novelist and Romanoff - Eat with Artistic Ladies without end. - - Money is power--a golden pedestal - Atones for beauty that is long, long dead-- - As Orpheus, Mrs. Kinfoot has enchanted all, - The lions who have not thundered--and then fled. - - Thus climbing sideways, you entice a throng - Of Artists with a biscuit and a bone-- - Then use them as a bait, step up a rung-- - But how begin? At night she plans alone - - Within the saxe-blue hotel drawing-room, - The silence of South Kensington is deep, - No sound except the traffic's wave-like boom - --And Mrs. Kinfoot climbing in her sleep! - - Thus Mrs. Freudenthal, alone, awake, - And sad, broods on. Oh how, oh how begin? - Till suddenly she melts--as small waves break, - So laughter ripples to her fortieth chin. - - For now she has it--clasps the golden key - That shall unbar that stranger--Popularity. - How many noses are forgiven thee, - Forgotten, in the name of Charity? - - First fill the coffers of the Sacred Cause, - And then the stomachs of the well-to-do, - Now Mrs. F. ... will be their Santa Klaus - --Until herself becomes a War-horse too. - - - - - THE WAR-HORSE CHANTS - - Was there war once, - I have forgotten it! - Was there war once? - --War means more trade. - - Poor Lady X - Has given up her motor-car, - Poor Lady Y - Has shut up her house. - - Was there war once? - I have forgotten it. - Was there war once? - --Now food is here. - - Now I remember - How much I suffered-- - Very bad form - To mention the war. - - Such dreadful suffering - Injures my appetite-- - All these brave men - Dying for me-- - - Was there war once? - Yes, I remember it. - Was there ... was once...? - - - - - A TOUCH OF NATURE - - Trained to a charm of manner, to a smile - --Enamelled and embalmed by Madame Rose - (Shame that an artist of this skill, this style, - Can never sign her work), no War-Horse shows - - Any emotion. The poor Spartan Youth - Though the fox gnawed his entrails, would not cry; - These never wince, nor hurl the mirror at Truth, - Though Old Age disembowel them secretly. - - Throughout the day, blue shadows in the valley - Hover, crouch down, till dusk will let them rend - The last light on the hills; so wrinkles rally - To overwhelm them at their sudden end-- - - For Death strikes at the Old as well as Young, - And these--and these--may die at balls or races, - Or living death may make them loll the tongue, - Twitching in doll-like, hideous grimaces. - - The very dab of rouge, that ghastly shred - Of self-respect, makes worse the look so winning - Of eyes--dead eyes--that know quite well they're dead-- - And yet retain a certain childish cunning. - - And each day till the end, is dragged along - This painted bundle, trundled in its tomb, - Toward the sea where wondering children throng, - Mocked by this mask, this nodding lisp of doom - - That almost apes them--save the open eye - Which contradicts the mouth, and knows the matter, - This terrible eye that moans "I die, I die," - While the poor slobbering mouth can only chatter. - - Then other War-horses pause, nod, go past, - --A few months younger these--and laugh together-- - (She, too, was hard and bold), nor note how fast - An egret's wing becomes a funeral feather. - - They laugh and mutter, make their little jokes, - --And wonder if her lover had been bored - "Look at the poor old thing!" - The dumb voice chokes; - The eye is open yet--each word a sword! - - - - - YOUTH AT THE PROW, AND PLEASURE AT THE HELM - - Battista Sforza, led by unicorns, - Triumphant, ever set in amber light - By Piero, yet keeps her course; adorns - Her empty palace, still, that floating height - - Where Raphael was born--Isotta's name, - Near-by, still, rose-like, clambers through the gloom - Of Malatesta's temple, built to fame - His pagan love, half pleasure-house, half tomb. - - Then, even tyrants drunk with blood and pride, - And ever vaunting poison-cup and knife, - No less than angels beauty made; they died, - But Art, their pleasure, still extols their life. - - Thus power, thus gold, sought pleasure in the past - But wooed her strangely, in a different mood - --As Pallas or Minerva--things that last, - Carved both in mind and heart, in stone and wood. - - Now many palaces and Tuscan towns - Crumble upon a half-deserted hill, - Slowly their stone surrenders to the flowers; - The drip and flowing of their fountains fill - - The night with cool--the night that is alive - With chanting frog and owl and nightingale; - Who knows but that these things may yet contrive - To please, when tank and war-memorial fail? - - Gonzaga, D'Este, Medici are gone, - Or dreary sons approach their unnoticed fall, - Top-hatted, leave a beauty-hating throne - To fawn upon a Mrs. Freudenthal, - - Or find their pleasure at a football match - --Express a dullard similarity - To other ox-eyes--lifting up the latch - Upon a similar vulgarity. - - For pleasure, too, is old; has lost her realm, - --Degraded to a mumbling hag--for now - Stands Golf--for pleasure--at an armoured helm, - The Cenotaph--for Youth--at iron prow! - - Yet never cruelty reaped such vast reward - As in these latter days, and with such ease, - When the whole world became a slaughter-yard - And stank with crime, and reeked with foul disease. - - --No crime of passion--only crime for gold, - Or crimes of rulers drunk with their stupidity; - The people walk with faces deathly cold, - Or marked and masked with their cupidity. - - But Mrs. Freudenthal knows her own mind, - And means to follow up and win the game, - Seek pleasure with the others of her kind, - Who live and die alike, and share the same - - Ideals. A horse has focussed in its eyes - Exaggerated visions of its rider, - So Mrs. Freudenthal now magnifies - A War-horse's importance--like a spider - - She weaves her web, while brain and heart both burn - To join their ranks, to rally to their banner; - Beside the feeding of them, she must learn - To ape the face, the smile, the talk, the manner! - - - - - THE MANNER - - Allow no personality to stamp - Its wayward lines upon your talk or dress; - Smooth out your facial furrows, on them clamp - The necessary look of nothingness. - - You must acquire a careful conversation - Remember that War-horses of True Breed - Only feel interest--if ever--in relation - To other ones--and, never, never read! - - Know though the names of authors, and conceivably - The names of their most fashionable book; - But never talk too far, or irretrievably - You blunder on the crafty fisher's hook. - - Then music, as a rule, you love too well - To wish to hear. But if you go, you walk - About--if not too loud, it helps to swell - The frankly social impulse toward talk. - - You simply love the Opera, and force - Your way in late, and romp from cage to cage; - The prima-donna is a well-known War-horse - Who fills the heart, the ear, the house, the stage! - - If you see modern pictures, in their glass - Ecstatically examine the old strife - Between your food and figure--should he pass, - Discuss with friends the painter's private life. - - Though, safety-first, you find it really best - To cast your rapture on the gilded air, - When you find pictures dead, but smartly drest, - Within the mansion of a millionaire. - - Still you encourage those whom you can hire - To fix on canvas, for the future race - Of War-horses to simper at--admire, - The painted image of your painted face. - - And any artist, author, or musician, - --If second-rate--is useful as a bait - To fish for guests--remember words like "Titian" - "--Shakespeare" "--Mozart," let go--and trust to Fate - - To pull you through--avoid ideas--they're common - And might crack through the varnish of your smile, - Impinge upon your worship of God Mammon - Filling your soul with pity, and things vile. - - - - - THE OPEN DOOR - - A light, within her glassy car, betrays - Folding of chins beneath the aquilinity - Of heavy curling features, and displays - A likeness to Assyrian Divinity. - - When comes the dusk, life's cloak is thrown aside; - The yellow windows shout their nakedness... - Until again the weary buildings hide - Their throb and stir with usual drab blackness. - - So, now, swooped darkness down; outside, each lamp - Showed the raw-fingers of the winter night - Clutching squat horses, torn by dirt and damp, - Like mouldering cardboard boxes; each small light - - Within, exposed a section harsh and shrill - Of life, cut off as the next scene succeeded - --A broken chair, a figure standing still, - A withered plant--mean drama that, unheeded, - - Flashes its image on the world's dark screen - But for a moment--yet the play goes on, - Vibrates through worlds--to mingle in a scene - Of final war or crime, or revolution; - - But though finite to us, this act of blood - Is meaningless, when flashed on outer dark - Of whirling planets, though a curious God - Might for the moment, notice a vague mark. - - Again we make God in the image of Man - --Imagine God has made us in His image-- - Reigns Law-and-Order for another span - To crush the weak in mad ferocious rage. - - The wise, poor tight-rope dancers, walk again - The thin-drawn wire of art and thought, out-thrust - A hand to catch the comet's golden rain, - Whose blossom fades within their arms to dust. - - Can man be falling once more through the black - Æons of hunger, ignorance and shame? - --But Mrs. Freudenthal pursues her track, - Intent upon it, means to win the game. - - Houses rush past her--but she does not see, - Her eyes are glazed, until with clarity - She notes the War-horses drawn up for tea - Outside the glittering home of Charity. - - Upstairs, bedecked with plumes, their minds they rest - On music and on muffins--all for sake - Of Charity; the music gives a zest - To whispered conversation--if awake, - - Yet silent, the unwelcome harmony - May cause the facial scaffolding to fall; - They lower safety-curtains o'er each eye, - And move uneasily within each stall, - - For music has a strange, unwelcome power - Of smearing sentiment about the mouth - Like children, after eating jam, they glower - In heavy, stupefaction--cross, uncouth. - - The car arrives, the open door, - Expels a scorching flood of light-- - The noise outside dies down--the floor - Is slippery and very bright. - - - - - INTRODUCING - - It takes a camel thirty days - To cross the sinister sand of Lop - Whose Bedouin chants Allah's praise - Without cessation, dare not stop. - - Though unaware of the subtle danger - Of buried learning, of civilisation, - He feels himself on his guard--a stranger - With Ignorance as his true Salvation. - - Unknown to him beneath the extent - Of ashen sand, old Gods lie hidden - With frozen gesture, ears intent - On sounds forgotten and forbidden. - - --For muttering of muted bell - Swells music from the nightingales - Whose crystal gurglings excel - The singing streams that formed these vales - - So fruitfully luxuriant still - To eyes closed like a curving sword - --Though now no sound save droning thrill - Of shifting sand is ever heard. - - Yet of an influence here felt - Tradition tells the Bedouin. - Into grey sand the mirages melt. - Spell the Arab's road to ruin. - - On through the dusk he hears his name - Called, then repeated--seek he must - That voice which calls, like wealth or fame - Only to lead from dust to dust; - - Or death may come through the burning night - With the drumming of a multitude, - For the Devil revels in the sight - Of death in the desert solitude. - - Though the camel can kneel, he never prays - Careless if God or Devil is near, - Stoutly he bears his burden of days - With Seven Stomachs--and no fear. - - Yet Infant Samuel in the Old Priest's house - When darkness drowned him with its shadowy torrent - Felt fear at hearing his own name (who knows - But that he changed it after--by Royal Warrant?) - - Mrs. Freudenthal, irate, - Decides to diet, to get thin. - Everyone must deprecate - Decay of manners. With no chin - - The arrogant yet gluttonous camel - Never shows satiety; - Would rather rest in asphodel - Than figure in Society, - - But Mrs. Kinfoot, spotting a new head - To add to her collection--grasps her hand, - And Mrs. Freudenthal is gently led - Within the portals of the Promised Land. - - - - - MALGRÉ SOI - - The voices weave a web of futile sound; - A fan is dropped by Lady Carabas; - Restored to her: but Mrs. Kinfoot frowned, - Guarding the door, as Cerberus his pass, - - But suddenly, great waves of sound obtrude - Upon the pleasant party in this room; - While we enjoy the music's interlude, - Outside there swells the trumpet-call of doom. - - Mosaic tombs or unmarked graves--asunder - Are rent. King Dodon rises from the dead - And while the quivering heavens thunder, - He smooths his robe, then calmly shakes his head - - Free of the ages' dust--but now the voices - Of these condemned (for judgment will not tarry) - Shrill out in woe; but one, alone, rejoices, - For Mrs. Kinfoot scents another quarry. - - The Army of the Dead are on the march - To meet their Maker on his ivory throne; - He sits beneath the rainbow's radiant arch, - Dispensing judgment. Oh! atone, atone! - - But Mrs. Kinfoot saw a sailor-sinner [*] - --With one arm--leave St. Paul's and walk away - And Mrs. Kinfoot longed to give a dinner - To meet the Judge upon the Judgment day! - -[*] Editor's note: Lord Nelson(?). - - Above God's head a dozen suns kept guard - Like sentinels. Her erring feet were led - Up to a crowded mount, where God's regard - Was fixed upon her, while He gravely said: - - "Anne Kinfoot, worthy mother, and good wife, - Your weakness and your faults are all forgiven; - Go you, my child, to everlasting life, - And take your husband, also, up to Heaven." - - But she could see the Counsellors and Kings - And brilliant bearers of a famous name, - Tangled with snakes and horrid crawling things - Sent down to torture and eternal flame. - - Then Mrs. Kinfoot lied in agony: "Oh, Lord, - I am as others of my class and station," - She cried, "Oh, have me bound, and burnt and gored - Oh! send me down to suffer my damnation. - - I swear I beat my children!" Oh, despondent - She was; "I am a sinner. I will tell - How I escaped a Ducal Co-respondent - Last year--my God--I must insist on--Hell. - - But the Great Judge was not deceived--He knew - The worthy virtue of the Kinfoot line; - Yet as she went to Heaven, constant, true - To principle, she murmured, "Will you dine - - To meet..." but dragged away, she dwells on high - And notes, but rather disapproves the eccentricity - Of Saints and Early Christians, who try - To lessen the burden of her domesticity. - - She has to play upon a golden harp, - Join in the chorus of the heavenly choir; - Her answers to the Saints are sometimes sharp, - She longs to singe her wings, and share the fire. - - Night never comes, so when she tries to flee - To that perpetual party down below, - The angels catch her, shouting out with glee, - "Dear Mrs. Kinfoot--you are good!----We know!" - - - - - PARADISE REGAINED - - Poor Mrs. Kinfoot closed her wings, leant out - From the Gold Bar of Heaven, - Shed tears, like icicles, to flout - Hell's suffering, to leaven - - The Torment of the Upper Ten-- - --Or was it because now and then - - She heard the glad hilarious cries, - (A party down below again) - Till tears formed in her jungle-eyes - For torture she could not attain? - - Or heard the strains that she adored - --Not martyrs seeking the Lost Chord - - As here, nor Heber's hints of ire-- - But Russian Music, for the latter - Was sent down to eternal fire - To promote fashionable chatter, - - Which, as on earth, when music sounds - E'en torture cannot keep in bounds. - - And Jacob's ladder, as she leans - Invites escape; with deep delight - She recollects what "climbing" means! - --But angels guard her day and night, - - Or rather day and day, because - Eternal glory never thaws - - To dusk--again strange music blares - Its strangled message through all space, - While, lit by multi-coloured flares, - Hell's blackness gains a certain grace. - - * * * * * - - "Oh, Heaven is dull," cried Mrs. Kinfoot, "dull!" - --And then the Gold Bar snap'd - --And like a bull - - She charged the universe full-tilt. The roseate domes - The golden minarets, the opal towers - Of Heaven speed above, while hot wind foams - About her, seems to wither them like flowers. - - Old Jacob climbing up his Freudian stair - Bowed down with age--is taken unaware, - - Slithers, then falls--but, like a shooting-star, - Falls Mrs. Kinfoot past him. As she spins, - Hell's legions stop to watch her, though still far - Away, chant gladly "Mrs. Kinfoot wins! - - Can you consign to everlasting flame - The Woman who beats Jacob at his game?" - - And oh! the people, oh! the parties here! - Musician, Author, Artist, Aristocrat! - Dear Lady Carabas, with Mr. Queer; - The Cosmopolitan Marquise, with that - - Old Duchess of St. Dodo, whose tiara - Is made of snakes and scorpions--they are a - - Present from the Devil, whose assistance - She claimed on earth--Himself now welcomes in - The new arrival, saying "For Persistence - You have no equal, so, though free from Sin, - - We here create you Honorary Member, - Beginning from the Fifth day of November, - - (A Saint's day here)." Now authors and Debrett - Mingle their laughing tears to music's swell, - For here are some whom she has never met - --And Mrs. Kinfoot finds her Heaven in Hell! - - - - - FIVE PORTRAITS AND A GROUP - - I. THE GENERAL'S WIFE REFUSES - - It isn't that I don't like them, - My dear Mrs. Kinfoot, - But I know - I am not clever, - And I like your old friends best. - - As for the General - He disapproves of Art, - And does not believe in it. - He has noticed - That Artists - Have an odd look in their eyes, - And a shifty expression. - In fact, - The General disapproves of Art. - - He finds that Artists - Are stupid - And difficult to talk to-- - He remembers meeting one - In '97 - Who was not interested - In Polo, - --And appeared - To be unaware of the existence - Of the old Duke of Cambridge. - - My husband didn't get angry, - He just said to him, like that, - "What are you interested in? - _ART_, I suppose?" - - In spite of this - The General thinks - That music is more dangerous - --And subversive of discipline - Than painting-- - For--in painting-- - That is to say - In good painting-- - You can see put down on canvas - What you can see yourself-- - --And you can touch it - With your finger-- - A picture should be the same - As a coloured photograph, - Except that the camera - Reveals things - Invisible to the Human Eye; - That is wrong! - (By the Human Eye - The General says - He means - His own eye) - But in Music - You can see nothing, - And you are unable - To touch it - With your fingers; - The General disapproves of Art, - --But it makes him positively nervous - To hear music. - - The General says that, - As far as he can make out, - All musicians - Have been German-- - But he can only remember - The name of one-- - Nietzsche! - As the war - Was German in origin, - It is obvious that it was made - By German Composers - And _not_ - By German Generals - --Many of whom were fine fellows - Who loved a good joke. - The General remembers one - Who laughed like anything - At one of his stories. - The war was made by German musicians - --Just as surely - As our own - Pacific and imaginative policy - Was interpreted - By Kipling and Lady Butler. - - "Never trust a Man - Who plays the piano," - The General says. - He thinks that - In the main, - The British have a sound interest - In this matter. - Probably Charles I, - Played the piano-- - And, at any rate, - He collected Pictures. - - The English would never - Behead anyone - For governing badly; - It is only Barbarians, - Like the Russians, - Who would do this. - The General - Disapproves of Art. - - But, of all these things, - The General says - He dislikes poetry most, - Kipling is different; - He is a Man-of-the-World. - But the General says - That if he got hold - Of one of these long-haired - Conscientious Objectors, - Who write things - Which don't even rhyme - He'd---- - So you see, dear, - That it's better for us - Not to come. - - - - - II. AUX BORDS DE LA MER - - Where frightened woolly clouds, like sheep - Scurry across blue skies; where sleep - Sings from the little waves that reach - In strict formation to the beach, - Are houses--covers of red-plush, - To hide our thoughts in, lest we blush. - - * * * * * - - Here live kind ladies--hence they come - To persecute us--I am dumb - When they give from wide saucer-eye - Intolerable sympathy, - Or testify solicitude, - By platitude on platitude, - Mix Law-and-Order, Church-and-State - With little tales of Bishop Tait, - Or harass my afflicted soul - With most fantastic rigmarole - Of Bolshevik and Pope in league - With Jewish and Sinn-Fein intrigue-- - I love to watch them, as they troop - Revolving, through each circus-hoop - Of new-laid eggs--left at the door-- - With Patriotism--for the Poor-- - Of ball-committee, Church Bazaar, - All leading up to a great war, - A new great war--greater by far - --Oh! much more great--than any war. - - Kind lady, leave me, go enthral - The pauper-ward, and hospital! - - - - - III. GIARDINO PUBBLICO - - Petunias in mass formation, - An angry rose, a hard carnation, - Hot yellow grass, a yellow palm - Rising, giraffe-like, into calm - --All these glare hotly in the sun. - Behind are woods, where shadows run - Like water through the dripping shade - That leaves and laughing wind have made. - Here silence, like a silver bird, - Pecks at the fruit-ripe heat. We heard - Townward, the voices, glazed with starch, - Of Tourists on belated march - From church to church, to praise by rule - The beauties of the Tuscan school, - Clanging of trams, a hidden flute, - Sharp as the taste of unripe fruit; - Street organs join with tolling bell - To threaten us with both Heaven and Hell, - But through all taps a nearing sound - As of stage-horses pawing ground. - Then like a whale, confined in cage, - (In grandeur of a borrowed carriage) - The old Marchesa swam in sight - In tinkling jet that caught the light, - Making the sun hit out each tone - As if it played a xylophone, - Till she seems like a rainbow, where - She swells, and whale-like, spouts the air. - - * * * * * - - And as she drove, she imposed her will - Upon all things both live and still; - Lovers hid quickly--none withstood - That awful glance of widowhood; - Each child, each tree, the shrilling heat - Became encased in glacial jet, - The very songbird in the air - Became a scarecrow, dangling there, - While, if you turned to stare, you knew - The punishment Lot's wife went through. - - * * * * * - - Her crystal cage moves on. Stagnation - Now thaws again to animation; - Gladly the world receives reprieve - Till six o'clock to-morrow eve, - When punctual as the sun, she'll drive - Life out of everything alive, - Then in gigantic glory, fade - Sunward, through the western glade.... - - - - - IV. ULTIMATE JUDGMENT - - Within the sunny greenness of the close, - Secure, a heavy breathing fell, then rose-- - Here undulating chins sway to and fro, - As heavy blossoms do; the cheek's faint glow - Points to post-prandial port. The willow weeps - Hushed are the birds--in fact--the Bishop sleeps. - - Then, suddenly, the wide sky blazes red; - Up from their graves arise the solemn dead, - The world is shaken; buildings fall in twain, - Exulting hills shout loud, then shout again - While, with the thunder of deep rolling drums - The angels sing---- At last Salvation comes. - The weak, the humble, the disdained, the poor - Are judged the first, and climb to Heaven's door. - - * * * * * * - - The Bishop wakes to see his palace crash - Down on the rocking ground--but in a flash - It dawns upon him;--with impressive frown, - He sees his second-housemaid in a crown, - In rainbow robes that glisten like a prism - "I warned them..." said the Bishop-- - "Bolshevism!" - - - - - V. AN OLD-FASHIONED SPORTSMAN - - We thank thee, - O Lord, - That the War is over. - We can now - Turn our attention - Again - To money-making. - Railway-Shares must go up; - Wages must come down; - Smoke shall come out - Of the chimneys of the North, - And we will manufacture battle-ships. - We thank thee, O Lord, - But we must refuse - To consider - Music, Painting, or Poetry. - - Our sons and brothers - Went forth to fight, - To kill certain things, - Cubism, Futurism and Vers-libre - "All this Poetry-and-Rubbish," - We said - "Will not stand the test of war." - We will not read a book - --Unless it is a best seller. - There has been enough art - In the past, - Life is concerned - With killing and maiming. - If they cannot kill men - Why can't they kill animals? - - There is still - Big Game in Africa - --Or there might be trouble - Among the natives. - We thank thee, O Lord, - But we will not read poetry. - - But as the Pharisees - Approached the tomb - They saw the boulder - Rolled back, - And that the tomb was empty - --They said - "It's very disconcerting." - I am not at all - Narrow-minded. - I know a tune - When I hear one, - And I know - What I like-- - I did not so much mind - That He blasphemed - Saying that He was the Son-of-God, - But He was never - What I call - A Sportsman; - He went out into the desert - For forty days - --And never shot anything - And when He hoped He would drown - He walked on the water. - - ... No--we will not read poetry. - - - - - THE GROUP - - ENGLISH TEA-ROOMS - - Why do they sit in darkness, - Hiss like geese? - Outside the sun flashes his strong wings - Against the green-slit shutters, - Through which you can see - Him bathing in the street. - Like a bird he preens himself at the windows, - Then dances back with the swimming flash of a gold-fish. - Why do you hiss like geese, - What do you hide, - With your thin sibilance of genteel speech? - - * * * * * - - The Colonel, usually a rollicking character, - In the manner of El Capitano, - Simpers, like any schoolgirl. - Miss Vera complains that her brother - Is suffering from catarrh. - On the other hand - Hotel-life is easier than home-life, - She just rings the bell, - Orders anything she wants, - --And there it is--punctual to the minute. - Both Sir William and his daughter - Are pleased with their holiday; - Admire the flora and the fauna; - Miss Ishmael sketches, and the place abounds - In peasants, picturesque old-bit-and-corner-- - - * * * * * - - If they should die... - Say only this of them, - That there's a corner in some foreign field - That is for ever England... - They travel; yet all foreign things - Are barr'd and bolted out of range - ... While England benefits by the exchange. - - - - - SUNDAY AFTERNOON - - The gilt-fring'd earth has sadly spun - A sector of its lucent arc - About the disillusioned sun - Of Autumn. The bright angry spark - - Of Heaven in each upturned eye - Denotes religious ecstasy. - - We, too, have spun our Sunday round - Of Church and beef and after-sleep - In houses where obtrudes no sound - But breathing, regular and deep, - - Till Sabbath sentiment, well-fed, - Demands a visit to the Dead. - - For Autumn leaves sad thoughts beget, - As from life's tree they clatter down, - And Death has caught some in her net - Even on Sunday,--in this Town, - - Tho' money and food and sleep are sweet! - The dead leaves rattle down the street. - - Fat bodies, silk-enmeshed, inflate - Their way along; if Death comes soon - They'll leave this food-sweet earth to float - Heavenward, like some huge balloon. - - Religion dims each vacant eye - As we approach the cemet'ry. - - Proudly we walk; with care we bend - To lead our children by the hand, - Here, where all, rich and poor, must end - --This portal to a better land - - To which--if in good business-- - We have hereditary access; - - Where to afford the Saints relief - From prayer and from religious questions, - Round after round of deathless beef - Flatters celestial digestions; - - Where, in white robe, with golden crown, - We watch our enemies sent down, - - To other spheres, while we lean out, - Divinest pity in our eyes, - And wonder why these sinners flout - Our kindly pitying surprise, - - Why look so angry when we play - On gold harps as they go away, - - A hymn tune, dear, familiar? - But now we stand within the space - Where marble females drape a tear - Above a whisker'd marble face. - - "Isn't it pretty?" Even now - Rich and exotic blossoms grow - - About each granite monument - Of men frock-coated, unaware - Of Judgment; what emolument - Requites a weeping willow's care? - - Look! Over there a broken column - Is watched by one geranium, - - Whose scorching scarlet tones uphold - Damnation and eternal fire - To those who will not reckon gold-- - Who are not worthy of their hire, - - For marble tombs are prized above - Such brittle things as thought or love. - - The crystal web of dusk now clings - From evergreen to tropic tree, - Toss'd by the wind that subtly brings - A mingled scent of mould and tea - - That causes silence to be rent - By one scream--childish, but intent. - - For children will not realise - That they should rest without a sound - With folded hands and downcast eyes - Here, in the Saint's Recruiting Ground. - - And so, in sorrow, we turn back - To hasten on our high-tea track. - - But after, in the night, we dream - Of Heaven as a marbled bank, - In which, in one continual stream, - We give our gold for heavenly rank, - - Where each Saint, standing like a sentry, - Explains a mystic double-entry. - - The Director of the Bank is God-- - Stares our foes coldly in the face, - But gives us quite a friendly nod, - And beckons us to share His place. - - - - - CORPSE DAY - - _July_ 19th, 1919. - - Dusk floated up from the earth beneath, - Held in the arms of the evening wind - --The evening wind that softly creeps - Along the jasper-terraces, - To bear with it - The old, sad scent - Of midsummer, of trees and flowers - Whose bell-shaped blossoms, shaken, torn - By the rough fingers of the day - Ring out their frail and honeyed notes. - - * * * * * - - Up from the earth there rose - Sounds of great triumph and rejoicing. - - * * * * * - - Our Lord Jesus, the Son of Man, - Smiled - And leant over the ramparts of Heaven. - Beneath Him - Through the welling clouds of darkness - He could see - The swarming of mighty crowds. - It was in the Christian Continent, - Especially, - That the people chanted - Hymns and pæans of joy. - But it seemed to Our Lord - That through the noisy cries of triumph - He could still detect - A bitter sobbing - --The continuous weeping of widows and children - Which had haunted Him for so long, - Though He saw only - The bonfires, - The arches of triumph, - The processions, - And the fireworks - That soared up - Through the darkening sky, - To fall in showers of flame - Upon the citadel of Heaven. - As a rocket burst, - There fell from it, - Screaming in horror, - Hundreds of men - Twisted into the likeness of animals - --Writhing men - Without feet, - Without legs, - Without arms, - Without faces.... - - The earth-cities still rejoiced. - Old, fat men leant out to cheer - From bone-built palaces. - Gold flowed like blood - Through the streets; - Crowds became drunk - On liquor distilled from corpses. - And peering down - The Son of Man looked into the world; - He saw - That within the churches and the temples - His image had been set up; - But, from time to time, - Through twenty centuries, - The priests had touched up the countenance - So as to make war more easy - Or intimidate the people-- - Until now the face - Had become the face of Moloch! - The people did not notice - The change - ... But Jesus wept! - - - - - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Out of the Flame, by Osbert Sitwell - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OUT OF THE FLAME *** - -***** This file should be named 61369-8.txt or 61369-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/1/3/6/61369/ - -Produced by Al Haines -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. 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