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No. 5. Autumn, 1920.COTERIE

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COTERIE

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L O N D O N : H E N D E R S O N S S IX TY -S IX C H A R I N G C RO SS R O A D

COTERIE

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C O T E R I E A QuarterlyA R T , P R O S E , A N D P O E T R Y

G e n e r a l E d i t o r : C h a m a n L a l l.Amer i can Ed i to r s : Conrad Aiken , Sou th Yarmouth , Mass . , U .S .A.Stan ley I . Ryp ins , Unive r s i t y o f Minneso ta ,Minneapolis, Minn., U.S.A.E d i t o r i a l C o m m i t t e e : T . W . E a r p .Aldous Huxley .N i n a H a m n e t t .Russe l l Green.L i t e ra ry and Ar t Con t r ibu t ions fo r pub l i ca t ion in C O T E R I E shou ldbe addressed to t he Ed i to r , 66 Ch a r ing Cross Road , London , W.C. 2 ;or in U.S.A. to the American Edi tors .Al l o the r communica t ions shou ld be addressed to Hende rsons ,66 Ch ar in g C ross Road, Lo ndo n, W.C . 2 .Co nt r ibu to r s wh o des i re t he r e tu rn o f r e j ec ted M SS. a re r eques t edto enc lose a s tamped addressed envelope .C O T E R I E i s publ i shed Qu ar ter ly , pr ice 2s . 8d., pos t f ree . Y ear lysubscr ipt ion, 10s. 8d., post f ree .New York , U.S .A. : Cop ie s may be purchased a t Bren tano ' s ,pr ice 75 cents ; or year ly , $3.

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CO TE RIE , Autumn, 1920, No . 5C O V E R D E S I G N b y M A R Y S T EL L A E D W A R D S

I . Conrad A ike n :Pa l imp ses t : a Decei tfu l Por t ra i t 7

I I . Otaka r Brez ina :Etern a l Yearn ing 17

I I I . Edw ard J . O 'Br ien :Past iches 23

IV . Gerald G ou ld :The Unre tu rn ing Th ing 30V. Russel l G ree n :

Th e Love-song of a Pe ssim ist : 1920 33Aphorisms 36

V I . E . P o w y s M a t h e r s :Frederick Olding 's Song about Wine Island

V I I . " M i c h a l " :The Fu rn i tu re 41V I I I . H e r b er t R e a d :

Picaresque 53Sonnet 53Ear ly As t i r 54

IX . Pau l Se lve r :Meditat ions in a Guard-room 55N octu rne for Slow M usic 59Perpe tuum Mob i l e : a Pantoum more or lessMuspilli 60

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X . R a y m o n d P i e r p o i n t :The Re tu rn 62

X L Benjamin Gi lber t Br ook s:A nd if some hard unlovely W om an 67I draw into myself 68

X I I . A l d ou s H u x l e y :A Coun t ry W alk 69

X I I I . I ri s T r e e :Suspense 74Cafe Ro ya l 75

X IV . W ilfred Rowland Chi lde :Th e Vision in the W a y 76

Dra wing s : I . F ran k Gou ld ingI I . Frank Gould ing

I I I . ArchipenkoIV . Rend D urey

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C O N R A D A I K E N

P A L I M P S E S T : A D E C E I T F U L P O R T R A IT

WE L L , as you say, we live for small horizon s:W e move in crowds, we flow and ta lk togeth er,Seeing so many eyes and hands and faces,So many mouths, and all with secret meaningsYet know so l i t t le of them; only seeingThe small bright circle of our consciousness,Beyon d which l ies the dark. Some few we know Or think we k no w . . . . Once , on a sun -br ight morning,I walked in a certain hallway, trying to findA certain door: I found one, tried it, opened,And there in a spacious chamber, brightly l ighted,A hundred men played music , loudly, swiftly,While one ta ll woman sent her voice above themIn powerful sweetness. . . . Closing th en th e doorI heard it die behind me, fade to whisperAnd walked in a quiet hallway as before.Just such a glimpse as through that opened doorIs all we know of those we call our friends. . . .W e he ar a sudden m usic , see a playingOf ordered thoughtsand all again is silence.The music, we suppose (as in ourselves)Goes on forever there , behind shut doorsAs it continues after our departure ,So, we divine, it played before we came. . . .W h a t d o you know of me , or I of you ? . . .Li t t l e enough. . . . W e set the door a jarOn ly for chosen m ovem ents of the music :This passage (so I thinkyet this is guesswork)Will please himit is in a strain he fancies

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More brilliant, though, than his; and while he likes itH e will be piqued. . . . H e looks at m e bewilderedA nd think s (to jud ge from selfthis, too, is guesswo rk)This music strangely subtle, deep in meaning,Per plex ed with im plications ; he suspects m eOf h idden riches, unex pecte d won ders. . . .Or else? I let him hear a lyric passage,Simple and clear; and, all the while he listens,I make pretence to think my doors are closed.This , too, bewilders him . H e eyes m e sidelong,W on de rin g, " Is he such a fool as this ?Or only m oc kin g? " There I le t i t end .Sometimes, of course, and when we least suspect itWhen we pursue our thoughts wi th too much pass ion-Talking with too great zeal, our doors fly openWithout in tent ion , and the hungry watcherStares at the feast, carries away our secrets,A nd laughs . . . bu t this, for m any coun ts, is seldom.And for the most part we vouchsafe our friends,Our lovers too, only such few clear notesAs we shal l deem them l ikely to admire:" Pra ise m e for this," we say, or, " La ug h at this,Or, " Marvel a t m y candour " . . . a l l the whi leWithholding what 's most precious to ourselvesSom e sinister dep th of lust or fear or hatre d,The sombre note that gives the chord i ts power;Or a white lovelinessif such we knowToo much like fire to speak of without shame.Well, this being so, and we who know it beingSo curious about those well-locked housesThe minds of those we knowto enter soft ly,And steal from floor to floor up shadowy stairways,From room to quiet room, from wall to wall ,Breathing deliberately the very air,Pressing our hands and nerves against warm darkness

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To learn what ghosts are thereSuppose for once 1 set my doors wide openA nd bid you in. . . . Suppo se I try to tell youThe secrets of this house, and how I live here;Suppose I tell you who I am , in fac t. . ,Deceiving youas far as I may know itOnly so much as 1 deceive myself.If you are clever you already see meAs one who moves forever in a cloudOf warm bright vanity: a luminous cloud,Which falls on all things with a quivering magic,Changing such outlines as a light may change,Brightening what lies dark to me, concealingThose things tha t will not change. . . . I w alk sustainedIn a world of thing s th at flatter m e ; a sk yJust as I would have had it; trees and grassJu st as I would have shaped and coloured th em ;Pigeons and clouds and sun and whirling shadows,A nd stars th at brightening cl imb throu gh m ist at nightfallIn some deep way I am aware these praise m e :When they are beautiful, or hint of beauty,T he y point, somehow , to m e. . . . Th is w ater saysShimmering at the sky, or undulat ingIn broken gleaming parodies of clouds,Rippled in blue, or sending from cool depthsTo meet the falling leaf the leafs clear imageThis water says, there is some secret in youAkin to my clear beauty, beauty swayingTo mirror beauty, silently responsiveT o all th at circles you. Th is bare tree saysAustere and stark and leafless, split with frost,Resonant in the wind, with rigid branchesFlung out against the skythis tal l t ree saysThere is some cold austerity in you,A frozen strength, with long roots gnarled on rocks,

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Fert i le and deep: you bide your t ime, are pat ient ,Serene in silence, bare to outward seeming,Conceal ing what reserves of power and beauty!W ha t teeming A pri l s ! Chorus of leaves on leaves!These houses say, such walls in walls as ours,Such streets of walls, solid, and smooth of surface,Such hills and cities of walls, walls upon walls,M otionless in the sun, or dark with rain ;W alls pierced with windows where the l ight ma y en te r;Walls windowless where darkness is desired;Towers and labyrinths and domes and chambersAmazing deep recessesdark on darkAll these are like the walls which shape your spirit ,Y ou move, are warm w ithin them , laugh w ithin th em ,Proud of their depth and strength; or sal ly from them,W h en yo u are bold to blow great horns at the world.Th is deep, cool room , with shadowed walls and ceiling,Tranquil and cloistral, fragrant of my mind,This cool room s ay s: ju st such a room have you,It waits you always at the tops of stairways,Withdrawn, serene, famil iar to your uses,Where you may cease pretence and be yourself. . . .And this embroidery, hanging on this wall ,Hung there foreverthese so soundless gl idingsOf dragons golden-scaled, sheer birds of azure,Coilings of leaves in pale vermilion, griffinsDrawing their rainbow wings through involut ionsOf mauve chrysanthemums and lotus flowersThis goblin wood where some one cries enchantmentTh is says, jus t such an inv oluted bea utyOf tho ug ht and coi ling thou ght , dream l inked w ith dream,Image to image gliding, wreathing fires,Soundlessly cries encha ntm ent in you r mind ;You need but sit and close your eyes a momentT o see these deep designs unfold them selves. . . .A nd so, all things discern me, nam e m e, praise m e

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I walk in a world of silent voices praising;And in this world you see me like a wraithBlown softly here and there, on silent winds." Praise m e ! " I sa y; and look, not in a glass,But in your eyes, to see my image thereOr in your mind; you smile, I am eontented;Y ou look at m e, with interes t unfeigned,And l istenI am pleased; or else, alone,I watch these bubbles veering brightly upwardFrom unknown depthsmy si lver thoughts ascending:Saying now this, now that, hinting of all thingsDreams, and desires, velleities, regrets,Faint ghosts of memory, st range recognit ionsBut al l with one deep meaning: this is I ,This is the glistening secret holy I,This silver-winged wonder, insubstantial,Th is singing ghost. . . . A nd hearing, I am warned,You see me moving, then, as one who movesFor ever at the centre of his circle:A circle filled with light. A nd into itCome bulging shapes from darkness, loom gigantic,Or hudd le in dark again. . . . A clock ticks clearly,A gas-jet steadily whirs, l ight streams across m e ;Two church bel ls , with al ternate beat , st rike nine;A n d throu gh these thing s my pencil pushes softlyTo weave grey webs of lines on this clear page.Snow fal ls , and melts; the eaves make l iquid music;Black wheel-tracks l ine the snow-touched street ; I turnAnd look one instant at the half-dark gardensWhere skeleton elm-trees lean with frozen gesturesAbove unsteady lamps, with black boughs flungAgainst a luminous snow-filled grey-gold sky." Bea uty !" I cry. . . . M y feet move on, and take m eBetween dark walls, with orange squares for windows.Beauty: beheld like some one half-forgotten,

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Remembered , wi th s low pang, as one neglected . . . .Well , I am frustrate: l i fe has beaten me,The thing I st rongly seized has turned to darkness,And darkness rides my heart. . . . These skeleton elm-treesLeaning against that grey-gold snow-filled sky" B ea ut y! " they say, and at the edge of darknessExtend vain arms in a frozen gesture of protest . . ' .A clock ticks softly; the gas-jet steadily whirs:The pencil meets its shadow upon clear paper,Voices are raised, a door is slamm ed. T he lovers,Murmuring in the adjacent room, grow si lent ,Th e eaves ma ke l iquid music. . . . H ou rs have passed,And nothing changes, and everything is changed.Exultat ion is dead; Beauty is harlotA n d walks th e streets. Th e thi ng 1 strongly seizedHas turned to darkness, and darkness rides my heart .If you could solve this darkness, you would have me.This causeless melancholy that comes with rain,Or on such days as this, when large wet snowflakesD ro p heavily, with rain . . . whence rises this ?Well , So-and-so this morning, when I saw him,Seemed much preoccupied, and would not smile;And you, I saw too much; and you, too l i t t le ;And the word I chose for you, the golden word,The word that should have struck so deep in purpose,And set so many doors of wish wide open,You let it fall, and would not stoop for it,A nd laughed at m e ; and would no t let me guessW he th er you saw it fall. . . . The se things , togeth erW it h other thing s, still slighter, wove to music,And th is in turn drew up dark memories ;An d there I stand. This music breaks and bleeds me,Turning all frustrate dreams to chords and discords,Faces, and griefs, and words, and sunlit evenings,And chains self-forged that will not break nor lengthen,

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And cries that none can answer, few will hear.Have these things meaning ? Or would you see more clearlyIf I should say, " m y second wife grows tedious,Or , l ike gay tulip , keeps no perfum ed secret ?"Or "one day dies eventless as another,Leaving the seeker stil l unsatisfied,And more convinced life yields no satisfaction?"Or "seek too hard, the sight at length grows cal lous,A nd be au ty shines in vain ?"

These things you ask for,The se you shall have. . . . So, talkin g w ith m y first wife,A t th e dark end of evening, when she leanedAnd smiled at me, with blue eyes weaving websOf finest fire, revolving me in scarlet,Calling to mind remote and small successionsOf countless other evenings ending so,I smiled and met her kiss, and wished her dead;Dead of a sudden sickness, or by my handsSavagely killed; I saw her in her coffin,I saw her coffin borne downstairs with trouble,I saw myself alone there palely watching,Wearing a mask of grief so deeply actedT ha t grief itself possessed me . Tim e would pass,And I shall meet this girlmy second wifeAnd drop the mask of grief for one of passion.Forward we move to meet , half hesi tat ing.W e drown in each other 's eyes. W e laugh, we talk,Lo okin g now here, now there, faint ly pretendin gW e do not hear the powerful pulsing preludeRo aring beneath our words. . . . Th e t im e approaches.W e lean unbalanced. T he m ute last glance between us,Profoundly searching, opening, asking, yielding,Is steadily m e t: our two l ives draw toge ther . . .. . . " W h at are you thinkin g of ?" . . . M y first wife 's voiceScat tered these ghosts. " O nothing nothing m uch

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Just wondering where we'd be two years from now,A n d what we m ight be doing." . . . A nd the n rem orseTurned sharply in my mind to sudden pi ty,A nd pi ty to echoed love. An d one more eveningDrew to the usual end of sleep and silence.A n d, as it is with this, so too with all thing s.The pages of our l ives are blurred pal impsest :N ew lives are wre athed on old lives half-erased,And those on older stil l ; and so forever.T he old shines throug h the new an d colours i t . . .Wha t ' s new ? what's old ? All things have double meanings,A ll thing s retu rn . I write a line with passion(Or touch a woman's hand or plumb a doctrine)Only to find the same thing done before,On ly t o know the same thin g comes to-morrow . . .This curious riddled dream I dreamed last night.Six years ago I dreamed i t jus t as no w ;Th e same ma n stooped to m e ; we rose from darkness,And broke the accustomed order of our days,And s t ruck for the morning world , and warmth , and freedom.. .W ha t does i t me an? W hy is th is h in t repeated?What darkness does i t spring from, seek to end?You see me, then, pass up and down these stairways,Now through a beam of l ight , and now through shadow,Pu rs uin g silent ends. N o rest ther e is,N o mo re for m e than you. I move here always,From secret room to room, from wall to wall,Searching and plotting, weaving a web of days.This i s m y house , and now, perhaps , you know m e . . .Yet I confess, for all my best intentions,Once more I have deceived y o u . . . . I wi thholdTh e one th ing precious , the one dark th ing tha t guides m e :And I have spread two snares for you, of lies.

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N o, I shall no t say why it is th at I love you W h y do yo u ask m e, save for vanity ?Surely you would not have me, like a mirror,Say "Y es, yo ur hair curls darkly back from t he tem ples,Your mouth has a humorous, t remulous, half-shy sweetness,Yo ur eyes are Ap ri l -g re y . . . wi th jonquil s in them ?"N o, if I tell at all , I shall tell in s il e n c e .. .I 'l l saymy childhood broke through chords of musicO r we re the y c hord s of sun ?wherein fell shado ws,Or silences; I rose through seas of sunlight;Or sometimes found a darkness stooped above me,W it h wings of dea th, and a face of cold clear bea uty.I lay in the warm sweet grass on a blue May morning,My chin in a dandelion, my hands in clover,A nd drowsed there l ike a b e e . . . b lue days behind meStretched like a chain of deep blue pools of magic,Enc hanted , s i len t, t im el es s . . . days before meMurmured of blue-sea mornings, noons of gold,Green evenings, streaked with lilac, bee-starred nights.Confused soft chords of music fled above me.Sharp shafts of music dazzled my eyes and pierced me.I ran and turned and spun and danced in the sunlight,Shrank, sometimes, from the freezing silence of beauty,Or crept once more to the warm white caves of sleep.N o , I shall not say, "This is why I praise youBecause you say such wise things, or such fool ish. . ."Y ou would n ot , have me say what you kn ow bet te r ?Let me instead be silent, only sayingMy childhood lives in meor half-lives, ratherAnd, if I close my eyes, cool clouds of musicBlow up to m e . . . l ong chords o f w ind and su n l ig h t . . .Shadows of intricate vines on sunlit walls,Deep bel ls beat ing, with ons of blue between them,Grass blades leagues apart with worlds between them,W al l s rush ing up to heaven wi th s ta r s upon t h e m . . .

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I lay in ray bed, and through the tall night windowSaw the green l ightning plunging among the c louds ,And heard the harsh rain s torm at the panes and roof.How should I knowhow should I now rememberW h a t half-dreamed great wings curved and sang above m e?What wings l ike swords ? W h at eyes with the dread night int h e m ?This I sha l l s ay .I lay by the ho t whi te s and-dunes . . .Small yellow flowers, sapless and squat and spiny,Stared at th e sky. A nd silently there above us,Day after day, beyond our dreams and knowledge,Presences swept, and over us s treamed their shadows,Swif t and b lue , o r d a r k . . . W h at did they mean ?W h a t s in ister threa t of power ? What h in t o f beau ty ?Prelude to what g igant ic music , or subt le?Only I know these things leaned over me,Brooded upo n me , paused, we nt f lowing softly,Glid ed and passed. I loved, I desired, I hate d,I s truggled, I yielded and loved, was wa rmed to blossom.You, when your eyes have evening sunlight in them,Set those dunes before me, those salt bright f lowers,These pr es en ce s . . . I drowse, they st ream above me .I s trugg le, I yield and love, I am warm ed to dream .Y ou a re th e windo w (if I could tell I 'd tell yo u)Through which I see a clear far world of sunlight.You are the s ilence ( if you could hear you'd hear me)In which I remember a thin s ti l l whisper of s inging.I t is no t you I lau gh for, you I to uc h!My hands that touch you, suddenly touch white cobwebs ,Coldly silvered, heavily silvered with dewdrops;And clover , heavy with ra in ; and cold green grass . . .

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O T A K A R B R E Z I N A

E T E R N A L Y E A R N I N G(TRANSLA TED FROM THE CZECH BY P. SELV ES.)

[Ota kar Brezina was born fif ty-two y ears ago in wha t is now Czechoslov akia. His five volumes of poems Secret Distances (1895) , Western Dawn-ing (1896) , Polar Winds (1897) , Temple Builders (1899) and The Hands,(1901) with thei r st r ikingly individual style, mark the development ofBrezina's at t i tu de towards the universe and the mystery of l ife. Th eyran ge from th e subjective pessimism of th e first collection to th e ob jectiveoptimism of the last . Brezina has also publishe d Mu sic of the Springs(1903), a series of prose essays which repeat and amplify the ideas containedin his po etry. I t is from this volume th at th e following trans lation hasbeen m ade . P. S . ]

A C R O S S al l distances of t ime and space the brethren of asingle kindred yearn one for th e other. Ev ery responsewhich they surmise from silence of earth, every secret which hasremained mu te to them , every dream to w hich they dreadedto avow themselves, draws them together. A s if they wereperform ing t he b ehests, issued by the m amid h ypn otic sleep inano ther l ife, the y approach on e to th e o ther up on pa ths of allspring-tides, throu gh stillness of all night-tim es. Th ey w ereborn at th e same hou r in eternity . T he images of their spiritualcountena nces are mirrored side by side, wh en they quaff weariness from a single fount of eternal w aters. Th ey are predestinedto toil for themselves and to pass their uncompleted labour onfrom hand to hand. Dying, they bequeath one to the other thewea lth of their k indred, their secret places of treasure-trov e,the una tone d gu ilt , the ungained victories, th e infirmity of the irgaze. Th eir de stiny is fulfilled, whe n the y hav e found eachother amid radiance of earth; and even when it seemed as ifthey parted, yet do they never part . Only from each otherdo they receive gifts w ithou t hum iliation. On ly with th e

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bestows growth upon the dazzl ing herbage of the shores throughou t its cou rse age after age ;all th a t is invisible to re nd er visibleby their breath;in a kingly procession to twine their way amidmultitudes who step aside with a whisper of reverence in abjectawe at the splendour of the court;to constrain every pair ofhands to toil on their behalf throughout the whole expanse ofthe earth, to grasp all i ts fields, to impose their symbols uponthou ght , to set their aims upon toi l, their s tamp upon tradi t ion,their m ean ing upo n love, to give vindication to their prevailingpassion, their interpretation to life and death ;with royal bountyto amass all earth's treasures, and to bestow ; for to bestow fromone's own, to bestow th rou gh ou t ages, all etern ity to bestow ,is th e spirit 's loftiest bliss and prid e, its exa lted tend ern ess, th esecret cause of all contest.But even when geniuses have achieved power for their spirit-kindred, and when by their will they victoriously impinge uponthe toil of myriads, they dwell rejected in the depths of life, andlabour in concealment . W it h arde nt labour do they come toknow one the other before works of their forgotten masters.Their t rembling, shadow-whitened hands turn over pages of theirannals, they strengthen with new consciousness of earth and waittil l conquerors become weary, t i l l their own day arises, t i l lgov ernm ent falls drunk en, ti l l they enter th e bu ilding-placeswhich shall be the bliss of their builders.

Thus does the kindred of spiri ts al ternate at the unendinglabour, even as implements of husbandry al ternate with thepoise of the earth tow ards the sun and with th e a dvance of t heseasons. A nd even as th e lower hu m us, which has to be upturn ed by th e plou gh, th at i t m ay spread its l iving stuff for thegro wth of life, so do hidden pow ers wait th rou gh ou t the wholegirt h of th e world for th e whirlwind plough of the will . B uteven the will is subject to a statute, in accordance with whichthe lower forms toil for the higher, all hands for delicate,potent spirit-hands, fathoming sense and coherence of the wholelabour. Is no t th e acme of earth's hope th at the highest kindredof spirits should gain sway over the earth ?19

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They passed through the world, subjugators, martyrs, andfanatics of th e will. Betw een their strong hands nations wereknead ed like dou gh, cities blazed, sorrow seethed. A nd at th elast they sank down, weakened, broken beneath th e burden ofthe super-hum an task of welding in to unity the shat teredm ultitu des , and of bracing the who le earth for ages within th eframe of a single law. Th ey came to grief, because their labourwas destroyed in the depths of life by inchoate struggles ofspirits. B u t th e eterna l thirs t for un ity which, tho ugh theyknew it not, gave rise to their tragical frenzy, is preserved fromage to age in th e will of myriads. I t shall seethe am id spiritsas it has seeth ed, and it shall send forth gre at unifiers t o the irown age as it has sent them forth. I t desires the w hole ea rth,the whole cosmos, the whole of eternity amid struggles ofreligions and languages. U po n remains of cities and temp leswill blossom th e gar dens of the wise, th at the y too m ay labourin th e spirit-world at t he holy toil of unity. F or th e sake oftheir dream, fires of all forges blaze, toilers of science strugglein laboratories, slaves in mines, commissioners of fleets, princesof marts; i ts radiance flashes from the feverish gaze of inventors,who are ever seeking fresh paths that bring nations closer acrossoceans, th at bear th e voice into dis tan t places, th at bind everm ore del icate l inks between beings. Po ets d ream over ruinedstatues of bygone conquerors, over inscriptions covering walls ofroyal palaces. M usic and ima ge bestow stren gth on their verses,wherein are revived anew the g estures of the t rium pha nt , whovainly with too daring a hand desire to entrap myriads in meshescontrived through ages.

T he mos t fateful pain of earth arises from constrain t andirresistible drooping of the will , that i t cannot enfold the magicalexercise of its growth and fruition, and join in the labour of itsspirit-kindred. I t is th e sorrow of a wo und, which has m aim edth e hand of the Creator, the sorrow of impo tence and decay.Bodily pain of m an seldom thru sts i ts axe so deep as to hinderthe ascent of the sap to the loftiest branches of the spiritual tree.Often it lops only the side branch es, and like a hus ban dm an20

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guides its crown to a height which it otherwise would not attain.B u t if a secret wo und pen etrate s to the soul and fills i t withletha rgy and somn olence, ther e arise plights of the spirit whichhave been fathom ed to such d epth s by religious geniuses of allages w ith the vision of seers. The se are relapses of m ut edespair which chang e th e dance of worlds and spring-tides intoa burial procession, and the age-long endeavours of nations intomean ingless play. Vainly do you the n search amid all frenziesof th e senses and amid all venom s of oblivion. You will notovercom e the horror of emp tiness wafted to you as if froma colossal to m b by icy dark ness from th e cosmos ablossomwith stars.

A ge s w ane , wills and beliefs toil engulfed by high er beliefs,and all by th e belief thr ou gh which worlds are enra ptured .W h o has grasped the m arvels of their unceasing m otion ? U p o nw hat joyful stars does th eir splendou r proceed , whe n even uponth e pov erty of our earth we pause in awe before th e dazzlingpossibilities of life and of dream ?

Th ere are grades upo n which the will knows nei ther hatrednor contest. In delicate glitte ring of comp assion it fills glanceswith radiance. I t has fathome d ever ything , and it broods in abrood ing boundless as th e universe. It s year ning goes no higher.Glow of higher w orlds is quench ed because of it . W h a t is th eharm ony of the spheres beside the grievous m usic of sufferinghearts ? In meekness i t descends amid throngs of brethren, andw ith the stre ngth by w hich it attain ed its lofty place, i t yearnsto sever the shackles clasping th e num berless . B ut if i t ispossible to share one's brea d w ith hu ng ry lips, is it also possibleto sh are one's visions of the world with hu ng ry gazes ?B u t even above this will , princely and hum ble, which desiresto see na ug ht beyon d earth and toil upon the fields of bre thren ,the re are ye t o ther g rades. Gra des, wh en th e will ceases to be

affrighted by th e infinity of pain, when it g rasps the m ysticalneed for ages of transition, and in its thirst i t craves to havethousands of lives that i t might know all suffering, thousands ofhand s, t ha t i t m igh t k now all toil , thous and s of senses, th at i t21

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m igh t possess all things , th ru st life forward int o all flames,sharpen and quicken its spiritual contests and soar with all wingsof tho ug ht and reverie until i t had achieved the que st whoseglory it forebodes, altho ugh it could not frame wo rds for it. B utthe whole heaven of stars, all secrets of time, like springtidemists , concealing magical gardens not yet in blossom, lie betweenit and its ques t. A nd ye t its gaze does no t lose the feverishecstasy of the warrior in the advance, and though perpetuallydeluded, it does not cease to sing, to love, to believe and tocreate. " The Music of the Springs."

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E D W A R D J . O ' B R IE N

P A S T I C H E SI .FOUR O ' C L O C K : M E N AS T R E E S W A L K I N G .

(T , S. E .)

MOCKING from a p lush t rapezeArabella hunts for fleas,Gravely quiescent Jumbo l iesContemplat ing mysteries.Mrs . Geoghegan rust les inAs if she had a secret sin,But Rumpelmayer rushes outAnd then i t al l becomes a rout .If the sad shade of dipusWere reborn in an octopus ,Complexities would soon arise,But chi ldren are without surmise.Decorum marches them out of the roomAnd turns them over to a groom.Life dines out on curried eggs,Served by Burmese with tat tooed legs.But a funeral drives down the street,Last obsequies of a parakeet,Whose ruffled feathers sneered at people,And a bell tolls in the Methodist steeple.Rumpelmayer rushes inCalling for redbreast and the wren.Mrs. Geoghegan flut ters outTrai l ing a green and purple clout ,

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I 'm going to the South Sea IslandsOr else to the Montmartre highlands,To have a cup of tea with GauguinOr mould museum groups for Rodin.

I I . H O M A G E TO L A F O R G U E .(E . P . )

Grave medicoes hintT he decease of m y ma ternal paren t due to sent im ental disturbances. H a - h a !My deplored parent .They murmur tha t my pass ingTo similar shades is, on the whole, imminent.That the fluttering of my heart 's coreIs a maternal summons.

Pundi t s suggest when I leave my nurseryA proximate collapse." By Pluto 's wounds,A rummy beggar ! "Not a forward progressionWithout path-leaving, col ic of the bel ly, regurgi tat ion.A n d th at valvular flutteringIs a maternal summons.I leave Piccadilly behindW it h the disinterested view of app roving a crepuscu le.(It is quite irregular,But what odds!)The sun's a heart , I may point out , not wholly unlike mine,Fi l tering away i ts bloody sap.Mine pulsing from coffee-time to coffee-timeIs a maternal summons.

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If only LaisW ou ld grasp i t competen t lyBefore the spring snaps.Her dislike is futile,Granted tha t Acheron is in the middle distance,And that she likes cold plunges.That rat t l ing blood-pump (i t is becoming a cliche!)Is a materna l summons.

B ut n o, the y all ru b the salt in my wo unds with sadisticpleasure,Saving always, of course, the sun's heart,(Heigh-ho !)And my materna l paren t .I would only crave indulgent leaveTo trespass in similar shades.M y heart 's core flutters so !

. . . I s i t you r ma te rna l summons ?

I I I . M i s s S L I P P F R S I N G S A R O U N D .(E . S . )Robin redbreast in his t reeFlutes a crystal song to me.

I will dance in a fairy ringOf oranges, and I shall singOf the pointil l istic hoops of l ightThat flicker t i l l they meet my sightIn the brazen paths of St . Giles ' Fair ,And the pat tern of the vermil ion stairThe bourgeoisie climb to the top of a 'busMyopically giggling at the rest of us.

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IV.LONDON.(J . C. S q , )

I .Turn back your thoughts a thousand years, and t henAn other thousand, t i ll you see a fen.L i t by the moon , its brackish currents swirlTo points of l ight that widen as they twirl .The ci ty was not builded that we know,And savages adorned with woad did goWeari ly through its channels in l ea ther boats ,Y e t did the birds then sing the selfsame notesThey sing this golden day of early MayW i t h i n the Temple Gardens clear and gay.

I I .Long centuries reclaimed it from the marshAnd st i l l the birds sang, thou gh the wind were harshAnd st i l l . . .X L I I .

. . . know the wayMan governed by the l ight of his l i t t le daySti l l rears proud monuments for sifting TimeTo file away to ru ins gemmed wi th r ime.

V.CHINATOWN.(V L y . )Chinamen gathered in a big top room.Vermilion walls and a great blue table.Flaying fan-tan with lit t le clucking noises,Playing fair as far as they are able.Thick smoke raising in a dark blue cloud,A curtain of dusk above that calm-faced crowd,

Have you heard what the papers are saying ?Chinamen from Pekin and f rom Hong Kong too,Chinaman from Fu Chow and from far Chefoo,

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With lightsyncopation.

With a hintof mystery.Recitative.

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Ding-dongAnd a bel lIn the downstairs roomSays : " Something's wrong,Something's wrongIn the upstairs room."W a r of Tong ,Ding-dong ,War o f Tong ,Ding-dong ,

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With a suddenloud crackling.Dreamily, butwith completeabandon.

From the Great Wall of China and the land of Wang,The Yenisei and the Yang-tse-kiang,Chinamen from Frisco and from Malabar,Chinamen from Kingston and from Panama,All playing round a great blue table,All playing fair as far as they are able,B U T !Have you heard w hat the papers are saying ?Over the dark blue forestOf smoke the Chinamen weave,I see the red roofs of a villageWhere al l the maidens grieve,And the night-bird with silver feathersSings in the heart of the nightTh e song of H on gThat ends ding-dong,Bell from the watch-tower bright .D ing-dongRings the songOf the daugh ters of H on g.Song of wrong,Song of wrong,Song of wTong,Hovering over the dark blue forestOf smoke the Chinamen weave.

Slowly andplangently.

Emotional responsemust here beassumied by theaudience, whoshould be childrenplaying pirates.

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And a pistol cracksAnd a Chinaman falls,And a sandbag whacks,And a Chinaman falls,And voices boomIn that terrible roomAround the great blue table.Triumph of TongOver sons of Hong,And the blue cloud hoversOver terrible wrong.Death of HongAnd the sons of Hong.Had they heard what the papers were

VI.-CYCLE.(A

saying

Ll . )

Exultingly, witha firm resolutionof the finalharmonies.

?

A sword cuttingThe equal stillness,Shafted lightRinging metallic music,Rising tideOf mirrors, clamouring, calling,Gold!Downward javelins,Hurtling, quivering, thrusting,Shock of bodies,Jagged emerald flashes,Whistle, wind.Whisper, grass.Curl in your sheath.Crumble,Crumble.

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Flight of doves,Ripple of burnished waters ,Shadow cropping the mounta in-s ide ,Three popla rs .Over the valley,Over the wine-foamed river,Over the flute-player,Over the basking lizard,Over the grassblade,Over the dust on the pebble ,Wings hove r .Poise , diminish,Starry points die .. . . Tuberoses dreamingUnder the frosty moon.

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GERALD GOULD

T H E U N R E T U R N I N G T H I N GY O U see this childWho in to-morrow knows not yes terday:L e t him stand for the symbo l of th at wildPulse of the world 's untaught unteachable heartWhere al l incredible emotions startLike dust of flowers in the sun's sudden ray.You know the hush beforeT he orchestra begins :You shiver at the shutting of a door,And sicken at your new-remembered sins.My dear ,Do you remember, in the early year,When for a li t t le silence we were one,How our thought took the colour of the sun ?The waves of apple-blossom brokeIn bri l l iant foam against the bl ue :You moaned upon my l ips, and st i rred, and spoke,A nd the n were still again. T he world was you.The world was what your loving isA lane of l ight through dust of mysteries:The world was what your lips forgot to speakU po n m y lips. I looked up and saw wingsLike swords bare in the sunlight : black they rose,First black, then silversilver again, and black,In long a t tenuated t rackAcross the thin faint daytime: love grew weak,Sagged, and forgot i ts own rem em berin gs:Our hearts, unwil l ing, knew what music knows:And you went from me as the si lence goesA t th at first crying of the at te m pted strings.My arms were hungrier than a mother 's breast

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That cannot suckle the soft l ips it needs.My hopes were bruised and broken reeds.M y m outh sa id : " God knows best ,"And my hear t gave my mouth the l ie .The black and silver wings against the skyFlew to the peace that you had robbed me of.O unforeseen and unreturning love,W e had had ou r m om ent ! Every mom ent a fte rWas bi t ter with the hint of your return,A nd you returne d, and were not you. Th e laughterOf devils drowns the cries of souls that bum,And that 's the secret dreadfulness of hell .H ad you been harsh, i t had been we ll ;But you were tender when you came,And leant to me with the old smile and kiss;Y ou said: " D o you rem em ber tha t , and this ?"And noth ing was the same. Yo u see this chi ld. H e waits,Unconscious , by the undivulg ing gates :His ear has heard the tuning; and, intent ,H e guesses wh at shall leap and flowerTo top the ta l l t r iumphant hourW he n ins t rumen t is wed to ins t rument .So is it with the childish heart of manThat has learnt nothing since the world began.O infinitely touching!pilgrim stillUp the recurring disappoint ing hi l l !O heart as breakable as the first heart wasThat fal tered, st range to loss!O heart as flower-like, with each morning new,Brave to drink disappointment up l ike dew!O vessel squandered on the careless sea!O m y one love, the one love gone from m e ! It is not age tha t breaks and s tales :I t is not imp otence that fai ls:It is not weakness that despairs!

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The rash and splendid and impatient airsThat blow about the meadows and the shores,A nd search the n oon for clouds, and shake th e bellsTo clamour in unconquered ci tadels,And take the stars and stat ions in their course The se, i t is these th at break the heart , tha t loseW h a t they have learnt not to refuse,Sweet dancing fools,So large, so bold, so ignorant of the spanSet for the reach and a m plitu de of m an !Ours was the summer hour: and now the tune ,Rhythmic, returns according to the rules,And ends not late nor soon.Y ou see this ch ild; h e, ev'n as you and I,Wil l watch that black and si lver stab the sky,Flying into the silence, flying free.W h y tel l him wh at he will not understand ?The ship for ever puts off from the land,And finds for ever nothing but the sea,It burnsthe flower-flame that the leaves uncover,Setting the heart free to accept the springThe mendicant of morning, and the loverOf the unforeseen and unretur ning thing.

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F R A N K G O U L D I N G

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R U S S E L L G R E E N

THE LOVE-SONG OF A PESSIMIST : 1920I S H A L L no t mee t you on the pa in ted pavementAs 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 l is tening to the unconvincingRomanticisms unfired by mental ardourOf 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 ta le of love ,A tale to which you lis ten courteously,W it h wistful silence, with affectionate deferenceThen turn again to your versati l i t ies .For when I speak of loving concentrationAnd when I speak of mutual servitude,My sombre words go drif t ing, drif t ing by youLike sombre seaweed drif t ing by a mermaidPlaying in the froth and foam of a sunlit sea.On stony ground the seeds of my evangelFor ever fruit less fa llyou know the parable;The stony ground is your void scepticism,Silent and void as interstellar spaces,Wherein may fall the very s tars of beautyAnd fall beyond the borders of the starland.My burning words l ike meteoric f lashesAgains t the purple of a n ight in Augus tTorn suddenly by the momentary Ple iads ,Gleam and and are gone in the clear cold void abyssesOf your ingenuous cunning philis t inism,Sun k with out sound in your sweet and treacherousDark chosen deliberate girlish shallowness.

* * * *33 c

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Lo ve is an arc of light u pon th e darkne ss,A phosphorescence curving like a rainbowOf flame between conspired imaginations,The l iving art of two creat ive art ists ,Th e silent symp hony of unheard music,The rhythm concealed in the uncarven marble,The only earthly t ransubstant iat ion,Whereby the human body i s commutedInto a perfect and eternal symbolOf incarnated beauties, permanences,Hopes, ecstasies, abandonments, ambit ions.H ere is the road th at anch ori tes and mystics,Philosophers and devotees and dreamers,Have sought, foretold, imagined, lost . . .

* * * *

A ll this I tell you. Y ou prefer you r dances,Your t insel erethisms, your carousals,Your dull , mechanical rout ine engagements,Your drunken midnight revels whence you fl ingBack to your suburb in a cushioned motor.You find it so much easier to followYour customary s ta le rout ine engagementsPrescribed by cavaliers who rather like you.You cannot pierce the fallacy of pleasuresT ha t are pursued, mechanical , external .I wish that you could see yourself as I do,A vict im bound upon the ribboned treadmil l ,Whose feet will soon be wearied with recurrence,Creaking recurrence of an endless sequenceThe serpent pleasure that devours itselfIn pitiless infinities of ennui.# # # #

I can but think your nerves are of a fibreToo coarse to feel these delicate vibrationsEnough to reach your central ganglion34

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To light the flame of an ideal reaction.I can but think your blood is far too viscousTo tremble with the shaking flame of love,To quiver with the old ideal ardours.I fear th at you will feel no mo re the lovely,Swift sweet reactions of the blood eternalFrom al l the fragrance of a summer morningW ash ed w ith warm dew and south-west rain and sunshine.Y ou have t ra nsm uted blood into an idolTo which you offer bloated sacrificesOf baked dead flesh and nauseous syntheticLoud scents and artificial wines and cognac.

# * * *Bloo d is a god of infinite intellig enc eMute in del iberate creat ive cunning,Building the slow red coral of humanityInto the ul t imate reef that shal l bar outThe ancient sullen surges of death and darknessBeating for ages on the organic foreshore.But in your blood, unfired by love, recedingReceding goes my hope to be immortal .

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R U S S E L L G R E E N

A P H O R I S M SA R T is mem ory a t t empt ing immor ta li ty .T I M E is l ike a poor relation: it stays too long and whenit goes takes something away with i t .

How great the insight of the patrons of immoral novels !theycan read between the sheets.LET US l ive with a will and die without one.F R E E D O M of choice is useless without the instinct of selection.T H E polygamy of the body chal lenges the monogamy of theheart .R O M A N C E to the imaginat ion is distance; to the emotions,abandonmen tH U M A N I T Y hate s chang e and loves variety. I t comp romises inopt imism.

is a melodrama in the evening, a farce on th e m orningafter. On ly th e apotheosis of retrosp ect raises it to the sub limityof t ragedy and comedy.W H E N argument comes up the stairs of the past, love flies out ofthe window of the future.M A R R I A G E is a form of emotional insurance; divorce a realisationof your surrender value.K N O W L E D G E may be power, but imaginat ion is omniscience.E A C H year one rises from the dead past to find a humoroussatisfaction in dancing on one's own tombstone.A L T R U I S M is the disguise which desire steals from honour.W O M A N is th e sea of b arba ric flesh bea ting in desire fordestruction against the base of the lighthouse of the brain.I T is because the strong eat each other that the meek shal linheri t the earth.L I F E is an experiment in the art of living.

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Do not reason with the cynic; retal iate.How curious to imagine that one cannot be a man unless one isa devi l !T H E atheist is one who cannot see wood for trees.I N D I S C R E T I O N is the name that cowards give to t ruth.T H E only criterion of love is the degree of impatience withwhich you wait for the postman.CY N I CI S M is an anticipation of the historical perspective.ONE cannot be a law unto oneself without being a lawbreaker toothers.F R E E will is th e refinement of anthro pom orp hism ; b oth a reat tempts to put God in his place.M I N D , a device to facilitate self-deception.A CYNIC is one who tel ls you the t ruth about your own motives.I M A G I N A T I O N is the separate memory of the senses.A MAN wa nts first sym path y, the n sin. A wife is a wom an whogives him both.E M O T I O N is the fourth dimension of the mind.T H E god of the rationalist is himself.T H E i l lusion of immortality is the mirage of the memory of therace.R E P R E S S I O N is th e refuge of th e wea k.S E N T I M E N T A L I T Y is a name given to the emotions of others.C A L L no man genius t i l l he is dead; i t might be t rue.T H E divine myopia of desire is spared the vision of the ultimatehorizon of despair.B R E V I T Y is the soul of passion.R E L I G I O N is more popular than art because prevention is bettertha n cure. Im agin ation is the disease.F A T A L I S M is the tribute that indolence pays to enterprise.C O N S E R V A T I S M is fear masquerading as wisdom.

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E . P O W Y S M A T H E R S

FREDERICK OLDING'S SONG ABOUTW I N E I S L A N D

(very, very slowly.)SING your song,

Your only song, Frederick Olding.Frederick OldingTired er ships,For they moans as they sl ipsOver seven thousand leagues, strike me, er white untidy sea,Never holding, never holding,Never holding at Wine Island,Where me an ' Henry Simpson went an ' ghost-girl laughed atm e.Seen God sitting down, I tell yer,On lavender at Wine IsleAnd whisper ing a l l angry: "Henry S impson, Henry S impson,Leave ghost-girl with her eyes er gold,Dirty gold, to Frederick,And drink the green-rock pool er wineI sell yer:For i t 's mine,Henry S impson,It is mine,Which the water-beet les l imps onDrunk as swine ;And it lays beside the red rick

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Of the straw that bore the stars,And yer pays me with the searsOf yer soulHenry Simpson, lad, an' I will make 'em wholeIn a li t t le while."Ghost-girl 's big golden breastsThey was like to gildy cupsThat you sometimes sees in churches,And, I tel ls meself, they upsAnd they wags as she lurchesWith ole Frederick round the poolWhich is st rong and red and cool;And they drops jest a li t t le as she rests.It was old Jew merricles of a sort,I t was st icky l ike the Doctor 's port ;And Harry was a red dead buffaloIn the middle rol l ing round,And he would er-swimming goRound an ' round, very slow, round an ' round.Ghost-girl she was yellerish against the red an' green.Like a naked Spanish queenThat i s young,Her hair was blue and blackDown a gold moised back,And plucky nearly purple was her tongue,Her tongue, her tongue,Like a wriggling purple butterfly her tongue.The atol i t was natural-baked adobeWhere a' n 'ape with parts er red would playA t half before the sun-power every d a y ;And clever-l ike I cal ls: George Robey.Ghost-girl had a calling noteLike si lver water laughing in a throat ;

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Gerobay, Gerobay.I hear i t in the Pompey pubs,A naked golden ghost that swingsIts t rol l ibubsAnd s ings :Gerobay, Gerobay, Gerobay.Her eyes were gold and wet and black,Who's that er-cal l ing?Her hair i t fel l adimpsydown adimpsydown her back,W ho 's th at er-cal ling so sweet ?Lighten our darkness, we beseech thee, O Lord.Lots er bottles er beer, old lady, lots er bottles er beer:Lots er lots er lots er bottles, lots er bottles er beer.

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"MICHAL "

THE FURNITURES C EN E : A room; night; everything alert and murmuring.T H E MIRROR : A large swinging mirror, narrow oval, on curved mahogany

legs, with claw feet.T H E CHAIR : A straight arm-chair, with spindly bars, green damask, and

shiny mahogany; an imitation Sheraton.T H E CLOCK : An oak grandfather clock, eight feet high, its door slightly ajar

and swinging.These pieces of furniture are quite out of keeping with each other and the

room; they belong to some one who doesn't care, or even dislikes furniture.When the clock speaks it sways a little from side to side, and the door swings.

The mirror slithers on its feet, and sometimes the light of the low fire isreflected on its face, sometimes moonlight from between the curtains. Thechair occasionally shivers to itself. The mirror has a very slight foreignaccent.T H E CHAIR. HOW did she look ?T H E MIRROR. She laughed and criedAnd in my face her face espied,And then unclasped the silver chain,

And sighed and turned and looked again.T H E CLOCK. Tick tock, tick tock,I'm so hungry.Tick tock, tick tock,Where's that little boy?

MIRROR . YOU always interrupt just whenI'm in the most delicious part!You say yourself it's half-past ten,Why , he's in bed an hour ago,And more ; because, of course, you're slowPerhaps you thought I didn't know ?But I was talking to the Chair:Where had I got to? Le t me see.The candle smoke went up quite straight

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Each side of me into the air;W it h long, slim hand s in front of meShe took the combs out of her hair.That she who'd been so white of lateWas al l a-t remble feet to head;With hasty hands she loosed her dress,She shook her foamy pet t icoatDown from her waist, her li t t le feetKicked off the pointed satin shoes,And then she slipt her bodice off,W it h underneath a hear t tha t beatSo hard her breasts shook up and down,And half her breath was l i t t le cries;As her last lace she stooped to looseHe came in, quick, with laughing eyes.

C H A I R . Which he ?M I R R O R . Oh, not the usual one,Th e one tha t m arried h er, oh no !This , I should think, could laugh and run.He was quite tal l and young and strong,With his black eyes he watched her so!She stood there, naked, soft, and round,(How I remember i t , a l thoughIt was quite fourteen years ago),Th ey looked and shook and m ade no sound ;Then she drew off the small gold ringAnd held i t s t raight above her head,Then let i t drop; and, openingWide her blue eyes to him, she said:' I hold to you , within, witho ut ,Witness the mirror and the c lock!"Then blew the two thin candles out .C H A I R . A nd was th at al l ?M IRR OR . Oh , al l I saw,Only I think he didn't l ieJust l ike a log all night and snore

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(Tha t 's what the m an she married did) !They didn't simply turn and sleepW h e n in the cool white sheets they slid,Though i t was quiet by-and-bye,And when the morning l ight came greyOn to the pillow where they layHis black head rested on her fairMasses of tangled silky hairTh ey were asleep. A nd by the doorThe lit t le ring lay on the floor.

C H A I R . And you were witness to the pledge,You and the Clock ?CL O CK . Tick tock, tick tock.M I R R O R . S O for our own, our prey, we claimThe chi ld who from that pledging came.CL O CK . I 'm so hungry ;

Where's my l i t t le boy!C H A I R . And did the other never know ?The man who married her, I mean.M I R R O R . Oh n o ! oh far to o dull and slow !But Robin, now, has got the keenBright eyes, quick body, and black head.H ow I should love to scare him dead !C H A I R . W h y have you never claimed him yet ?You stand there dozing in the shade,A nd soon he' ll be beyond y our rea ch ;He'll be fourteen before you know.Now they let children question so(Not l ike when you and I were made).

{ T H E M I R R O R makes a "moue" at this.)He's grown to doubt of both of you.For years he's not believed in thingsHe's read, been told of, or half seen,Fairies and witches, ghosts, black wingsThat used to wave behind the screen.Does he believe in God to-day ?

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You know he doesn't , and of youH e dre am s less often, does not stayTo glance at you across the room.And if he al together stopsHow could you take h im?

M I R R O R . Ye s, I know ;W e m ight have had him as a babe,But then we waited, let him grow,Oh, he 'd be much more frightened now!I t will be done. B ut here's th e rule(Somebody 's a lways making ru les) :His mother pledged him first with us,And through her womb we s tared a t h im,So she must give him up herself.She'l l do i t . Tim e mo re sureness bri ng s;One knows some things are certain things.

CL O CK . Tick tock, t ick tock,Big, big, l i t t le boy.Tick tock, t ick tock,More fo r me!M I R R O R . Coarse th in g! H e can ' t apprecia teThe pleasure of creating fear.H e thin ks of bones and blood and ha te,

Grea t b ru t e ! While I keep calm to hearT he breath com e jerking in the throa t ,See the mouth gape, eyes turned, and noteThe fingersC H A I R . H us h ! A step is near,Still in your place: she's coming here.

(SHE covies in; a woman of about thirty-five, a shawlover her dress. She sits down o n a couch, herhead in her hands.)S H E . God ! I t is most ly now ,W it h R obin asleep in bed,That I see the cheeks, the brow,His head like his father's head.

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And it all comes back, comes back,W h en there by his side I s tand,And see the fingers slack,His hand like his father's hand.

If this were only al l !But I know there is more to findAs he grows strong and tal l ,His mind like his father's mind.M I R R O R . I 'm sure she liked them well enough T ha t father's body and his mind(Although you can't divide the stuff)

To live with, l ie with, laugh with, love:I 'm old, perhaps, bu t I 'm not bl in d!And when he'd touched and kissed his fil l ,Breast, neck, and arms, below, aboveC H A I R . O h, hush , she'l l hear y o u; do keep still !(She has not noticed; she come s forward into theroom wildly.)S H E . Oh, peace, oh, rest from it , oh, peace, peace, peace,How happy one could be if children grewS traight from oneself, not mixed with any man,If men could go, and there'ld be a white worldW ith only wom en. Or if me n were cleanA nd k ind l ike women. W om en a lone are hum an.Men are half beasts: monkeys and pigs and dogsThat tear, scratch, dirty , ruin the sweet things,Or great cold fish that flop and goggle at one!Or if they could stay children all their lives,But they grow upRobin grows uphe feelsThe first vague achings of his man-ness come,Five years, ten years, and he'l l be quite a man,Ho rrible , horrible ! A nd in this houseA l l th ick wi th mem ories that, mu st be ba d ;The treacherous mirror and the piti less clock,

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They most remind me st i l l of those two menW h o had m y young, soft body in their arm s,Ah God, they used me so , they hurt me so!( S H E stands looking down, shaking.)M IR R O R . H O W white she is, how tall and white,W h e n she lets droop her eyelids slow,She makes me think of evenings, brightWith many candles, years ago,W he n she was only weeks a bride,And the nights followed when she criedAnd struggled l ike a wounded bird.T he thing s I've seen . . . the thin gs I've heard. . . .

S H E . Somewhere in the count ryThe leaves are quiet and green,H igh e lms in the edgesA nd the blue sky be tween . . .

N o , there ' ld be cows there, put to any bull ,Mares to a stal l ion, too, ewes to a ram!Wide sea, salt sea, and no land anywhere,No fishes in the deep, no gulls in air,But spray and waves unnumbered, deep and shoal ,S outh Po le and sweeping waters and No rth P ole . . .

Oh, Robin, baby, i f I could take you!No use, no use, his childhood's going, going,To -day he watche d a girl-child in th e road L ittl e fair Lily, with her soft, thin n eckBetween the curls and frockwalk with her hoopP as t him. N o dou bt he had no wish, no thoug ht ,No one desire yet to formulate,But then his father peered out of his eyes,Yes , and the whole fierce race of men that huntF or wom en. A nd each m an a child at f i rst!

M I R R O R . Yet she was willing to be preyWith tha t young hunter a t her heels!46

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To see her now you wouldn't sayShe's known, none better, how it feelsL ast da nce ! the hunt draws to i ts e n d:Drive home, lean back the whirl ing head,So kissable, to show that bendNeck , breast . Upstairs. A nd bed, bed, be d!SH E {wildly). B ut i t was not m y faul toh, n ot m y faul t !W h a t could I do eighteen? M y old, bad, husband'sOne pleasurehurt ing something, best , his wife,H urt ing me, body and mind, and laughing a t m e !Then when he came it seemed at first escape:E sc ap e! The re is none in a world of me n.Th e way they look, laugh, touch ! Oh, shame, shame,

shame.Then there was Robin, my poor baby, doomed,My weakness and his father's evil mixedTo form a child, a man-child, who'll grow upAnd bring more pain than joy, more bad than good.Ah God, I made h im; would I could unmake!Backwards, his innocent childhood, babyhood,Back into me, though all the pains of birthShould leap on me again, and further back,Unlive nine months, grow still and small and formless,Back out of consciousness, back out of life,Out of all self, all will , all memory,Into the never-has-been, the never-wil l -be!

(She goes out of the room, throwing up her arms; theCL O CK ticks greedily; the M I R R O R wrinkles intoa smile.)

CL O CK (eagerly). Tick tock, tick tock,I 'm so hungry,Tick tock, t ick tock,No w, now, lit t le b oy !C H A IR . Oh Mirror, Mirror, will he come

To-n ight ?M I R R O R . B e q u i e t !

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C H A I R . O h ! I 'm d u mb .(The B OY comes in, in pyjamas, rubbing his eyes, his hair tousledwith sleep).R O B I N . I f I could only remember tha t G ree k! W ha t wasit ? I ' l l get i t in a m om ent. I do hate waking up su ddenly,half-hearing som ething. I wish M othe r were in her room .Per hap s she's dow nstairs . . . (calls) M o th er ! . . . She doesn' thear.CL O CK . Tick tock, t ick tock,I' m so . . .M I R R O R . H s s h !R O B I N . W h at on earth was th at ? . . . On e does hear suchqueer noises in the night . R ott en being awake. M ot he r! . . .Tha t Greek?M I R R O R {softly)

R O B I N {dreamily). Tha t 's i t . Y es . I wonder who quotedi t ; i t mu st have been someone ; last week perhaps. W h a t doesit me an ? . . . th e Fu rie s . . . singing over a victim . . . sendinghim mad . . . I wish I knew m ore Gre ek ; more al l sorts of things.W h at a horrible idea the F urie s : after all , Orestes was q uiteright . B ut i t never seems to m atter what people are l ike. J u stas nasty for good people as badworse ; that 's history . . . ugh !I ' l l go to bed again. I ' m glad I remem bered that . {He movesaway; the M I R R O R comes a little forward, so that the light shinesinto its face; the B OY sees it.)R O B I N . H ullo , that 's funny . . . Lo ok here, m y goodmirror, I don't bel ieve in furni ture that walks about!M I R R O R . Well Robin , look, our power extends:Y ou've always know n tha t we could speak,

(Why, I know Engl i sh , French, and Greek!)Come, don't be frightened, let 's make friends!E O B I N (rapidly). Da m n. I 'm dreaming. These th ingshappen in dr ea m s: not real ly. No . I shall wake up. W he n

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ARCHIPENKO

S T A TU E T T E

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one knows one's dreaming, one wakes up. Always, (violently)Yo u thingsM irror, Clock, Chair I don't believe in y ou ;I 'm not afraid!CL O CK . Tick tock, tick tock,Don't you, don't you ?Tick tock, tick tock,Aren't you, aren ' t you ?R O B I N . Oh, oh don ' t ! {much more frightened) Oh, pleased on 't! I 'l l believe in you ; I d o I'll do any thing you like !On ly don ' t !M I R R O R (soothingly). There, there, the stupid, cross old thingW on ' t hur t you. Only t rus t in me.Lo ok ! you can 't cal l m e frightening!

I've lived so long and seen so much:Wouldn't you l ike yourself to seeSome things I 've seenor well might see?R O B I N . Oh, than k you very m uc h ; anything. Only pleasedo n't troub le. Oh , it 's beginning. (Pictures come in the faceof the M I R R O R . ) The re 's Li ly Cavendish. H ow pre t ty! Standingthe re like a flower ! She's tak ing off her frock; I l ike her bette rin her petticoat. She's tak ing off her stockings ; wh at jolly legsshe hasOh, Mirror, Mirror! she 's taking off her pet t icoat!She m u st n ' t ! I t 's no t fair; you've never seen her undress.

She's no t to go o n ! Ve ry well, I wo n't look. (He shuts his eyes.)CL O CK (menacingly). Tick tock, tick tock,I 'm so hungry ,Tick , tock, tick tock , . . .R O B I N (flinchingly). Oh Lo rd, I can ' t stand that . I m ustsee what he's doing. (Looks at the C L O C K , which has not moved,then at the M I R R O R . ) Oh reallyshe's quite undressed ! She'slooking at the door. Oh, I say that 's me coming in ! Oh ,ugh, I 'm touching he r! I never have, I never could h av e!I don't wa nt t o ! W h y is she looking at me tha t beast ly way ?Oh, oh, oh, oh, no ! . . . Th an k Go d tha t 's gone. . . W h a t is i tnow ? Th at 's a s er va nt . . . Oh, look here, Mirror, she's not goingto undress to o ! Oh, do shut u p ! W h at nas ty th ings she wears

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underneath ; I do hate pink bows, pink dirty bows. She has go tug ly feet. O h, do stop ! I will shu t my eyes !CLOCK. Tick tock , t ick tock . . . ! (Com es a little nearer.)R O B I N . O h, if I don 't look he gets closer ! It 's n ot sounfairnot qui te so unfairlooking at this thoug h. H ow uglywo me n a re ! A ll floppy and bulgy and soft. I swear I 'l l neverma rry one. W h y need there be wom en at a l l? I t wou ld besuch a decen t world w ithou t. . . W h y on earth is she doingth a t ! No , Mirror , I won ' t have i t ! I won ' t , I won ' t , Iw on 't! . . . Th ere , she's passed. . . A wo ma n again. . . D on 'twomen do anything but undress ? . . . Is n' t she exc ited ! . . .Now she has pretty clothes, only silly ; very sil ly . H ere , M irror,there 's a man coming in , and he hasn ' t got any clothes on ei ther!

H ow can th e y ! . . . Oh , Mirror, s top i tit makes m e feel souncomfortable oh, don 't le t them ! O h, they can ' t b e ! Oh ,how beast lyis that wh at they do ! Oh , i t makes me sick.Th e fi lthy beas ts! Oh , oh, oh, i t 's M oth er ! (He shudders downon to the floor; the T hings whisper among themselves.)M I R R O R . I thought they would have been enough

My pic turesbut he 's tough , he 's tough;Besides he doesn ' t understand;One mus tn ' t t ru s t wha t women say ;His mother was qu i te wrong to-day .H e only think s of face and hand ,Not breast and bel ly , hip and thigh,W h e n he sees wom en passing by.He knows pure beauty, knows pure joy,But he 's not man yet , only boy!C H A I R . M ore pictures ! Y ou m ust m ove his fears.But suited to the fourteen years.

( R O B I N is now standing, his hands against the wall.He winces as the mirror pictures be gin again.)

R O B I N . N ot m ore undr essing! No . It ' s a spider. Com ingtowards one. (More and more horrified.) It was qui te a l i t t lespider, bu t i t grow s. O r is i t th at th e passage is so long ?It ' s a hairy spi de r; i t moves very quickly, with legs. I cou ldn't50

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t read on it . Now i t sto ps ; i t l isten s; st i l l ! I t 's mask head.N o spider is as big as tha t, unless thr ou gh a magn ifying glass.A glass th at magnifies some thi ng s? A glass. Is i t beh ind ?. . . It ' s com ing on. I n jer ks . If i t go t out. . . It ' s at th e edge.H o w ca n i t see m e ? . . . Is i t comingis it coming {he flattensagainst the wall). Oh, oh , one leg out ! (he screams and throwsone arm over his face. Then drops it.) Gon e. Or in the room?

M I R R O R (a little menacing).Suppose you were to die of fright(A thing, of course, that couldn't be),I would absorb you all at once,Sucking you in, out of the l ight ,In, where you've looked, the heart of me.Oh, w hat y ou'd hear and tou ch an d see !

R O B I N . N O , no, no, no. I shall wake up. Thes e things. Ishall wake up in m y bed. I 'm g et t ing mea sles; th at 's i t . . .Oh, the pictu res ! Th e wa ter is rising. H e will be drowned.U p to his arms. H e can 't cl imb those walls. H is eye s! Oh,don't be so afraid ! I t ca n't be real. B ut it is. Oh , wh at 's th atin th e w ater, twining, black ; with long arms reaching ou t ?Big eyes, green. Oh, no, let him be dr ow ned : th e water to hisneck. Oh , quick, hurry , be drowned ! God, i t 's got him ! A narm round his body. . . Oh Mirror, stop, stop, sto p! Give m ethe wom en, oh plea se! It 's eat ing hi m ! I 'd rather be dirtythan dead like th a t ! W on ' t you ? {He is sobbing violently,trying to fend off something.)CLOCK (suddenly, whirring under its breath; it can, of course,speak ou t of rhythm just before striking). Fool Mirror, leave himto me. A rr g h ! Boy, you're mine, mine. I ' l l crunch you andcrush you, and eat y ou, in m y doors, in m y wheels. Y ou wo keup before, bu t now you know you can't . I 've caugh t you up .Are you afraid ? Is your body crumbling already ? Arrgh, i t

wi l l ! I 'm coming row . The last s t rok e! (He begins to strikeeleven.)M I R R O R . Behind the glass, for ever there,I too , dear Robin , take my share!

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(The CLOCK advances at each stroke; the MIRRORslithers forward; the CHAIR leans towards them.

ROB IN (forward a little from the wall). No! I'm dreaming.N o ! (Screams) Mother, Mother, Mo th er !. . . You shan'tget meyou can't touch me! I shall wake upI'm waking;there, there, there!

(He jerks violently backwards three times, his arms up.T/ie third time his head hits against the wall witha great crack and he falls limply. The CLOCKover him strikes the eleventh time.)

T H E END.

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H E R B E R T R E A D

P I C A R E S Q U EL I M B S ,Legs of caravanners,steam-boaters, picnickers,Winged a rmsof walkersAre tented above the impious poolsOf memory .H E cannot disentangleThe genesis of any scope.His l imbsDang leLike marionet tes 'Ove r a

mauveSea.

SONNETT IS plain is a full arena for my eyes,Outfanning from my feet l ike a ribbed shell ,I ts t inctures interblent in the hazeOf autum nal moistures. A rocking bel lPeals in a grey tower, filling the leafless valesW it h felt sound. Fal l ing house-reek

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Scatters against the fallow fieldsOr drifts into furry woods which breakThe sky like black buffaloes bentTo assail the myriad-bellied clouds.Berries in hedges are splashes spiltIn this massed conflict . A lon g th e roadsBeech-boles evade the shuffling mists,Bearing into vision like furled masts.

E A R L Y A S T I REA R L Y , ear ly I walked in the c i ty :The river ran its strength from misty valleysAnd the sun l i t the wings of stone angels.Y arr o l ! Y arr o l ! I c ried exu l t ing ly :Passing dogs lifted wet nosesAnd housemaidens the blinds of their gables.

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P A U L S E L V E R

MEDITATIONS IN A GUARD-ROOMThen a soldier,Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,Seeking the bubble reputationEven in the cannon's mouth. W . SHAKESPEARE.. , . in a faded mustard livery,Half-bravo and half-convict . . .I shall dally with a blunderbussThe w hile some simian-visaged corporalBlood ily gibes at me . . . P . SELVER.BR A M A R B A S w i th mock-awesome r it es and pomps,Brandish of bayonets, prancing musketeers,Imbecile gabble, fuss of protocols,And pug-dog scowls,has thrust me in the staleSourish miasma of this padlocked barn,Empty, save for a blotchy oaf, who inHeadlong abandon sleeps off nocturnal surfeitOf swipes and jellied eels, and snores amidA splash of his pale vomit. I, with headShorn, countershorn,behold me branded withAll serfdom's brutish badges,now reclineAcross this touzel led grabatus, unt i lMy turnkey 's next behest . I muse uponMy fellow men-at-arms, who, for the nonce,Cowed by a quondam footpad's h-less rant,And semi-empty-bel l ied; panopliedIn suits of sorry fustian, weighted down

Like dromedaries, hunched with cargoes ofOddest impedimenta,canisters ,Valises, axes, muskets, pouches, sacks,St i let tos,trudge and skirmish, sweat and fume55

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Beneath the swelter of the August sunWhose gl int darts mockingly upon the t inselFu rbis h of brassy gear. A n d I rehearseIn petto the bleak annals of these months,The pangs of shackled freemen, travail ofCaptives at large, a shortening tether's irk,The swiftly tapering gulley, through whose gloomOur lives are hounded. We, in this open jai l ,Yorkshiremen, Jews, Maltese and Muscovites,Ticketed, numbered in a monstrous tal ly ,W e, gyveless bondsmen, pen t in our shared squalor,Which, lavished from a cornucopiaUpon a score, upon a myriad, sti l lGrants an unwaning quota unto each,Bewail our fateful lack of eld, and craveDistemper in the lazaret, or yearnEven more speedily to set free footWhere with his giant pace death stalks abroad.(For th i ther a re we bound) Us chafes the yokeOf sluggard and of despot, evil twainOf oath-bound bosom henchmen, whose raw swayHere hatches broods of hatreds and despairs,Of skulking rancours, and yet, willy-nilly,Fo sters new brotherhoods . . . O, the chill acheThat curdles in the spirit at the raspOf slumber-slaying t rumpets, whose false tunesM ar morning 's early st i l lnesses! Th e t roug hs,From which are ladled out our dai ly draughtsOf sl imy pot ions, nauseously mingled withFlabby and lukewarm gobbets , p i tched amongA ravening herd that brawls and snarls! Our daysA re garish dreams th at haunt our nights. Scourged, harriedW it h leers and threats , we scuffle th rou gh a bo ut56

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Of mad cotill ions, all the motley anticsWherewith the paths of glory may in good t imeBe trod by humble heels .And from the lipsOf domineering butchers we are taughtThe hired assassin's trade, deftness in slaughter,Prowess in maiming.Jab the poniard deep,Gouge entrai ls out , a t test your gusto withR ut 's husky bellow . . . H ur l grenades, and speedYo ur bullets into bowels and lungs . . . A nd w ithYour iron-shod boots trample on faces, t i l lTh ey jelly to a shapeless pu lp . . . G loat, g lo at !Revel in br iny tang of b lood . . .

A n d w eMuster each Sabbath morn, when bevies ofBeribboned, pout ing scrut ineers swoop downU po n us jau nty starvel ings, whom they scanFor il l caparisons, unscoured apparel,For uncleansed napes, for polls uncropped to bareThe scalp 's crude cut icle .Prying achieved,Remissness booked, we strut in stiff quartettesTo a low, zinc-wrought tabernacle, whereW e laud our M aker 's lovingkindness forSo having fashioned us, not otherwise,A s arrant heathen. M eekly we endureA peaky, sharp-nosed presbyter, who fretsA t carnal lures, and straitly bids us shunWelters of lust that gird us, lest we waxUnfi t to die as heroes; whereuponW e bawl a brace of hym ns, and drop a coinFrom our mean pi t tances into a walletAlert ly emptied by the man of GodW ho se benison dismisses u s . . .So whileThe pyre more redly flares; while ministersMore gl ibly prate in counci l-chambers; while

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Nephews and bastards, brothers-in-law and cousins,Stepsons and stepsons' stepsons of the GreatEnsconse them in Whitehal l , Comptrol lers ofBees'-wax and muffins; while the pontiffs yellFor gallons more of blood, lest ChristendomWither and perish; while, to hearten us,And terri fy the foe,our Sovran LordBrooks not at his repasts, in his abodes,Vintage of grape or barley; while amidFleet Street 's rank purl ieu-strongholds vats are crammedW it h oozing ordure, baled ou t thrice a dayBy them who thrive on stenches, for a witlessChop-licking rabble; while the bygone season'sYield of our like grows sparser, that uponOur advent we may have due e lbow-room;In fine, while civic virtues prosper, weBrood upon dour enigmas, and at tainSeptennial transformation within scarceT he tale of weeks. Fo r I am no t the IW h o from anothe r age, another planet ,So brief a span agone was hurled intoThe simmer of this l imbo. But hark, hark,My duress's co-inmate bates his snore,Haply the portent of a clarion-cal lTo what hereafter may ensue,and stirsHobbledehoy l ineaments that twitch in throesOf nascent discourse.

Now in our blunt argotShall we exchange,like visiting-cards elsewhere,Recitals of our several griefs, and railIn concert on our loathings, with the zestThat comforts them who loathe the selfsame things . .

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N O C T U R N E F O R S L O W M U S I C" . . . Y E S , w h is ke y w i th a s p l a s h . . . " " . . . n o b le ed enI fear . . . "" . . . I seh, how p ra ieele ss . . . " " . . . me t he r a t a r a g . . . "" . . . fair done h im in the eye . . . " " . . . l e t' s ave a fag . . . "" . . . d ir t- ch ea p fer t v e n ty b o b . . . " " . . . t ha t 's t h a t, m y d e a r . . . "" . . . h a w , h aw , h aw , h aw , h a w . . . " " . . . s u r e s t th i ng y ouk n o w . . . "" . . . I c a n' t s ta n d W h i tm a n ' s t r i p e . . . " " . . . e h , n o m o r eg i n ? . . . "" . . . d i rt -cheap fer t ven ty bob . . . " " . . . e go t run i n . . . "" . . . I soon t icked im orf..." " . . . w h at a r o tt en s h o w . . . "" . . . you op i t qu ick , I ses . . . " " . . . can ' t pa in t fo r nu ts . . . "" . . . eve r heard t h is one ? . . . " " . . . . h ad a t opp ing spree . . . "" . . . I s eh , how p ra i c e l e s s . . . " " . . . Swinburne' s go t no gu t s . . . "" . . . no b leeden fe a r . . . " " . . . h ee, hee, hee, hee, hee, h e e . . . "" . . . t h e stu ff t o g iv e e m . . . " " . . . y o u b et , o n t h e t i l e s . . . "O wave-drenched shores of lonely, distant isles.

P E R P E T U U M M O B I L E : A P A N T O U M ,M O R E O R L E S S

PI L K lauds the verse of Jobb le to the skies,And Jobble says that Bibson 's Dante 's peer;Bibson is g rea t on Pagg , " W ha t A r t ! " he c r ies,While Pagg is sure that Dubkin is a seer.While Pagg is sure that Dubkin is a seer,Dubkin swears Botchel l 's odes wil l never wane;Botchel l com m ands: "W a tc h P imp ington 's career !"Pimpington wri tes a book on Trodger 's brain.

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Pimpington wri tes a book on Trodger 's brain,A nd Trod ger shriek s: " Glabb's genius st irs my so ul !"Glabb raves of Cringely 's rhym es with m ight and m ai n;Cringely pens Gummitt 's name on glory 's scrol l .Cringely pens Gummitt 's name on glory 's scrol l ,And Gummitt sees in Sludd new worlds arise.Sludd bids us hear Pi lk 's mighty rhythms rol l ;Pi lk lauds the verse of Jobb le to th e s ki es . . .

M U S P I L L IAND a day shall dawnWhereon this random-kindled dream shal l wane;That day shall see no sunset. From earth's cleftsLivid and crimson gusts of fire shall dartWith sudden havoc, waxing at a paceTh at outspeeds t ime . Th eir myriad forking tonguesShall utter spells whose dreadful potencySmelts boulders wax-like to a crackling flux,And wrests all ores from earth's most jealous claspIn simm ering cascades. A n d as the y searThe fabric of the wincing world, i ts poiseShall swerve, i ts shape shall warp.

Upon the seasShall frenzied archipelagoes aflameStampede l ike bergs of swimming sodiumIn luminous flotillas, spilling shredsOf coloured ferment.Then shal l earth snap and spl i tUnto her very sockets as the strengthOf sinews clutching her aorta droops,

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A nd bares her glow ing entrails. She shall suckThe madly eddying oceans to her core,Then vomit in a boundless nauseaDense, shrieking vapours to the affrighted stars.Hissing in agonies of death, the seasShall yield their ancient secrets: but these thingsNo eye shall l ive to gaze upon; for man,Beleaguered by this blinding holocaust,Shal l have returned unto his elementsBefore the elements in brutish throesOf final contest grapple and writhe. And inA hazard speck of t ime the puny worldShall pass for ever, reeling from its orbitW it h crum pled axis. A ll desires, all lore,A ll statutes , all earth's m anifold travailShall founder in a patch of flaky sparksThat distant , keen-eyed watchers may perchanceAg ains t th e dimness of their firmamentFleet ingly gl impse.

And this shall be the end,W ith ou t a judgm ent-day , wi thout ascension;For when man perishes, with him shall perishThe god whom he crea ted . . .

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R A Y M O N D P I E R P O I N T

T H E R E T U R NI H A D come backm ilesand you sent down to gree t mea pale young woman (the sister of a man whom I hadfought beside), who was later to ask me to dine with her at herclub because she thought me interestingand, of course, becauseyou had told her to pi ty me. Inten sely col d; logs pi led high.The girl smoked cigaret tes through a long, dark