THE UNITED AMATEUR
Official Organ of the United Amateur Press Association
VOLUME XX ELROY, WIS., SEPTEMBER, 1920 NUMBER 1
Poetry and the Gods
ANNA HELEN CROFTS AND HENRY PAGET-LOWE
A damp, gloomy evening in April it was, just after the close of theGreat War, when Marcia found herself alone with strange thoughts andwishes; unheard-of yearnings which floated out of the spacioustwentieth-century drawing-room, up the misty deeps of the air, andEastward to far olive-groves in Arcady which she had seen only in herdreams. She had entered the room in abstraction, turned off the glaringchandeliers, and now reclined on a soft divan by a solitary lamp whichshed over the reading table a green glow as soothing and delicious asmoonlight through the foliage about an antique shrine. Attired simply,in a low-cut evening dress of black, she appeared outwardly a typicalproduct of modern civilisation; but tonight she felt the immeasurablegulf that separated her soul from all her prosaic surroundings. Was itbecause of the strange home in which she lived; that abode of coldnesswhere relations were always strained and the inmates scarcely more thanstrangers? Was it that, or was it some greater and less explicablemisplacement in Time and Space, whereby she had been born too late, tooearly, or too far away from the haunts of her spirit ever to harmonisewith the unbeautiful things of contemporary reality? To dispel the moodwhich was engulfing her more deeply each moment, she took a magazinefrom the table and searched for some healing bit of poetry. Poetry hadalways relieved her troubled mind better than anything else, though manythings in the poetry she had seen detracted from the influence. Overparts of even the sublimest verses hung a chill vapour of sterileugliness and restraint, like dust on a window-pane through which oneviews a magnificent sunset.
Listlessly turning the magazine's pages, as if searching for an elusivetreasure, she suddenly came upon something which dispelled her languor.An observer could have read her thoughts and told that she haddiscovered some image or dream which brought her nearer to herunattained goal than any image or dream she had seen before. It was onlya bit of _vers libre_, that pitiful compromise of the poet who overleapsprose yet falls short of the divine melody of numbers; but it had in itall the unstudied music of a bard who lives and feels, and who gropesecstatically for unveiled beauty. Devoid of regularity, it yet had thewild harmony of winged, spontaneous words; a harmony missing from theformal, convention-bound verse she had known. As she read on, hersurroundings gradually faded, and soon there lay about her only themists of dream; the purple, star-strown mists beyond Time, where onlygods and dreamers walk.
"Moon over Japan, White butterfly moon! Where the heavy-lidded Buddhas dream To the sound of the cuckoo's call.... The white wings of moon-butterflies Flicker down the streets of the city, Blushing into darkness the useless wicks of round lanterns in the hands of girls.
"Moon over the tropics, A white-curved bud Opening its petals slowly in the warmth of heaven.... The air is full of odours And languorous warm sounds.... A flute drones its insect music to the night Below the curving moon-petal of the heavens.
"Moon over China, Weary moon on the river of the sky, The stir of light in the willows is like the flashing of a thousand silver minnows Through dark shoals; The tiles on graves and rotting temples flash like ripples, The sky is flecked with clouds like the scales of a dragon."
Amid the mists of dream the reader cried to the rhythmical stars of herdelight at the coming of a new age of song, a rebirth of Pan. Halfclosing her eyes, she repeated words whose melody lay hid like crystalsat the bottom of a stream before the dawn; hidden but to gleameffulgently at the birth of day.
"Moon over Japan, White butterfly moon!
"Moon over the tropics, A white-curved bud Opening its petals slowly in the warmth of heaven. The air is full of odours And languorous warm sounds ... languorous warm sounds.
"Moon over China, Weary moon on the river of the sky ... weary moon!"
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Out of the mists gleamed godlike the figure of a youth in winged helmetand sandals, caduceus-bearing, and of a beauty like to nothing on earth.Before the face of the sleeper he thrice waved the rod which Apollo hadgiven him in trade for the nine-corded shell of melody, and upon herbrow he placed a wreath of myrtle and roses. Then, adoring, Hermesspoke:
"O Nymph more fair than the golden-haired sisters of Cyane or thesky-inhabiting Atlantides, beloved of Aphrodite and blessed of Pallas,thou hast indeed discovered the secret of the Gods, which lieth inbeauty and song. O Prophetess more lovely than the Sybil of Cumae whenApollo first knew her, thou hast truly spoken of the new age, for evennow on Maenalus, Pan sighs and stretches in his sleep, wishful to awakeand behold about him the little rose-crowned Fauns and the antiqueSatyrs. In thy yearning hast thou divined what no mortal else, savingonly a few whom the world reject, remembereth; _that the Gods were neverdead_, but only sleeping the sleep and dreaming the dreams of Gods inlotos-filled Hesperian gardens beyond the golden sunset. And now drawethnigh the time of their awaking, when coldness and ugliness shall perish,and Zeus sit once more on Olympus. Already the sea about Paphostrembleth into a foam which only ancient skies have looked on before,and at night on Helicon the shepherds hear strange murmurings andhalf-remembered notes. Woods and fields are tremulous at twilight withthe shimmering of white saltant forms, and immemorial Ocean yields upcurious sights beneath thin moons. The Gods are patient, and have sleptlong, but neither man nor giant shall defy the Gods forever. In Tartarusthe Titans writhe, and beneath the fiery Aetna groan the children ofUranus and Gaea. The day now dawns when man must answer for hiscenturies of denial, but in sleeping the Gods have grown kind, and willnot hurl him to the gulf made for deniers of Gods. Instead will theirvengeance smite the darkness, fallacy and ugliness which have turned themind of man; and under the sway of bearded Saturnus shall mortals, oncemore sacrificing unto him, dwell in beauty and delight. This night shaltthou know the favour of the Gods, and behold on Parnassus those dreamswhich the Gods have through ages sent to Earth to show that they are notdead. For poets are the dreams of the Gods, and in each age someone hathsung unknowing the message and the promise from the lotos-gardens beyondthe sunset."
Then in his arms Hermes bore the dreaming maiden through the skies.Gentle breezes from the tower of Aiolos wafted them high above warm,scented seas, till suddenly they came upon Zeus holding court on thedouble-headed Parnassus; his golden throne flanked by Apollo and theMuses on the right hand, and by ivy-wreathed Dionysus andpleasure-flushed Bacchae on the left hand. So much of splendour Marciahad never seen before, either awake or in dreams, but its radiance didher no injury, as would have the radiance of lofty Olympus; for in thislesser court the Father of Gods had tempered his glories for the sightof mortals. Before the laurel-draped mouth of the Corycian cave sat in arow six noble forms with the aspect of mortals, but the countenances ofGods. These the dreamer recognised from images of them which she hadbeheld, and she knew that they were none else than the divine Maeonides,the Avernian Dante, the more than mortal Shakespeare, thechaos-exploring Milton, the cosmic Goethe, and the Musaean Keats. Thesewere those messengers whom the Gods had sent to tell men that Pan hadpassed not away, but only slept; for it is in poetry that Gods speak tomen. Then spake the Thunderer:
"O daughter, for, being one of my endless line, thou art indeed mydaughter, behold upon ivory thrones of honour the august messengers thatGods have sent down, that in the words and the writings of men there maystill be some trace of divine beauty. Other bards have men justlycrowned with enduring laurels, but these hath Apollo crowned, and thesehave I set in places apart, as mortals who have spoken the language ofthe Gods. Long have we dreamed in lotos-gardens beyond the West, andspoken only through our dreams; but the time approaches when our voicesshall not be silent. It is a time of awaking and of change. Once morehath Phaeton ridden low, searing the fields and d
rying the streams. InGaul lone nymphs with disordered hair weep beside fountains that are nomore, and pine over rivers turned red with the blood of mortals. Aresand his train have gone forth with the madness of Gods, and havereturned, Deimos and Phobos glutted with unnatural delight. Tellus moanswith grief, and the faces of men are as the faces of the Erinyes, evenas when Astraea fled to the skies, and the waves of our biddingencompassed all the land saving this high peak alone. Amidst this chaos,prepared to herald his coming yet to conceal his arrival, even nowtoileth our latest-born messenger, in whose dreams are all the imageswhich other messengers have dreamed before him. He it is that we havechosen to blend into one glorious whole all the beauty that the worldhath known before, and to write words wherein shall echo all the wisdomand the loveliness of the past. He it is who shall proclaim our return,and sing of the days to come when Fauns and Dryads shall haunt theiraccustomed groves in beauty. Guided was our choice by those who now sitbefore the Corycian grotto on thrones of ivory, and in whose songs thoushalt hear notes of sublimity by which years hence thou shall know thegreater messenger when he cometh. Attend their voices as one by one theysing to thee here. Each note shalt thou hear again in the poetry whichis to come; the poetry which shall bring peace and pleasure to thy soul,though search for it through bleak years thou must. Attend withdiligence, for each chord that vibrates away into hiding shall appearagain to thee after thou hast returned to earth, as Alpheus, sinking hiswaters into the soil of Hellas, appears as the crystal Arethusa inremote Sicilia."
Then arose Homeros, the ancient among bards, who took his lyre andchaunted his hymn to Aphrodite. No word of Greek did Marcia know, yetdid the message fall not vainly upon her ears; for in the cryptic rhythmwas that which spake to all mortals and Gods, and needed no interpreter.
So too the songs of Dante and Goethe, whose unknown words clave theether with melodies easy to read and to adore. But at last rememberedaccents rebounded before the listener. It was the Swan of Avon, once aGod among men, and still a God among Gods:
"Write, write, that from the bloody course of war, My dearest master, your dear son, may hie; Bless him at home in peace, whilst I from far, His name with zealous fervour sanctify."
Accents still more familiar arose as Milton, blind no more, declaimedimmortal harmony:
"Or let my lamp at midnight hour Be seen in some high lonely tower, Where I might oft outwatch the Bear With thrice-great Hermes, or unsphere The spirit of Plato, to unfold What worlds or what vast regions hold Th' immortal mind, that hath forsook Her mansion in this fleshy nook. . . . Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy In sceptred pall come sweeping by, Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line, Or the tale of Troy divine."
Last of all came the young voice of Keats, closest of all the messengersto the beauteous faun-folk.
"Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter: therefore, ye soft pipes, play on.... . . . When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, 'Beauty is truth, truth beauty'--that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."
As the singer ceased, there came a sound in the wind blowing from farEgypt, where at night Aurora mourns by the Nile for her slain sonMemnon. To the feet of the Thunderer flew the rosy-fingered Goddess, andkneeling, cried, "Master, it is time I unlocked the gates of the East."And Phoebus, handing his lyre to Calliope, his bride among the Muses,prepared to depart for the jewelled and column-raised Palace of the Sun,where fretted the steeds already harnessed to the golden car of day. SoZeus descended from his carven throne and placed his hand upon the headof Marcia, saying:
"Daughter, the dawn is nigh, and it is well that thou shouldst returnbefore the awaking of mortals to thy home. Weep not at the bleakness ofthy life, for the shadow of false faiths will soon be gone, and the Godsshall once more walk among men. Search thou unceasingly for ourmessenger, for in him wilt thou find peace and comfort. By his wordshall thy steps be guided to happiness, and in his dreams of beautyshall thy spirit find all that it craveth." As Zeus ceased, the youngHermes gently seized the maiden and bore her up toward the fading stars;up, and westward over unseen seas.
* * *
Many years have passed since Marcia dreamt of the Gods and of theirParnassian conclave. Tonight she sits in the same spacious drawing-room,but she is not alone. Gone is the old spirit of unrest, for beside heris one whose name is luminous with celebrity; the young poet of poets atwhose feet sits all the world. He is reading from a manuscript wordswhich none has ever heard before, but which when heard will bring to menthe dreams and fancies they lost so many centuries ago, when Pan laydown to doze in Arcady, and the greater Gods withdrew to sleep inlotos-gardens beyond the lands of the Hesperides. In the subtle cadencesand hidden melodies of the bard the spirit of the maiden has found restat last, for there echo the divinest notes of Thracian Orpheus; notesthat moved the very rocks and trees by Hebrus' banks. The singer ceases,and with eagerness asks a verdict, yet what can Marcia say but that thestrain is "fit for the Gods"?
And as she speaks there comes again a vision of Parnassus and thefar-off sound of a mighty voice saying, "By his word shall thy steps beguided to happiness, and in his dreams of beauty shall thy spirit findall that it craveth."
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Mr. Paul J. Campbell deserves the most unstinted thanks of the Unitedthis year, for besides serving as First Vice-President he has furnishedfree of charge a supply of recruiting booklets and application blanks,thus relieving us of one of our most onerous burdens. Mr. Campbell'seighteen years of undiminished devotion to amateurdom form a thingworthy of emulation.