* * * *
Have you noticed how many of the greatest writers, so far from desiring that compliment of “fidelity to life” do their best to get away from life, to make their books, in ordinary phraseology, “unreal?” I do not know whether anybody has compared the facts before or made the only possible inference from them; but you remember how Rabelais professes to derive his book from a little mouldy manuscript, found in a tomb, how Cervantes, beginning in propria persona authoris, breaks off and discovers the true history of “Don Quixote” in the Arabic Manuscript of Cid Hamet Benengeli, how Hawthorne prologises with the custom-house at Salem, and lights, in an old lumber-room, on the documents telling him the history of the “Scarlet Letter.” “Pickwick” was a transcript of the “Transactions” or “Papers” of the Pickwick Club, and Tennyson’s “Morte D’Arthur” shelters itself, in the same way, behind the personality of an imaginary writer. There is a very profound significance in all this, and you find a trace of the same instinct in the Greek Tragedies where the final scene, the peripeteia, is not shown on the stage, but described by a “messenger.” The fact is that the true artist, so far from being the imitator of life, endures some of his severest struggles in endeavouring to get away from life, and until he can do this he knows that his labour is all in vain. It would be amusing to trace all the various devices which have been used to secure this effect of separation, of withdrawal from the common track of common things. I have just pointed out one, the hiding of the author, as it were, behind a mask, and in the Greek Play the analogous talking of what has happened in place of visibly showing it, but there must be many more. From this instinct I imagine arises the historical novel in all its forms, you make your story remote by placing it far back in time, by the exhibition of strange dresses and unfamiliar manners. Or again you may get virtually the same effect by using the remoteness of space, by playing on the theme “far, far away” which really calls up a very similar emotion to that produced by the other theme of “long, long ago,” or “once on a time,” as the fairy tale has it. Briefly we may say that all “strangeness” of incident, or plot, or style makes for this one end; and of course you see that all this is only the repetition of our old text in another form. It is, perhaps, hardly necessary to give the caution that, on the principle of corruptio optimi, there is nothing more melancholy than the book which has the body of fine literature without the soul, which uses literary methods without understanding. You needn’t ask for proofs of that proposition; our memories are aghast with recollections of futile “historical novels,” of the terrific school of the “two horsemen,” and every Christmas brings its huge budget of those dreadful “boys’ books,” which carry commonplace to the very ends of the earth, and occasionally penetrate to the stars. And in style, too, what can be more depressing than the style which is meant to be “strange” and is only flatulent? In many cases of course such books as I have alluded to are mere survivals of tradition, conventions of bookmaking which bear witness to the fact that pirates and treasure-hoards were once symbols of wonder, and the extravagancies of style are probably to be accounted for in the same way. At some remote period it may, possibly, have been effective to call the sun, “the glorious orb,” and even now some minds may be made to realise the strangeness of great flights of birds by the phrase “the feathered Zingari of the air”; but if one is a little sophisticated one feels the pathos and the futility of such efforts. The writer has felt and experienced the wonder of things—the beauty of the sun and the hieroglyphic mystery of the figures that the birds make in the air—and he feels, quite rightly, that to describe wonders one must suggest wonder by words. Unfortunately, he breaks down at this point, and falls back on unhappy phrases that give the very opposite impression to that which he wishes to excite. Here you have the whole history of “poetic diction.” The instinct is in itself an entirely right one, and I need hardly say that the masters—those who have the secret—can use archaic forms, obsolete constructions, conventional phrases even, with miraculous effect. But the beginner would do well to be wary of these things, and to turn his face resolutely away from “flowery meads” and all the family of inversions. How is one to know when such phrases may be used? If I could give you the answer to that question I should be also giving you the secret of making literature, and from all our talks I expect you have gathered this much at all events—that the art of literature, with all the arts, is quite incommunicable. Many kinds of artifice, even, are unteachable—I could not write or be taught to write one of those George Eliot novels that I have been abusing with such hearty good will—but art is by its very definition quite without the jurisdiction of the schools, and the realm of the reasoning process, since art is a miracle, superior to the laws.
A NEW CHRISTMAS CAROL
Scrooge was undoubtedly getting on in life, to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that.
Ten years had gone by since the spirit of old Jacob Marley had visited him, and the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Christmas Present, and Christmas Yet to Come had shown him the error of his mean, niggardly, churlish ways, and had made him the merriest old boy that ever walked on ’Change with a chuckle, and was called “Old Medlar” by the young dogs who never reverenced anybody or anything.
And, not a doubt of it, the young dogs were in the right. Ebenezer Scrooge was a meddler. He was always ferreting about into other peoples’ business; so that he might find out what good he could do them. Many a hard man of affairs softened as he thought of Scrooge and of the old man creeping round to the counting-house where the hard man sat in despair, and thought of the certain ruin before him.
“My dear Mr. Hardman,” old Scrooge had said, “not another word. Take this draft for thirty thousand pounds, and use it as none knows better. Why, you’ll double it for me before six months are out.”
He would go out chuckling on that, and Charles the waiter, at the old City tavern where Scrooge dined, always said that Scrooge was a fortune for him and to the house. To say nothing of what Charles got by him; everybody ordered a fresh supply of hot brandy and water when his cheery, rosy old face entered the room.
It was Christmastide. Scrooge was sitting before his roaring fire, sipping at something warm and comfortable, and plotting happiness for all sorts of people.
“I won’t bear Bob’s obstinacy,” he was saying to himself—the firm was Scrooge and Cratchit now—“he does all the work, and it’s not fair for a useless old fellow like me to take more than a quarter share of the profits.”
A dreadful sound echoed through the grave old house. The air grew chill and sour. The something warm and comfortable grew cold and tasteless as Scrooge sipped it nervously. The door flew open, and a vague but fearful form stood in the doorway.
“Follow me,” it said.
Scrooge is not at all sure what happened then. He was in the streets. He recollected that he wanted to buy some sweetmeats for his little nephews and nieces, and he went into a shop.
“Past eight o’clock, sir,” said the civil man. “I can’t serve you.”
He wandered on through the streets that seemed strangely altered. He was going westward, and he began to feel faint. He thought he would be the better for a little brandy and water, and he was just turning into a tavern when all the people came out and the iron gates were shut with a clang in his face.
“What’s the matter?” he asked feebly of the man who was closing the doors.
“Gone ten,” the fellow said shortly, and turned out all the lights.
Scrooge felt sure that the second mince-pie had given him indigestion, and that he was in a dreadful dream. He seemed to fall into a deep gulf of darkness, in which all was blotted out.
* * * *
When he came to himself again it was Christmas Day, and the people were walking about the streets.
Scrooge, somehow or other, found himself among them. They smiled and greeted one another cheerfully, but it was evident that they were not happy. Marks of care were on their faces, marks that
told of past troubles and future anxieties. Scrooge heard a man sigh heavily just after he had wished a neighbour a Merry Christmas. There were tears on a woman s face as she came down the church steps, all in black.
“Poor John!” she was murmuring. “I am sure it was the wearing of money troubles that killed him. Still, he is in Heaven now. But the clergyman said in his sermon that Heaven was only a pretty fairy tale.” She wept anew.
All this disturbed Scrooge dreadfully. Something seemed to be pressing on his heart.
“But,” said he, “I shall forget all this when I sit down to dinner with Nephew Fred and my niece and their young rascals.”
* * * *
It was late in the afternoon; four o’clock and dark, but in capital time for dinner. Scrooge found his nephew’s house. It was as dark as the sky; not a window was lighted up. Scrooge’s heart grew cold.
He knocked and knocked again, and rang a bell that sounded as faint and far as if it had rung in a grave.
At last a miserable old woman opened the door for a few inches and looked out suspiciously.
“Mr. Fred?” said she. “Why, he and his missus have gone off to the Hotel Splendid, as they call it, and they won’t be home till midnight. They got their table six weeks ago! The children are away at Eastbourne.”
“Dining in a tavern on Christmas day!” Scrooge murmured. “What terrible fate is this? Who is so miserable, so desolate, that he dines at a tavern on Christmas day? And the children at Eastbourne!”
The air grew misty about him. He seemed to hear as though from a great distance the voice of Tiny Tim, saying “God help us, every one!”
Again the Spirit stood before him. Scrooge fell upon his knees.
“Terrible Phantom!” he exclaimed. “Who and what are thou? Speak, I entreat thee.”
“Ebenezer Scrooge,” replied the Spirit in awful tones. “I am the Ghost of the Christmas of 1920. With me I bring the demand note of the Commissioners of Income Tax!”
Scrooge’s hair bristled as he saw the figures. But it fell out when he saw that the Apparition had feet like those of a gigantic cat.
“My name is Pussyfoot. I am also called Ruin and Despair,” said the Phantom, and vanished.
With that Scrooge awoke and drew back the curtains of his bed.
“Thank God!” he uttered from his heart. “It was but a dream!”
ELEUSINIA
BY A FORMER MEMBER OF H.C.S.
Oudies Muomenos Oduretal
Introduction
Here we have a graceful and classically conceived poem by a late Herefordian—presumably a beginner in the craft of verse making, but, if so, a beginner full of promise. There is much sweetness in this poetical description of an Eleusinian devotion at Athens; the allusions and references are true to authority, and the sentiment is throughout in harmony with all we know of the worship of Demeter. A line halts here and there, and doubtless the author, if he clings to his first love, will recognize the necessity of dealing more severely with the offspring of his imagination, so as to give them the finish and perfection which we now regard as absolutely indispensable in verses meant to be read; but his actual achievement is sufficiently good to warrant both praise and encouragement. The following verses may convey an idea of the tenderness which is manifest in every stanza of this short poem:——
Are they not weary toiling through the night?
Is it not long before the dawn is breaking?
Shall not the pilgrims gladden in the light?
When God shall burst forth, the powers of darkness shaking.
No, we are not weary, if the night is long;
Nay, it is not long before the dawn is breaking.
For there rises oft the solemn swelling song
While our holy priest his offering is making.
Demeter all holy, see we toil to meet thee.
From the distant parts of thy beloved land;
Demeter all holy, shall we ever see thee
Standing in thy majesty, while countless as the sand
On yonder shore, the multitude adore thee
As thou blessest all men with thy loving hand?
ELEUSINIA.
THE ASSEMBLING.
The day is dawning. Whither shall we bend
Our steps, and whither send
The herald on before us; mighty clouds
That have been thick about the path of night,
Now parting all asunder, let the rays
Of mighty Paean glance upon the hills,
And shew us here and there a marble tower,
With minarets that climb aloft, and gleam
Like silver crowns upon the hills of time.
Let us then climb those hill-tops, if with pain
And patient limbs we may attain thereto.
. . . . .
We then at last have come unto the brow,
And gloried with the rays of the young sun,
May look upon the valley underneath.
It is a plain far stretching to the sea,
Which rocks and tumbles on the distant shore.
While close beneath the hill on which we stand
There is a city shining like a bride,
Whose birth-place was in old Pentelicus.
And all the roads which lead into the town
Are crowded with the hurrying steps of men,
Who have been coming from the north and south,
And east and west;
That they may see the city on this day,
And celebrate the praise of Demeter.
Are they not weary toiling through the night?
Is it not long before the dawn is breaking?
Shall not the pilgrims gladden in the light?
When God shall burst forth, the powers of darkness shaking.
No, we are not weary, if the night is long;
Nay, it is not long before the dawn is breaking.
For there rises oft the solemn swelling song
While our holy priest his offering is making.
Demeter all holy, see we toil to meet thee.
From the distant parts of thy beloved land;
Demeter all holy, shall we ever see thee
Standing in thy majesty, while countless as the sand
On yonder shore, the multitude adore thee
As thou blessest all men with thy loving hand?
Athens is thy dwelling place:
Holy mother, give us grace.
In the town thy temple stands
Bright, all marble from thine hands.
While the gathering people kneel, journeying from many lands.
Is that thy priest who stands within the town?
Is that thy choir whose thunders roll and swell?
Hail to thee most mighty, great be thy renown,
While minstrels sing, and priests thy glory tell.
And now the glory of the rising sun.
Poured forth upon the city marble-built;
And all the crowd of worshippers was come
Unto the temple of the Goddess Queen.
And there they hymn her with resounding songs.
Which rise and fall like thunders, or the noise
Of mighty waters rolling on the shore.
And so the day goes on in worshipping,
Until the sun has hid himself behind
The purple hills that compass Athens round.
And the moon glitters in the pale blue sky
Upon the pilgrims, who have laid their limbs
Weary, but glad at heart, upon the beds
Of herbs, which all the city strews for them.
Such was the ending of the opening day.
THE SEA-SHORE
Now to the sea the mystai bend their steps,
To purge all stain of guilt from off their souls;
And as they go, in pure white vestment clad,
Each one and all implore the goddess queen
To pardon all the sins of the past life.
And wash them p
ure, and free from every fault.
Down from the temple through the narrow streets,
And gardens smelling sweet, and cool with leaves.
Till they have passed out of the city gates,
And come unto the plain beyond the town,
All through its levels in a mighty band,
Singing in praise of Demeter the Queen.
And then the shore—for every one must wash
The Arthur Machen Megapack: 25 Classic Works Page 130