Chapter II: Preface

BEING A WORD ON BEHALF OF PATCHOULI.

AN ingenuous reviewer once described some verses of mine as “unwholesome,” because, he said, they had “a faint smell of Patchouli about them.” I am a little sorry he chose Patchouli, for that is not a particularly favourite scent with me. If he had only chosen Peau d’Espagne, which has a subtle meaning, or Lily of the Valley, with which I have associations! But Patchouli will serve. Let me ask, then, in republishing, with additions, a collection of little pieces, many of which have been objected to, at one time or another, as being somewhat deliberately frivolous, why art should not, if it please, concern itself with the artificially charming, which, I suppose, is what my critic means by Patchouli? All art, surely, is a form of artifice, and thus, to the truly devout mind, condemned already, if not as actively noxious, at all events as needless. That is a point of view which I quite understand, and its conclusion I hold to be absolutely logical. I have the utmost respect for the people who refuse to read a novel, to go to the theatre, or to learn dancing. That is to have convictions and to live up to them. I understand also the point of view from which a work of art is tolerated in so far as it is actually militant on behalf of a religious or a moral idea. But what I fail to understand are those delicate, invisible degrees by which a distinction is drawn between this form of art and that; the hesitations, and compromises, and timorous advances, and shocked retreats, of the Puritan conscience once emancipated, and yet afraid of liberty. However you may try to convince yourself to the contrary, a work of art can be judged only from two standpoints: the standpoint from which its art is measured entirely by its morality, and the standpoint from which its morality is measured entirely by its art.

Here, for once, in connection with these “Silhouettes,” I have not, if my recollection serves me, been accused of actual immorality. I am but a fair way along the “primrose path,” not yet within singeing distance of the “everlasting bonfire.” In other words, I have not yet written “London Nights,” which, it appears (I can scarcely realize it, in my innocent abstraction in aesthetical matters), has no very salutary reputation among the blameless moralists of the press. I need not, therefore, on this occasion, concern myself with more than the curious fallacy by which there is supposed to be something inherently wrong in artistic work which deals frankly and lightly with the very real charm of the lighter emotions and the more fleeting sensations.

I do not wish to assert that the kind of verse which happened to reflect certain moods of mine at a certain period of my life, is the best kind of verse in itself, or is likely to seem to me, in other years, when other moods may have made me their own, the best kind of verse for my own expression of myself. Nor do I affect to doubt that the creation of the supreme emotion is a higher form of art than the reflection of the most exquisite sensation, the evocation of the most magical impression. I claim only an equal liberty for the rendering of every mood of that variable and inexplicable and contradictory creature which we call ourselves, of every aspect under which we are gifted or condemned to apprehend the beauty and strangeness and curiosity of the visible world.

Patchouli! Well, why not Patchouli? Is there any “reason in nature” why we should write exclusively about the natural blush, if the delicately acquired blush of rouge has any attraction for us? Both exist; both, I think, are charming in their way; and the latter, as a subject, has, at all events, more novelty. If you prefer your “new-mown hay” in the hayfield, and I, it may be, in a scent-bottle, why may not my individual caprice be allowed to find expression as well as yours? Probably I enjoy the hayfield as much as you do; but I enjoy quite other scents and sensations as well, and I take the former for granted, and write my poem, for a change, about the latter. There is no necessary difference in artistic value between a good poem about a flower in the hedge and a good poem about the scent in a sachet. I am always charmed to read beautiful poems about nature in the country. Only, personally, I prefer town to country; and in the town we have to find for ourselves, as best we may, the _décor_ which is the town equivalent of the great natural _décor_ of fields and hills. Here it is that artificiality comes in; and if any one sees no beauty in the effects of artificial light, in all the variable, most human, and yet most factitious town landscape, I can only pity him, and go on my own way.

That is, if he will let me. But he tells me that one thing is right and the other is wrong; that one is good art and the other is bad; and I listen in amazement, sometimes not without impatience, wondering why an estimable personal prejudice should be thus exalted into a dogma, and uttered in the name of art. For in art there can be no prejudices, only results. If we arc to save people’s souls by the writing of verses, well and good. But if not, there is no choice but to admit an absolute freedom of choice. And if Patchouli pleases one, why not Patchouli?

Arthur Symons.

London, _February,_1896.

AT DIEPPE.

AFTER SUNSET.

THE sea lies quieted beneath
The after-sunset flush
That leaves upon the heaped grey clouds
The grape’s faint purple blush.

Pale, from a little space in heaven
Of delicate ivory,
The sickle-moon and one gold star
Look down upon the sea.

ON THE BEACH.

NIGHT, a grey sky, a ghostly sea,
The soft beginning of the rain:
Black on the horizon, sails that wane
Into the distance mistily.

The tide is rising, I can hear
The soft roar broadening far along;
It cries and murmurs in my car
A sleepy old forgotten song.

Softly the stealthy night descends,
The black sails fade into the sky:
Is this not, where the sea-line ends,
The shore-line of infinity?

I cannot think or dream: the grey
Unending waste of sea and night,
Dull, impotently infinite,
Blots out the very hope of day.

RAIN ON THE DOWN.

NIGHT, and the down by the sea,
And the veil of rain on the down;
And she came through the mist and the rain to me
From the safe warm lights of the town.

The rain shone in her hair,
And her face gleamed in the rain;
And only the night and the rain were there
As she came to me out of the rain.

BEFORE THE SQUALL.

THE wind is rising on the sea,
White flashes dance along the deep,
That moans as if uneasily
It turned in an unquiet sleep.

Ridge after rocky ridge upheaves
A toppling crest that falls in spray
Where the tormented beach receives
The buffets of the sea’s wild play.

On the horizon’s nearing line,
Where the sky rests, a visible wall.
Grey in the offing, I divine
The sails that fly before the squall.

UNDER THE CLIFFS.

BRIGHT light to windward on the horizon’s verge; To leeward, stormy shadows, violet-black, And the wide sea between A vast unfurrowed field of windless green; The stormy shadows flicker on the track Of phantom sails that vanish and emerge.

I gaze across the sea, remembering her. I watch the white sun walk across the sea, This pallid afternoon, With feet that tread as whitely as the moon, And in his fleet and shining feet I see The footsteps of another voyager.

REQUIES.

O IS it death or life
That sounds like something strangely known
In this subsiding out of strife,
This slow sea-monotone?

A sound, scarce heard through sleep,
Murmurous as the August bees
That fill the forest hollows deep
About the roots of trees.

O is it life or death,
O is it hope or memory,
That quiets all things with this breath
Of the eternal sea?

MASKS AND FACES.

PASTEL.

THE light of our cigarettes
Went and came in the gloom:
It was dark in the little room.

Dark, and then, in the dark,
Sudden, a flash, a glow,
And a hand and a ring I know.

And then, through the dark, a flush
Ruddy and vague, the grace—
A rose—of her lyric face.

HER EYES.

BENEATH the heaven of her brows’
Unclouded noon of peace, there lies
A leafy heaven of hazel boughs
In the seclusion of her eyes;

Her troubling eyes that cannot rest;
And there’s a little flame that dances
(A firefly in a grassy nest)
In the green circle of her glances;

A frolic Faun that must be hid,
Shyly, in some fantastic shade,
Where pity droops a tender lid
On laughter of itself afraid.

MORBIDEZZA.

WHITE girl, your flesh is lilies Grown ’neath a frozen moon, So still is The rapture of your swoon Of whiteness, snow or lilies.

The virginal revealment, Your bosom’s wavering slope, Concealment, ’Neath fainting heliotrope, Of whitest white’s revealment,

Is like a bed of lilies, A jealous-guarded row, Whose will is Simply chaste dreams:—but oh, The alluring scent of lilies!

MAQUILLAGE.

THE charm of rouge on fragile cheeks, Pearl-powder, and, about the eyes, The dark and lustrous Eastern dyes; The floating odour that bespeaks A scented boudoir and the doubtful night Of alcoves curtained close against the light

Gracile and creamy white and rose, Complexioned like the flower of dawn, Her fleeting colours are as those That, from an April sky withdrawn, Fade in a fragrant mist of tears away When weeping noon leads on the altered day.

IMPRESSION.

TO M. C.

THE pink and black of silk and lace, Flushed in the rosy-golden glow Of lamplight on her lifted face; Powder and wig, and pink and lace,

And those pathetic eyes of hers; But all the London footlights know The little plaintive smile that stirs The shadow in those eyes of hers.

Outside, the dreary church-bell tolled, The London Sunday faded slow; Ah, what is this? what wings unfold In this miraculous rose of gold?

AN ANGEL OF PERUGINO.

HAVE I not seen your face before
Where Perugino’s angels stand
In those calm circles, and adore
With singing throat and lifted hand?

So the pale hair lay crescent-wise,
About the placid forehead curled,
And the pale piety of eyes
Was as God’s peace upon the world.

And you, a simple child serene,
Wander upon your quiet way,
Nor know that any eyes have seen
The Umbrian halo crown the day.

AT FONTAINEBLEAU.

IT was a day of sun and rain,
Uncertain as a child’s quick moods;
And I shall never pass again
So blithe a day among the woods.

The forest knew you and was glad,
And laughed for very joy to know
Her child was with her; then, grown sad,
She wept, because her child must go.

And you would spy and you would capture
The shyest flower that lit the grass:
The joy I had to watch your rapture
Was keen as even your rapture was.

The forest knew you and was glad,
And laughed and wept for joy and woe.
This was the welcome that you had
Among the woods of Fontainebleau.

ON THE HEATH.

HER face’s wilful flash and glow
Turned all its light upon my face
One bright delirious moment’s space,
And then she passed: I followed slow

Across the heath, and up and round,
And watched the splendid death of day
Upon the summits far away,
And in her fateful beauty found

The fierce wild beauty of the light
That startles twilight on the hills,
And lightens all the mountain rills,
And flames before the feet of night.

IN THE ORATORY.

THE incense mounted like a cloud,
A golden cloud of languid scent;
Robed priests before the altar bowed,
Expecting the divine event.

Then silence, like a prisoner bound,
Rose, by a mighty hand set free,
And dazzlingly, in shafts of sound,
Thundered Beethoven’s Mass in C.

She knelt in prayer; large lids serene
Lay heavy on the sombre eyes,
As though to veil some vision seen
Upon the mounts of Paradise.

Her dark face, calm as carven stone.
The face that twilight shows the day,
Brooded, mysteriously alone,
And infinitely far away.

Inexplicable eyes that drew
Mine eyes adoring, why from me
Demand, new Sphinx, the fatal clue
That seals my doom or conquers thee?

PATTIE.

COOL comely country Pattie, grown
A daisy where the daisies grow,
No wind of heaven has ever blown
Across a field-flower’s daintier snow.

Gold-white among the meadow-grass
The humble little daisies thrive;
I cannot see them as I pass,
But I am glad to be alive.

And so I turn where Pattie stands,
A flower among the flowers at play;
I’ll lay my heart into her hands,
And she will smile the clouds away.

IN AN OMNIBUS.

YOUR smile is like a treachery,
A treachery adorable;
So smiles the siren where the sea
Sings to the unforgetting shell.

Your fleeting Leonardo face,
Parisian Monna Lisa, dreams
Elusively, but not of streams
Born in a shadow-haunted place.

Of Paris, Paris, is your thought,
Of Paris robes, and when to wear
The latest bonnet you have bought
To match the marvel of your hair.

Yet that fine malice of your smile,
That faint and fluctuating glint
Between your eyelids, does it hint
Alone of matters mercantile?

Close lips that keep the secret in,
Half spoken by the stealthy eyes,
Is there indeed no word to win,
No secret, from the vague replies

Of lips and lids that feign to hide
That which they feign to render up?
Is there, in Tantalus’ dim cup,
The shadow of water, nought beside?

ON MEETING AFTER.

HER eyes are haunted, eyes that were
Scarce sad when last we met.
What thing is this has come to her
That she may not forget?

They loved, they married: it is well!
But ah, what memories
Are these whereof her eyes half tell,
Her haunted eyes?

IN BOHEMIA.

DRAWN blinds and flaring gas within,
And wine, and women, and cigars;
Without, the city’s heedless din;
Above, the white unheeding stars.

And we, alike from each remote,
The world that works, the heaven that waits,
Con our brief pleasures o’er by rote,
The favourite pastime of the Fates.

We smoke, to fancy that we dream,
And drink, a moment’s joy to prove,
And fain would love, and only seem
To love because we cannot love.

Draw back the blinds, put out the light:
’Tis morning, let the daylight come.
God! how the women’s cheeks are white,
And how the sunlight strikes us dumb!

EMMY.

EMMY’S exquisite youth and her virginal air,
Eyes and teeth in the flash of a musical smile,
Come to me out of the past, and I see her there
As I saw her once for a while.

Emmy’s laughter rings in my ears, as bright,
Fresh and sweet as the voice of a mountain brook,
And still I hear her telling us tales that night,
Out of Boccaccio’s book.

There, in the midst of the villainous dancing-hall,
Leaning across the table, over the beer,
While the music maddened the whirling skirts of the ball,
As the midnight hour drew near,

There with the women, haggard, painted and old,
One fresh bud in a garland withered and stale,
She, with her innocent voice and her clear eyes, told
Tale after shameless tale.

And ever the witching smile, to her face beguiled,
Paused and broadened, and broke in a ripple of fun,
And the soul of a child looked out of the eyes of a child,
Or ever the tale was done.

O my child, who wronged you first, and began
First the dance of death that you dance so well?
Soul for soul: and I think the soul of a man
Shall answer for yours in hell.

EMMY AT THE ELDORADO.

TO meet, of all unlikely things, Here, after all one’s wanderings! But, Emmy, though we meet, What of this lover at your feet?

For, is this Emmy that I see? A fragile domesticity I seem to half surprise In the evasions of those eyes.

Once a child’s cloudless eyes, they seem Lost in the blue depths of a dream, As though, for innocent hours, To stray with love among the flowers.

Without regret, without desire, In those old days of love on hire, Child, child, what will you do, Emmy, now love is come to you?

Already, in so brief a while, The gleam has faded from your smile; This grave and tender air Leaves you, for all but one, less fair.

Then, you were heedless, happy, gay, Immortally a child; to-day A woman, at the years’ control: Undine has found a soul.

AT THE CAVOUR.

WINE, the red coals, the flaring gas,
Bring out a brighter tone in cheeks
That learn at home before the glass
The flush that eloquently speaks.

The blue-grey smoke of cigarettes
Curls from the lessening ends that glow;
The men are thinking of the bets,
The women of the debts, they owe.

Then their eyes meet, and in their eyes
The accustomed smile comes up to call,
A look half miserably wise.
Half heedlessly ironical.

IN THE HAYMARKET.