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Title: Out of the Flame Author: Osbert Sitwell Release Date: February 11, 2020 [EBook #61369] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OUT OF THE FLAME *** Produced by Al Haines OUT OF THE FLAME BY THE SAME AUTHOR TWENTIETH-CENTURY HARLEQUINADE In collaboration with Edith Sitwell (BLACKWELL, Oxford) THE WINSTONBURG LINE Political Satires (HENDERSON, Charing Cross Road) COCK-ROBIN IN PREPARATION A BOOK OF CHARACTERS Short Stories and Sketches DISCURSIONS Essays on Travel, Art and Life The Author from the sculpture by Frank Dobson OUT OF THE FLAME BY OSBERT SITWELL LONDON GRANT RICHARDS LTD. 1923 Printed in Great Britain at The Mayflower Press, Plymouth. William Brendon & Son, Ltd. CONTENTS BOOK I OUT OF THE FLAME Two Mexican Pieces— I. Song II. Maxixe Out of the Flame Two Dances— I. Country Dance II. Fox Trot—When Solomon met the Queen of Sheba Two Garden Pieces— I. Neptune in Chains II. Fountains Parade English Gothic The Backward Child Nursery Rhyme—The Rocking-Horse Two Mythological Poems— I. The Jealous Goddess II. Bacchanalia BOOK II SING PRAISES Explanation—Subtlety of the Serpent De Luxe Mrs. Freudenthal Consults the Witch of Endor Night Thoughts The War-horse Chants A Touch of Nature Youth at the Prow, and Pleasure at the Helm The Manner The Open Door Introducing Malgré Soi Paradise Regained Five Portraits and a Group— I. The General's Wife Refuses II. Aux Bords de la Mer III. Giardino Pubblico IV. Ultimate Judgment V. An Old-Fashioned Sportsman Group: English Tea-rooms Sunday Afternoon Corpse Day My thanks are due to the Editors of The Nation, The Spectator, The Weekly Westminster, The English Review, Art and Letters, Form, The Dial, and Poetry (Chicago), for permission to reprint certain of the poems appearing in this volume. BOOK I OUT OF THE FLAME TWO MEXICAN PIECES I. SONG "Ah! Que bonitos Son los enanos, Los chiquititos, Y Mezicanos." Old Mexican Song. How jolly are the dwarfs, the little ones, the Mexicans Hidden by the singing of wind through sugar-cane, Out comes the pretty one, Out comes the ugly one, Out comes the dwarf with the wicked smile and thin. The little women caper and simper and flutter fans, The little men laugh, stamp, strut and stamp again, Dance to the bag-pipe drone, Of insect semitone, Swelling from ground slashed with light like zebra skin. The little Cardinal, the humming-bird, whose feathers flare Like flame across the valley of volcanic stone, Fiery arrow from a rainbow That the armoured plants have slain, low Stoops to watch the dwarfs as they dance out of sight. Hair, long and black as jet, is floating yet on amber air Honey-shaded by the shadow of Popacatapetl's cone, Their fluttering reboses Like purple-petal'd roses Fall through tropic din with a clatter of light. The crooked dwarf now ripples the strings of a mandoline, His floating voice has wings that brush us like a butterfly; Music fills the mountains With a riot of fountains That spray back on the hot plain like a waterfall. Smaller grow the dwarfs, singing "I'll bring shoes of satin," Smaller they grow, fade to golden motes, then die. Where is the pretty one, Where is the ugly one, Where is that tongue of flame, the little Cardinal? II. MAXIXE "Los enanitos Se enajaren." Old Mexican Song. The Mexican dwarfs can dance for miles Stamping their feet and scattering smiles, Till the loud hills laugh and laugh again At the dancing dwarfs in the golden plain, Till the bamboos sing as the dwarfs dance by, Kicking their feet at a jagged sky, That torn by leaves and gashed by hills Rocks to the rhythm the hot sun shrills; The bubble sun stretches shadows that pass To noiseless jumping-jacks of glass, So long and thin, so silent and opaque, That the lions shake their orange manes, and quake; And a shadow that leaps over Popacatapetl Terrifies the tigers as they settle Cat-like limbs, cut with golden bars, Under bowers of flowers that shimmer like stars. Buzzing of insects flutters above, Shaking the rich trees' treasure-trove Till the fruit rushes down like a comet, whose tail Thrashes the night with its golden flail, The fruit hisses down with a plump from its tree Like the singing of a rainbow as it dips into the sea. Loud red trumpets of great blossoms blare Triumphantly like heralds who blow a fanfare, Till the humming-bird, bearing heaven on its wing, Flies from the terrible blossoming, And the humble honey-bee is frightened by the fine Honey that is heavy like money and purple like wine, While birds that flaunt their pinions like pennons Shriek from their trees of oranges and lemons, And the scent rises up in a cloud, to make The hairy, swinging monkeys feel so weak That they each throw down a bitten coconut or mango. * * * * * Up flames a flamingo over the fandango, Glowing like a fire, and gleaming like a ruby. From Guadalajara to Guadalupe It flies—in flying drops a feather ... And the snatching dwarfs stop dancing—and fight together. OUT OF THE FLAME I From my high window, From my high window in a southern city, I peep through the slits of the shutters, Whose steps of light Span darkness like a ladder. Throwing wide the shutters I let the streets into the silent room With sudden clatter; Walk out upon the balcony Whose curving irons are bent Like bows about to shoot— Bows from which the mortal arrows Cast from dark eyes, dark-lashed And shadowed by mantillas, Shall in the evening Rain down upon men's hearts Paraded here, in southern climes, More openly. But, at this early moment of the day, The balconies are empty; Only the sun, still drowsy-fingered, Plucks, pizzicato, at the rails, Draws out of them faint music Of rain-washed air, Or, when each bell lolls out its idiot tongue, When Time lets drop his cruel scythe, They sing in sympathy. The sun, then, plucks these irons, As far below, That child Draws his stick along the railings. The sound of it brings my eye down to him.... Oh heart, dry heart, It is yourself again! How nearly are we come together! If, at this moment, One long ribbon was unfurled From me to him, I should be shown Above, in a straight line— A logical growth, And yet, I wave, but he will not look up; I call, but he will not answer. II From where I stand The beauty of the early morning Suffocates me; It is as if fingers closed round my heart. The light flows down the hills in rivulets, So you could gather it up in the cup of your hands, While pools, The cold eyes of the gods, Are cradled in those hollows. Cool are the clouds, Anchored in the heaven; Green as ice are they, To temper the heat in the valleys With arches of violet shadow. You can hear from the distant woods The thud of the centaurs' hoofs As they gallop down to drink, Shatter the golden roofs Of the trees, for swift as the wind They gallop down to the brink Of the waters that echo their laughter, Cavernous as rolling of boulders down hills; Lolling, they lap at the gurgling waters. * * * * * But nearer rises the sound, Red, ragged as his comb, Of a cock crowing; A bird flies up to me at the window, Leaping, like music, with regular rhythm, Sinks down, then, to the city beneath. III Below, the ants are hurrying down the footways, Dressed, here, in bright colours. Under their various intolerable burdens They stagger along. Stop to converse, move, wave their antennæ. * * * * * The fruit-seller is opening his stall, Oranges are piled in minute pyramids, While melons, green melons, Swing from the roof in string cradles. The butcher festoons his shop With swags and gay wreaths of entrails; Beautiful heads with horns, Are nailed up, as on pagan altars, (Though their ears are fresh from the hearing Of Orpheus playing his lute). The Aguador arranges his glasses, Out of which the sun will strike His varying scales of crystal music This afternoon, round the arena. The Matador prepares for the fight, Is, indeed, already in the Tavern, Where later and refreshed with blood, He will celebrate his triumph Among the poignant kindling Of stringéd instruments. * * * * * —But the child has run away crying; I call—but no answer comes. IV The chatter of the daylight grows As I look upon the market-place, Where there is a droning of bag-pipes, And the hard, wooden music of the hills; The housewife has left her cottage in the forest, Driving here through the early tracks of the sun. The beggars are already at their posts, Their dry flesh peeps through their garments. Their old ritual whining Causes no show of pity. Why should the hucksters, the busy people notice? God himself has stood here, out at elbows, Waiting patiently in the market-place, While they chatter in gay booths. But how I fear for them, These who are not afraid! I shout to them to make them understand. They talk more, cease talking and look up, They all look up, remain gaping. * * * * * I went back into the water-cool room, Put on my coloured coat, my buskin, And mask of Harlequin. They see me, this time. "Come on, come on," they cry, "You are just in time. There is fun down here in the market-place. Two men have been run over, And there's to be a public execution. The gallows are nearly up. —And after, in the evening, We will go round the wineshops, Strumming guitars, While trills Dolores in her wide, red skirt. Oh come on, come on!" —But the paint from my mask runs down And dyes my clothing. V It is not thus in the Northern cities, Where the cold breathes close to the window-pane, Where the brittle flowers of the frost Crackle at the window's edge. From my window in the Northern city I can hear the rattle and roar of the town, As the carts go lumbering over the bridges, As the men in dark clothes hurry over the bridges. They do not parade their hearts here, They bury them at their lives' beginning. They must hurry, or they will be late for their work; Their work is their bread. Without bread, how can they work? They have no time for pleasure, Nor is work any pleasure to them. Their faces are masked with weariness, Drab with their working. (Only the tramp who moves among them Unnoticed, despised, Has eyes that have seen). They must work till the guns go again, Giving them their only pretence to glory. They have no time to fear, No time to think of an end. Foolishly I called to them on the bridges; Only a few stopped, looked up —But these were convulsed with fury. Said one to another "I have never seen a man Behave like that before." But most of them were mute, And could not see. * * * * * Through the murkiness of the Northern dawn, The gas already flares out In the glass palaces, Where to-night, weary and dulled with smoke and with drink, They will seek, in a brief oblivion, Laughter, and the mask of Ally Sloper. * * * * * Thus it is in the Northern cities, Where the cold lies close to the window-pane, Where the grass grows its little blades of steel And the wind is armed with seven whips. VI Happy is Orpheus as he plays, The dumb beasts listen quietly, The music strokes their downy ears, Melts the fierce fire within. Only with music can you tame the beasts, Break them of their grizzly feasts; Only with music can you open eyes to wonder. But if they will not hear? The people have lost faith in music, Few are there to call, and none to answer. * * * * * When the Prince kissed the Sleeping Beauty, He broke the wicked spell of cobwebs; She answered, opened her eyes. When Narcissus looked into the pool, The cruel waters gave him their reply —Even that was a better fate Than to cry out in the lonely night —And not to be answered. VII From my high window in a Southern city, Floating above the geometrical array Of roofs, squares and interlacing streets, One can see beyond Into far valleys, That seem at first To be open blue flowers Scattered here and there on the mountains. The forests are so far away, They creep like humble green moss Over slopes that are mountains. And there sounds other music Than the falling streams, Or the deep penetrating glow Of sunlight piercing through green leaves. VIII When Orpheus with his wind-swift fingers Ripples the strings that gleam like rain, The wheeling birds fly up and sing, Hither, thither, echoing. There is a crackling of dry twigs, A sweeping of leaves along the ground. Tawny faces and dumb eyes Peer through the fluttering green screens, That mask ferocious teeth and claws Now tranquil. As the music sighs upon the hills, The young ones hear, Come skipping, ambling, rolling down, Their soft ears flapping as they run, Their fleecy coats catching in the thickets, Till they lie, listening, round his feet. * * * * * Unseen for centuries, Fabulous creatures creep out of their caverns. The unicorn Prances down from his bed of leaves, His milk-white muzzle still stained green With the munching, crunching of mountain herbs. The griffin usually so fierce, Now tame and amiable again— Has covered the white bones in his secret cavern With a rustling pall of dank, dead leaves, While the Salamander—true lover of art— Flickers, and creeps out of the flame; Gently now, and away he goes, Kindles his proud and blazing track Across the forest —Lies listening, Cools his fever in this flowing water. * * * * * When the housewife returns, Carrying her basket, She will not understand. She misses nothing, Has heard nothing in the woods. She will only see That the fire is dead, The grate cold. * * * * * But the child left in the empty house Saw the Salamandar in the flame, Heard a strange wind, like music, in the forest, And has gone out to look for it, Alone. TWO DANCES I. COUNTRY DANCE The Lion and the Unicorn Dance now together, There in the golden corn— For it is summer weather. The Lion, seen between the sheaves, Is more strong than fair, Yet he lets the singing thieves Rustle through his tawny hair. As he treads, the red-gold grain Curtsies and bows down; The birds tear at his ruffled mane, Stealing seed to feed Troy Town. For famine, in that fabled land, Grows, as the years pass. (Is it golden grain or sand From a broken hour-glass?) Night comes; over azure ground Roves an argent breeze: The Unicorn can still be found Trampling down the fleur-de-lys. Elegant and moon-white As a ghost, the Unicorn Dances for his own delight Under the flowering thorn. While deep in the sleeping wood The Lion breathes heavily, Though every dove in each tree coo'd, Yet would he sleep on wearily. * * * * * The Unicorn and Lion strong Dance now together (But surely they did no wrong— For it was the summer weather?) In among the red-gold grain, Ankle-deep in the Lilies of France— And I, for one, could scarce refrain From joining that heraldic dance. II. FOX TROT WHEN SOLOMON MET THE QUEEN OF SHEBA The navy at Ezion-Geba Gazed across the water amazed; When Solomon met the Queen of Sheba Lions in the desert were dazed With wonder at her striped pavilion That blazed like a new parhelion; They roared their admiration At this strange coruscation Till the satyrs Took their tawny children Trampling through the sand To march with the procession, to march with the band. The flaming phoenix flew with its feathers to fan The Queen at the head of her caravan; But, the phoenix, though famously fabulous, Was jealous, envious, and emulous For the Queen of Sheba had a retinue Strictly in keeping with her revenue— Six thousand camels and camelopards Ten thousand and ninety nigger bodyguards. The camelopards, proud-necked and tall Would scarcely deign to notice the Queen at all, But holding their heads as high as zebras Looked down on a hundred dwarf, harnessed zebras Bred for their stripes, with such success That the Queen could play a game of chess When travelling. The camels kneel Offer their humps for the Queen to feel, Nodding arched-necks and plumes of ostrich-feather, Dyed like her bright Abyssinian weather. The ten thousand niggers beat on gourds and golden gongs, Slashing the air with their piebald songs. * * * * * Thus the Queen met the King of Jerusalem And he Seemed wiser Than Methuselem, With a great black beard, And a nose like a scythe, He lived in the palace, And subsisted on a tithe! He gave the Queen of Sheba a welcome; Proportionate to her income; But this amazing Amazon Was lovable, generous and free. She brought a gift to Solomon of cinnamon, With an Almug and a Nutmeg tree— These he placed before his palace For the pleased Admiration Of the populace. Each sweet-smelling branch bore a budding bell of gold (Oh! the blood of Israelites ran cold...) When evening-wind blurred the hills with blue The swinging and the singing of the bells sang true, These by some magic stratagem Played the Sheban National Anthem, While the trill of each bell was like an Abyssinian bird, Or the golden voice of the Queen—for each word She spoke, trembled, sparkled in the air, Then spread its wings, and flew from her. But the Queen of Sheba went with Solomon To his country house at Lebanon. She did not bring him any cedar trees For these Would have been de-trop. Instead she brought him some Pekoe-trees In a beautiful Chinese bowl (For she had a very marked objection to Endowing Newcastle with coal) And she brought him gifts of hot-house grapes, Of ivory, Of ebony, Of elephants and apes, Of peacocks, of pearls, and a hundred pygmy slaves With skins like an orange, and hair that waves, And each of them wore a turban, Picked out with the plumes of a pelican, But of all her gifts, by far the rarest, Brought from the terrible central forest, With a vein of gold in its ivory horn, Was a lovelorn Milk-white unicorn; But the King, though sweet as honey, Had an eye for the value of money, So he only gave her a heraldic lion Embossed with the arms (and nose) of Zion. * * * * * Though the Queen of Sheba loved Solomon She was not happy at Lebanon, It was not the woman of the Edomites, The Zidonians, The Moabites, The Hittites, or the Ammonites! She would even listen to his proverbs, she put up with very many wrongs— But in secretly reading his notebook, she found Solomon's "Song-of-Songs" She knew it at once—it was poetry! And she left The Palace that day, But Solomon knew not where she went to nor why she had roamed away! But every evening in Jerusalem The Almug and the Nutmeg trees Flaunt the Sheban National Anthem Like a banner on the spice-laden breeze. And oh! each golden bell Seemed a turtle-dove That coo'd Within the moonlit shadow Of an Abyssinian wood.... * * * * * But we wonder what she looked like—this fascinating phantasmagoria.... Atalanta, Gioconda, Semiramis—or the late Queen Victoria? TWO GARDEN PIECES I. NEPTUNE IN CHAINS Enslaved are the old Gods; Pan pipes soundlessly For the unheeding bees. Bound by the trailing tresses of the vine To soft captivity, Neptune has left his waves To stand beneath the frozen, green cascades Of summer trees. Is the Sea-God, then, content to rule The rippling of wayward flowers, Lulled by the songs that many birds pour out From their green-cradles, gently-rocked —Songs that foam like hissing rain Among the heavy blossoms? Can he control The music of the wind through poplar trees, —Those trees, an instrument That any wind, however young Or drunk with drowsing scent Of petals, crushed by the flaming fingers of the sun Can play upon? But darkness, the deliverer Comes with dreams. Night's grape-stained waves Cool his aching body— The song of the nightingale Falls round him Like the froth of little waves; The warm touch of the evening wind Thaws the green cascades Till you can hear Every liquid sound within the world —Fountains, falling waterfalls, And the low murmur of the rolling sea —And Neptune dreams that he is free. II. FOUNTAINS Proud fountains, wave your plumes, Spread out your phoenix-wing, Let the tired trees rejoice Beneath your blossoming (Tired trees, you whisper low). High up, high up, above These green and drooping sails, A fluttering young wind Hovers and dives—but fails To steal a foaming feather. Sail, like a crystal ship, Above your sea of glass; Then, with your quickening touch, Transmute the things that pass (Come down, cool wind, come down). All humble things proclaim, Within your magic net, Their kinship to the Gods. More strange and lovely yet All lovely things become. Dead, sculptured stone assumes The life from which it came; The kingfisher is now A moving tongue of flame, A blue, live tongue of flame— While birds, less proud of wing, Crouch, in wind-ruffled shade, Hide shyly, then pour out, Their jealous serenade; ... Close now your golden wings! PARADE While vapour rises, the sun shines along A promenade beneath tall trees. In vain Seek thirsting flowers to thread their crystal song Upon the liquid harpstrings of the rain. Sweet air is honey'd with the lulling sound Of bees, gold-dusted. In the avenue Each leaf is now a lens the sun has found To focus light, and cast green shadow through Where walks Zenobia. Her marmoset Perched on the shoulder, grabs at ribbon'd flowers Or youthful curls of elders. Etiquette Is outraged, and a dowager glowers. The Marmoset plays with Zenobia's curls, Clutches the papillon's enamel'd sail; Gesticulates with idiot hands; unfurls, Then counts, the piebald rings upon his tail. Here flutter fan and feather to and fro As eager birds caressing golden sheaves; And like the spray of fountains, when winds blow The froth of laughter foams among the leaves, Till music, thin as silver wire, uncoils —Metallic trap to trip unwary players— A tune, ringed like the monkey's tail; but foils Any attempt to straighten it—In layers The idlers pause to watch the stage, where leap These masked buffoons to which the Old Gods sank. Over her fan Zenobia may peep At the lewd gestures of a mountebank. The silent lime-trees drip their golden scent; Staccato shrills the puppet, waves a wand, Postures, exaggerates a sentiment.... The little ape, alone, may understand How men make Gods, and place them up above; Then clamber up themselves to throw God down, Dearly pay deities for former love; We hold them captive, make them play the clown. Who knows but that, one day, men may be bound Thus to make war or love for apeish laughter, Until the world of gibbering monkeys round Quiver with laughter at our ape-like slaughter? * * * * * Ends song and antic; players quit the stage To the gloved silence of genteel applause, Splutters El Capitan in Spanish rage, Curses his money. Swathed in quiet, like gauze, The World is still, until a breeze sets free Green leaves, with plucking sound of mandoline. Convulsed the monkey capers—seems to see The wind, that wingéd God and Harlequin. Who, flying down, sounds waters' silver strings And brings soft music from far trembling towers, Snatches a bird-bright feather for his wings And flickers light on many secret flowers. ENGLISH GOTHIC Above the valley floats a fleet Of white, small clouds. Like castanets The corn-crakes clack; down in the street Old ladies air their canine pets. The bells boom out with grumbling tone To warn the people of the place That soon they'll find, before His Throne, Their Maker, with a frowning face. * * * * * The souls of bishops, shut in stone By masons, rest in quietude As flies in amber. They atone Each buzzing long-dead platitude. For lichen plants its golden flush Here, where the gaiter should have bent; With glossy wings the black crows brush Carved mitres, caw in merriment. Wings blacker than a verger's hat Beat on the air. These birds must learn Their preaching note by pecking at The lips of those who, treading fern, Ascend the steps to Heaven's height. —The willow herb, down by the wood, Flares out to mark the phoenix-flight