Complete Poems 3 (Robert Graves Programme)

Than Shakespeare with his fine selective sense

  Included – if I tell you this, believe it.

  I’ll make it circumstantially convincing,

  Though, as you’d say, ‘in point of fact, a lie.’

  But does your scientific claim deter me

  By its confirmed absolutism? No.

  In any case there’ll be no libel action.

  No one can copyright Antigonus,

  Not even Sydney Lee, or Clemence Dane.

  James. Is there much fun in forging history?

  Nothing you write can ever alter facts.

  John. When you say ‘history’, what does that imply?

  The logical or the psychological?

  Logical? but there’s history that refers

  To another context with new premises

  Not bound by challenge of empiric proof.

  One day this history may become supreme

  As your empiric kind succeeded myth,

  And then who’ll be the forger, you or I?

  James. John, I don’t follow you: it sounds like nonsense.

  I can’t believe you mean half what you say.

  Must we revert to myth?

  John. No, not to myth

  In the dimmer sense, but a new form of myth

  Alert, with both eyes open, self-aware –

  This is my point, the past is always past

  And what the present calls past history

  Springs new, capricious, unforeseeable

  Not pinned to this or that structure of thought;

  Then what the structural classification

  Of Bruce and Spider, Washington and Hatchet,

  Alfred and Cakes, may prove in time to come,

  Or how such tales may alter in essentials

  By new research in one vein or the next,

  Do you dare prophesy?

  James. No, but meanwhile

  The empiric structure stands. John, tell your story.

  So long as you admit there’s no pretence

  Of conformation to what I still call

  Absolute truth, I’ll hear you out. Remember

  The scientist off-duty loves a lie

  When monstrous or fantastical enough,

  Or else a lie plausible in technique

  So long as he’s admitted to the secret,

  But not a lie that blunders near the truth

  And trips up over every nicety.

  Despite the lavish bounty of their isle

  For which they thanked God much, but not enough,

  Swiss Family Robinson drove me half-mad.

  John. But how?

  James. The pious author plumed himself

  On his zoology and his botany.

  One page he’s quite informative, the next…

  John. He’s tied his Wallace Line in loops and bows

  And croquet-hooped his lines of longitude.

  James. It makes my head ache.

  John. I’ll respect your head.

  Now then: –

  Antigonus, Romano writes,

  Was not the sole Sicilian lord entrusted

  With the marooning of young Perdita.

  There was another gallant, of Sigunto,

  Fernando Campi, ‘who in schools of fence

  Where foils are tipped with buttons, had such fame

  For quickness with his thrust, parry, quart and tierce

  That, had he burst upon the field of war

  Single against whole companies of swordsmen

  (So went the common rumour through the Land)

  He would have spitted them as cooks do larks,

  And borne away the spoils of victory.’

  But somehow there was peace in Sicily

  And since Fernando never picked a quarrel,

  And since he shone so bright in feats offence

  He’d fought no duels with the naked sword.

  Fernando landed with Antigonus

  On the sea-coast of wild Bohemia’s isle.

  Falling behind his friend, to lace a shoe,

  He saw the bear charge from a bramble thicket.

  Antigonus, bold hero, stood his ground,

  Unarmed alack, save for a toyish dagger

  And roared defiance. But Fernando turned,

  Aye, rapier in hand, he turned and ran.

  Bawling for help he pelted from the wood:

  And came by chance upon a simple clown

  Reclined in a green dell two miles away

  Playing at cards with one Autolycus.

  James. Autolycus? I seem to know that name.

  John. Don’t cramp my neo-Elizabethan manner.

  James. I thought John never minded being disturbed.

  John. He bade them follow speedily to the rescue.

  They had no arms, they said. He found them arms,

  Cutting stout quarter-staves from an oak hedge.

  Forward! alas, they found the ravenous bear

  Scarce finished dining on the gentleman.

  James. What then?

  John. Antigonus had two bold brothers

  Marco and Cassio, a wife Paulina,

  And a dear friend, Clement, a learned friar.

  The finish of the story lies with these.

  From mouth to mouth rambling circuitously,

  News reached them how Antigonus had perished,

  And of the coward part Fernando played.

  But no one could believe it of Fernando.

  Some three years later, back the traitor comes:

  He makes complete admission of the facts,

  With lame excuses palliating these;

  He suffered from a sickness of the bowels,

  He had no skill with bears, his wrist was numbed,

  He thought he heard men’s voices coming near

  So ran to call them, but they came too late.

  Now offers to expend ten thousand crowns

  In reverent masses for his dear friend’s soul.

  Paulina spat and smote the coward’s cheek,

  Her brothers challenged him to mortal duel

  But he reneged, flying for sanctuary

  To the same chapel where this Clement was.

  Now Clement who had loved Antigonus

  More than his own life, loved these brothers too,

  And held Paulina in sincere affection

  And for Fernando’s parts had great esteem.

  What should he do, but plead ‘Forgive the traitor,

  Forgive, forget, receive him back again,

  Think how he suffers in black self-reproach.’

  They would not hear him. Clement told them then

  ‘Forgive Fernando, or cast Clement off.’

  So choosing hotly, they cast Clement off.

  Clement, to prove his spirit of forgiveness,

  Though, true enough, Fernando used him coldly

  Admitting neither cowardice nor shame,

  Dedicated him a friendship’s garland

  (Fernando took it as a covert sneer)

  His life’s work, a text-book on Garden Pests….

  I’ll give the fifth act of the tale in brief:

  At last Fernando in revenge of slights

  Betrayed his island to the Turkish Fleet,

  Ravished Paulina from her second husband,

  Had Cassio and Marco maimed and branded

  And Clement perished in Sigunto’s sack.

  James. An edifying tale; but I can’t follow

  The ramifications of your allegory.

  Who was Fernando, to the pamphleteer?

  Medina-Sidonia? or the Duke of Parma?

  John. Scholastic James, I haven’t yet considered

  Romano’s dark political references:

  If you’ll decide Fernando’s prototype

  In Philip’s day, I’ll re-arrange the details.

  Meanwhile, a simple tragedy of manners,

  An ethical tangle, for your comment, James.

  James. I find that simple: Clement was a Christian.


  John. But are you satisfied with Clement’s fate?

  James. Satisfied with its probability, yes.

  He acted as his Saviour would have acted,

  He suffered as his Saviour would have suffered.

  John. Do you approve his action?

  James. Yes, I do.

  John. And you condemn Fernando?

  James. Very strongly.

  John. Marco and Cassio?

  James. Deserved their fate.

  John. Paulina?

  James. What else happened to Paulina?

  You left your fifth act in the air, I think.

  John. She died by her own hand, but killed Fernando.

  James. I like Paulina, in the tragic style.

  John. And I dislike them all impartially.

  James. What, Clement too?

  John. Certainly, Clement too.

  James. Well, what do you think Clement should have done?

  John. Disliking Clement is not blaming him.

  I told you, Clement was a Christian friar

  And his whole life centred in Christian doctrine.

  He had no option: as he did, he did.

  James. Well, what would you advise Clement to do

  If ever you met a man in Clement’s case?

  John. Nothing I could advise a Christian saint

  Would ever touch him: I should hold my tongue.

  James. Put it another way, then, logic-chopper,

  If you were Clement, in a general sense

  But bound by no particular monkish ties,

  How would you wish to act towards either party?

  Which side would you support? Paulina’s side?

  John. Never; Fernando too had been my friend,

  And though he acted in an ugly way,

  (Break-downs are always ugly) could he help it?

  It was his first experience of danger,

  And there’s no bear like a Bohemian bear,

  For size of paw, or length of claw, or strength of jaw.

  James. Would you support Fernando, then, like Clement,

  But not with Clement’s full extravagance?

  John. No, could I so offend my oldest friends?

  Think what Fernando’s conduct meant for them.

  Courage, among Sicilian noble houses,

  Courage and loyalty were the two prime virtues.

  Forgiveness came a bad third on the list.

  Forgive your foe – but only a brave foe,

  Acquainted with the laws of chivalry.

  Forgive your friend – but not the traitor sort,

  Only the headstrong, ‘Come, then, fight me!’ friend.

  That was the strict Siguntine code of manners.

  James. Well, then? If you would neither blame Fernando

  To please Paulina and her brothers-in-law,

  Nor yet reproach Paulina to Fernando,

  Fernando cursing her, what follows then?

  You have lost everything, antagonized all

  And thrown away even this satisfaction,

  ‘I acted as my Saviour approves action.’

  John. If I had strictly kept from taking sides

  I would conclude that both my former loves,

  Affection for Paulina and the brothers

  And admiration for Fernando’s parts,

  Were tainted with a strong self-interest,

  Therefore the better for complete suspension.

  James. So you would still abstain from taking sides?

  John. So far as it were possible to abstain.

  But with this trust, that before many months

  A change would come on either side; Fernando

  Would play the hero on the field, perhaps.

  Paulina and her brothers by the play

  Of quick political changes might be found

  Cowardly and disloyal in their turn

  In spite of every virtuous resolution:

  Then from the ruin of opposing views

  Securer friendship might again be borne

  And with the changing sides, I too would change.

  James. Do you find Providence always runs so slick?

  John. I do, but leave it as a mere assumption,

  The philosophical ‘why’ can wait its turn.

  Let this bear dine on its Antigonus

  And inwardly digest him undisturbed.

  James. Tell me, what was the poem you were writing?

  John. Only an eclogue between you and me:

  Or, that’s its newest phase: its past is past.

  As for its future; when I’ve done, you’ll say,

  ‘Well, John, it might have better stayed in prose.’

  And with your grim scholastic mind, you’ll add,

  ‘Why eclogue? Eclogues treat of goats, not bears.’

  James. Then you’ll dance off into psychology,

  And ‘psychologic truth’ and verbal quags.

  ESSAY ON CONTINUITY

  With unvexed certainty

  Historians trace their line

  Of continuity

  To plot the march of wine

  From vineyard, press, tun, bin,

  To throats of church or inn.

  But after? But before?

  Your logic baffles me

  That this line runs no more,

  True continuity,

  Back to the soil, or on

  To life in flesh and bone.

  For, unless men are wine,

  As you deny they be,

  Unless you stretch the vine

  In continuity

  Back to the darksome, dead,

  Prone earth on which it fed,

  There shines no sense at all

  From your cramped history

  Of rise, endurance, fall:

  Discontinuity

  Havocks your central claim,

  Disturbs your every aim.

  Yet, if wine’s progress stands

  Forever sure, made free

  Of hampering laws and bands

  In perpetuity,

  By logic it would seem

  Bacchus is God supreme.

  Not so? You have ears, eyes,

  And other senses three,

  Wherewith to recognize

  True continuity

  Of proven forms and shapes?

  Wine’s wine, and grapes are grapes?

  ‘Old knowledge of these forms,

  As all but fools agree,’

  You say, ‘survives the storms

  Of contrariety?

  The lexicon defines

  Such knowledge with close lines?’

  What witness have you found,

  What faith or warranty,

  That these forms must abound

  In perpetuity?

  If grapes defy the press?

  If wine lose tastiness?

  Must wine proceed from vine?

  Gana of Galilee

  Saw water turned to wine,

  Then continuity

  In blank amazement stops

  Where grapes are water-drops.

  Illusion? Miracle? Dream?

  Whatever cause you see,

  There’s something checks the stream

  Of continuity,

  Reneges, annihilates,

  Knowledge of modes and states.

  Then stretch what lines you please

  In the name of history,

  (For men must live by these)

  Yet continuity

  Shall yet demand in vain

  Absolute right to reign.

  So, the moving pictures flick

  In continuity.

  Charles Chaplin twirls a stick

  And leers at you and me.

  Scene chases hard on scene

  Denying gaps between.

  So, the trimmed poem runs

  As facile as can be

  Though it acknowledged once

  No continuity,

  A scrawling impotence

  That knew not its own sense, br />
  Darting from this to that,

  Champagne to Galilee,

  Kant’s tome to Chaplin’s hat,

  Yet continuity

  Appears awhile and is,

  And again perishes.

  Perishes, springs again,

  In perpetuity;

  No smallest rags remain

  Of its past history:

  New knowledge comes, new shapes,

  New wine, new lips, new grapes.

  KNOWLEDGE OF GOD

  So far from praising he blasphemes

  Who says that God has been or is,

  Who swears he met with God in dreams

  Or face to face in woods and streams,

  Meshed in their boundaries.

  ‘Has been’ and ‘is’ the seasons bind,

  (Here glut of bread, there lack of bread).

  The mill-stones grumble as they grind

  That if God is, he must be blind,

  Or if he was, is dead.

  Can God with Danäe sport and kiss,

  Or God with rebel demons fight,

  Making a proof as Jove or Dis,

  Force, Essence, Knowledge, that or this,

  Of Godhead Infinite?

  The caterpillar years-to-come

  March head to tail with years-that-were

  Round and around the cosmic drum;

  To time and space they add their sum,

  But how is Godhead there?

  Weep, sleep, be merry, vault the gate

  Or down the evening furrow plod,

  Hate and at length withhold your hate,

  Rule, or be ruled by certain fate,

  But cast no net for God.

  MOCK BEGGAR HALL: A PROGRESSION

  I

  Poet. Last night I dreamed about a haunted house: it was hardly a frightening dream or a gloomy dream, though I have for a long while been vexed by that kind of nightmare, but a disturbing problem-ridden affair demanding the comments of a moralist. The setting was something like that of Mock Beggar Hall at Oxford, once a leper-house outside the city walls, then a parsonage, now a private house where undergraduates lodge.

  Philosopher. Have you ever heard whether the Hall is actually haunted?

  Poet. No, but it occurred to me when I last visited there that it had every excuse for being so. In the dream I saw lepers and a parson and other odd ghosts alternately invading the rooms: thereupon a voice informed me that the lepers once used to haunt the parson and were themselves once haunted by these other nameless bearded ghosts, and now both parson, lepers and the bearded ones quarrel for turns to haunt the present occupants. I was asked in all seriousness what was to be done about it, but I could make no suggestion.

  Philosopher. You discovered the sense of the allegory?

  Poet. The dream follows naturally on the discussion we began yesterday. The ghosts represent the antisocial impulses in the individual. The new element which the dream has added is an observation that as social systems evolve, new modes of behaviour are expected from the individual and the old modes are discountenanced. But certain individuals cling to tradition, then as each mode claims complete liberty of action at the expense of other interests there follows continual friction. Is there any solution for these troubles? The name Mock Beggar Hall promises little hope.