Ara vus prec — Reading Companion

Defunctive music under sea Passed seaward with the passing bell Slowly: the god Hercules Had left him, that had loved him well.

The horses, under the axletree Beat up the dawn from Istria With even feet. Her shuttered barge Burned on the water all the day.

But this or such was Bleistein’s way: A saggy bending of the knees And elbows, with the palms turned out, Chicago Semite Viennese.

A lustreless protrusive eye Stares from the protozoic slime At a perspective of Canaletto. The smoky candle end of time

Declines. On the Rialto once. The rats are underneath the piles. The jew is underneath the lot. Money in furs. The boatman smiles,

Princess Volupine extends A meagre, blue-nailed, phthisic hand To climb the waterstair. Lights, lights, She entertains Sir Ferdinand

Klein. Who clipped the lion’s wings And flea’d his rump and pared his claws? —Thought Burbank, meditating on Time’s ruins, and the seven laws.

SWEENEY AMONG THE NIGHTINGALES

ὤμοι, πέπληγμαι καιρίαν πγελὴν ἔσω

WHY SHOULD I SPEAK OF THE NIGHTINGALE?

THE NIGHTINGALE SINGS OF ADULTEROUS WRONG.

Apeneck Sweeney spreads his knees Letting his arms hang down to laugh, The zebra stripes along his jaw Swelling to maculate giraffe.

The circles of the stormy moon Slide westward to the River Plate, Death and the Raven drift above And Sweeney guards the horned gate.

Gloomy Orion and the Dog Are veiled; and hushed the shrunken seas; The person in the Spanish cape Tries to sit on Sweeney’s knees

Slips and pulls the table cloth Overturns a coffee cup, Reorganised upon the floor She yawns and draws a stocking up;

The silent man in mocha brown Sprawls at the window sill and gapes; The waiter brings in oranges, Bananas, figs and hot-house grapes;

The silent vertebrate exhales, Contracts and concentrates, withdraws; Rachel née Rabinovitch Tears at the grapes with murderous paws;

She and the lady in the cape Are suspect, thought to be in league; Therefore the man with heavy eyes Declines the gambit, shows fatigue,

Leaves the room and reappears Outside the window, leaning in, Branches of wistaria Circumscribe a golden grin;

The host with someone indistinct Converses at the door apart, The nightingales are singing near The convent of the Sacred Heart,

And sang within the bloody wood When Agamemnon cried aloud And let their liquid siftings fall To stain the stiff dishonoured shroud.

_And the trees about me Let them be dry & leafless; let the rocks Groan with continual surges; & behind me Make all a desolation. Look, Look, wenches!_

Paint me a cavernous waste shore Cast in the unstilled Cyclades, Paint me the bold anfractuous rocks Faced by the snarled and yelping seas.

Display me Æolus above Reviewing the insurgent gales Which tangle Ariadne’s hair And swell with haste the perjured sails.

Morning stirs the feet and hands (Nausicaa and Polypheme); Gesture of orang-outang Rises from the sheets in steam.

This withered root of knots of hair Slitted below and gashed with eyes, This oval O cropped out with teeth; The sickle motion from the thighs

Jackknifes upward at the knees Then straightens down from heel to hip Pushing the framework of the bed And clawing at the pillow slip.

Sweeney addressed full-length to shave Broadbottomed, pink from nape to base, Knows the female temperament And wipes the suds around his face.

(The lengthened shadow of a man Is history, says Emerson, Who had not seen the silhouette Of Sweeney straddled in the sun).

Tests the razor on his leg Waiting until the shriek subsides; The epileptic on the bed Curves backward, clutching at her sides.

The ladies of the corridor Find themselves involved, disgraced; Call witness to their principles Deprecate the lack of taste

Observing that hysteria Might easily be misunderstood; Mrs. Turner intimates It does the house no sort of good.

But Doris towelled from the bath Enters padding on broad feet, Bringing sal volatile And a glass of brandy neat.

MR. ELIOT’S SUNDAY MORNING SERVICE

“_Look, look master, here comes two of the religious caterpillars_”. JEW OF MALTA

Polyphiloprogenitive The sapient sutlers of the Lord Drift across the window-panes. In the beginning was the Word.

In the beginning was the Word, Superfetation of το εν And at the mensual turn of time Produced enervate Origen.

A painter of the Umbrian school Designed upon a gesso ground The nimbus of the Baptised God. The wilderness is cracked and browned

But through the water pale and thin Still shine the unoffending feet And there above the painter set The father and the Paraclete.

The sable presbyters approach The avenue of penitence; The young are red and pustular Clutching piaculative pence,

Under the penitential gates Sustained by staring Seraphim Where the souls of the devout Burn invisible and dim.

Along the garden-wall the bees With hairy bellies pass between The staminate and pistilate: Blest office of the epicene.

Sweeney shifts from ham to ham Stirring the water in his bath. The masters of the subtle schools Are controversial, polymath.

WHISPERS OF IMMORTALITY

Webster was much possessed by death And saw the skull beneath the skin; And breastless creatures under ground Leaned backward with a lipless grin.

Daffodil bulbs instead of balls Stared from the sockets of the eyes! He knew that thought clings round dead limbs Tightening its lusts and luxuries.

Donne, I suppose, was such another Who found no substitute for sense To seize and clutch and penetrate, Expert beyond experience

He knew the anguish of the marrow The ague of the skeleton; No contact possible to flesh Allayed the fever of the bone.

Grishkin is nice; her Russian eye Is underlined for emphasis; Uncorseted, her friendly bust Gives promise of pneumatic bliss.

The couched Brazilian jaguar Compels the scampering marmoset With subtle effluence of cat; Grishkin has a maisonette:

The sleek and sinuous jaguar Does not in his arboreal gloom Distil so rank a feline smell As Grishkin in a drawing-room.

And even abstracter entities Circumambulate her charm; But our lot crawls between dry ribs To keep its metaphysics warm.

_Similiter et omnes revereantur Diaconos, ut mandatum Jesu Christi; et Episcopum, ut Jesum Christum, existentem filium Patris; Presbyteros autem, ut concilium Dei et Conjunctionem Apostolorum. Sine his Ecclesia non vocatur; de quibus suadeo vos sic habeo._ S. IGNATII AD TRALLIANOS.

_And when this epistle is read among you, cause that it be read also in the church of the Laodiceans._

The broad backed hippopotamus Rests on his belly on the mud; Although he seems so firm to us He is merely flesh and blood.

Flesh-and-blood is weak and frail, Susceptible to nervous shock; While the True Church can never fail For it is based upon a rock.

The hippo’s feeble steps may err In compassing material ends, While the True Church need never stir To gather in its dividends.

The potamus can never reach The mango on the mango tree; But fruits of pomegranate and peach Refresh the Church from over sea.

At mating time the hippo’s voice Betrays inflexions hoarse and odd, But every week we hear rejoice The Church, at being one with God.

The hippopotamus’s day Is past in sleep; at night he hunts; God works in a mysterious way The Church can sleep and eat at once.

I saw the potamus take wing Ascending from the damp savannas, And quiring angels round him sing The praise of God in loud hosannas.

Blood of the Lamb shall wash him clean And him shall heavenly arms enfold, Among the saints he shall be seen Performing on a harp of gold.

He shall be washed as white as snow, By all the martyr’d virgins kist, While the True Church remains below Wrapt in the old miasmal mist.

_En l’an trentiesme de mon aage Que toutes mes hontes j’ay beues..._

Pipit sate upright in her chair Some distance from where I was sitting; _Views of the Oxford Colleges_ Lay on the table with the knitting.

Daguerrotypes and silhouettes, Her grandfather and great great aunts, Supported on the mantelpiece An _Invitation to the Dance_.

I shall not want Honour in Heaven For I shall meet Sir Philip Sidney And have talk with Coriolanus And other heroes of that kidney.

I shall not want Capital in Heaven For I shall meet Sir Alfred Mond: We two shall lie together, lapt In a five per cent Exchequer Bond.

I shall not want Society in Heaven Lucretia Borgia shall be my Bride; Her anecdotes will be more amusing Than Pipit’s experience could provide.

I shall not want Pipit in Heaven: Madame Blavatsky will instruct me In the seven Sacred Trances; Piccarda de’ Donati will conduct me....

But where is the penny world I bought To eat with Pipit behind the screen? The red-eyed scavengers are creeping From Kentish Town and Golder’s Green;

Where are the eagles and the trumpets?

Buried beneath some snow-deep Alps. Over buttered scones and crumpets Weeping, weeping multitudes Droop in a hundred A. B. C.’s.

Ils ont vu les Pays-Bas, ils rentrent á Terre Haute; Mais une nuit d’été, les voici à Ravenne, A l’aise entre deux draps, chez deux centaines de punaises; La sueur estivale, et une forte odeur de chienne. Ils restent sur le dos écartant les genoux De quatre jambes molles tout gonflées de morsures. On relève le drap pour mieux égratigner. Moins d’une lieue d’ici est Sainte Apollinaire In Classe, basilique connue des amateurs De chapitaux d’acanthe que tournoie le vent.

Ils vont prendre le train de huit heures Prolonger leurs misères de Padoue à Milan Où se trouvent le Cène, et un restaurant pas cher. Lui pense aux pourboires, et rédige son bilan. Ils auront vu la Suisse et traversé la France, Et Sainte Apollinaire, raide et ascétique, Vieille usine désaffectée de Dieu, tient encore Dans ses pierres écroulantes la forme précise de Byzance.

Le garçon délabré qui n’a rien à faire Que de se gratter les doigts et se pencher sur mon épaule: “Dans mon pays, il fera temps pluvieux, Du vent, du grand soleil et de la pluie; C’est ce qu’on appelle le jour de lessive des gueux.” (Bavard, baveux, à la croupe arrondie, Je t’en prie, au moins, ne bave pas dans la soupe.) “Les saules tout trempés, et des bourgeons sur les ronces— C’est là, dans une averse, qu’on s’abrite. J’avais sept ans, elle était plus petite. Elle était toute mouillée, je lui ai donné des primevères.” Les tâches de son gilet montent au chiffre de trente-huit. “Je la chatouillais, pour la faire rire. Elle avait une odeur fraîche qui m’était inconnue,—”

Mais alors, vieux lubrique—

“Monsieur, le fait est dur, Il est venu, nous péloter, un gros chien, Moi j’avais peur, je l’ai quittée à mi-chemin; C’est dommage.”

Mais alors, tu as ton vautour. Va-t’en te décrotter les rides du visage; Tiens, ma fourchette, décrasse-toi le crâne, De quel droit paies-tu des expériences comme moi? Tiens, voilà dix sous, pour la salle-de-bain.

Phlébas, le Phénicien, pendant quinze jours noyé, Oubliait le cri des mouettes et la houle de Cornouaille, Et les profits et les pertes, et la cargaison d’étain; Un courant de sous-mer l’emporta très loin, Le repassant aux étapes de sa vie antérieure. Figurez-vous donc, c’était un sort pénible. Cependant, ce fut jadis un bel homme, de haute taille.

Malheur à la malheureuse Tamise! Qui coule si pres du Spectateur. Le directeur Du Spectateur Empeste la brise. Les actionnaires Réactionnaires Du Spectateur Conservateur Bras-dessus bras-dessous Font des tours A pas de loup. Dans un égout Une petite fille En guenilles Camarde Regarde Le directeur Du Spectateur Conservateur Et crève d’amour.

MÉLANGE ADULTÈRE DE TOUT

En Amérique, professeur; En Angleterre, journaliste; C’est à grands pas et en sueur Que vous suivrez à peine ma piste. En Yorkshire, conférencier; A Londres, un peu banquier; (Vous me paierez bien la tête.) C’est à Paris que je me coiffe Casque noir de jemenfoutiste. En Allemagne, philosophe Surexcité par Emporheben Au grand air de Bergsteigleben; J’erre toujours de-ci de-là A divers coups de tra la la De Damas jusque à Omaha; Je célebrai mon jour de fête Dans un oasis d’Afrique, Vêtu d’une peau de girafe.

On montrera mon cénotaphe Aux côtes brulantes de Mozambique.

_To you particularly, and to all the Volscians Great hurt and mischief._

Tired. Subterrene laughter synchronous With silence from the sacred wood And bubbling of the uninspired Mephitic river.

Misunderstood The accents of the now retired Profession of the calamus.

Tortured. When the bridegroom smoothed his hair There was blood upon the bed. Morning was already late. Children singing in the orchard (Io Hymen, Hymenæe) Succuba eviscerate.

Tortuous. By arrangement with Perseus The fooled resentment of the dragon Sailing before the wind at dawn. Golden apocalypse. Indignant At the cheap extinction of his taking-off. Now lies he there Tip to tip washed beneath Charles’ Wagon.

THE LOVE SONG OF J. ALFRED PRUFROCK

_S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse A persona che mai tornasse al mondo, Questa fiamma staria senza più scosse. Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’ odo il vero, Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo._

Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherized upon a table; Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, The muttering retreats

Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: Streets that follow like a tedious argument Of insidious intent To lead you to an overwhelming question.... Oh, do not ask, “What is it?” Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes, Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening, Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains, Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys, Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, And seeing that it was a soft October night, Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time For the yellow smoke that slides along the street, Rubbing its back upon the window-panes; There will be time, there will be time To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; There will be time to murder and create, And time for all the works and days of hands That lift and drop a question on your plate; Time for you and time for me, And time yet for a hundred indecisions, And for a hundred visions and revisions, Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?” Time to turn back and descend the stair, With a bald spot in the middle of my hair— (They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”) My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin, My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin— (They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”) Do I dare Disturb the universe? In a minute there is time For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all: Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; I know the voices dying with a dying fall Beneath the music from a farther room. So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all— The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase, And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, Then how should I begin To spit out all the butt-ends of my ways and days? And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all— Arms that are braceleted and white and bare (But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!) Is it perfume from a dress That makes me so digress? Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl. And should I then presume? And how should I begin?

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes Of lonely men in shirtsleeves, leaning out of windows?...

I should have been a pair of ragged claws Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! Smoothed by long fingers, Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers, Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me. Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed, Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter, I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter; I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all, After the cups, the marmalade, the tea, Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me, Would it have been worth while, To have bitten off the matter with a smile, To have squeezed the universe into a ball To roll it toward some overwhelming question, To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead, Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”— If one, settling a pillow by her head, Should say: “That is not what I meant at all, That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all, Would it have been worth while, After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets, After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor— And this, and so much more?— It is impossible to say just what I mean! But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen: Would it have been worth while If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl, And turning toward the window, should say: “That is not it at all, That is not what I meant, at all.”

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; Am an attendant, lord, one that will do To swell a progress, start a scene or two, Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool, Deferential, glad to be of use, Politic, cautious, and meticulous; Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse; At times, indeed, almost ridiculous— Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old ... I grow old ... I shall wear the bottom of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves Combing the white hair of the waves blown back When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

_Thou hast committed— Fornication: but that was in another country, And besides, the wench is dead._ THE JEW OF MALTA

Among the smoke and fog of a December afternoon You have the scene arrange itself—as it will seem to do— With “I have saved this afternoon for you”; And four wax candles in the darkened room, Four rings of light upon the ceiling overhead, An atmosphere of Juliet’s tomb Prepared for all the things to be said, or left unsaid. We have been, let us say, to hear the latest Pole Transmit the Preludes, through his hair and finger-tips. “So intimate, this Chopin, that I think his soul Should be resurrected only among friends Some two or three, who will not touch the bloom That is rubbed and questioned in the concert room.” —And so the conversation slips Among velleities and carefully caught regrets Through attenuated tones of violins Mingled with remote cornets And begins.