Chapter 2

She luminously wavered, and I tentatively inferred that she would soon perfectly reconsider her not altogether unobvious course. Furiously, tho' with a tender, ebbing similitude, across her mental consciousness stole a reculmination of all the truths she had ever known concerning, or even remotely relating to, the not easily fathomed qualities of paste and ink. So she stood, focused in an intensity of soul-quivers, and I, all unrelenting, waited, though of a dim uncertainty whether, after all, it might not be only a dubitant problem.

SWINBURNE'S VERSION:

Shall I dip, shall I dip it, Dolores, This luminous paste-brush of thine? Shall I sully its white-breasted glories, Its fair, foam-flecked figure divine?

O shall I--abstracted, unheeding-- Swish swirling this pen in my haste, And, deaf to thy pitiful pleading, Just jab it in paste?

STEPHEN CRANE'S VERSION:

I stood upon a church spire, A slender, pointed spire, And I saw Ranged in solemn row before me, A paste-pot and an ink-pot. I held in my either hand A pen and a brush. Ay, a pen and a brush. Now this is the strange part; I stood upon a church spire, A slender, pointed spire, Glad, exultant, Because The choice was mine! Ay, mine! As I stood upon a church spire, A slender, pointed spire.

Perhaps one of the most enjoyable occasions was the night when the members of the Re-Echo Club discussed the merits of the classic poem:

Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater, Had a wife and couldn't keep her; Put her in a pumpkin shell, And there he kept her very well.

In many ways this historic narrative called forth admiration. One must admit Peter's great strength of character, his power of quick decision, and immediate achievement. Some held that his inability to retain the lady's affection in the first place argued a defect in his nature; but remembering the lady's youth and beauty (implied by the spirit of the whole poem), they could only reiterate their appreciation of the way he conquered circumstances, and proved himself master of his fate, and captain of his soul! Truly, the Pumpkin-Eaters must have been a forceful race, able to defend their rights and rule their people.

The Poets at their symposium unanimously felt that the style of the poem, though hardly to be called crude, was a little bare, and they took up with pleasure the somewhat arduous task of rewriting it.

* * * * *

Mr. Ed Poe opined that there was lack of atmosphere, and that the facts of the narrative called for a more impressive setting. He therefore offered:

The skies, they were ashen and sober, The lady was shivering with fear; Her shoulders were shud'ring with fear, On a dark night in dismal October, Of his most Matrimonial Year. It was hard by the cornfield of Auber, In the musty Mud Meadows of Weir, Down by the dank frog-pond of Auber, In the ghoul-haunted cornfield of Weir.

Now, his wife had a temper Satanic, And when Peter roamed here with his Soul, Through the corn with his conjugal Soul, He spied a huge pumpkin Titanic, And he popped her right in through a hole. Then solemnly sealed up the hole.

And thus Peter Peter has kept her Immured in Mausoleum gloom, A moist, humid, damp sort of gloom. And, though there's no doubt he bewept her, She is still in her yellow-hued tomb, Her unhallowed, Hallowe'en tomb And ever since Peter side-stepped her, He calls her his lost Lulalume, His Pumpkin-entombed Lulalume.

This was received with acclaim, but many objected to the mortuary theory.

* * * * *

Mrs. Robert Browning was sure that Peter's love for his wife, though perhaps that of a primitive man, was of the true Portuguese stamp, and with this view composed the following pleasing Sonnet:

How do I keep thee? Let me count the ways. I bar up every breadth and depth and height My hands can reach, while feeling out of sight For bolts that stick and hasps that will not raise. I keep thee from the public's idle gaze, I keep thee in, by sun or candle light. I keep thee, rude, as women strive for Right. I keep thee boldly, as they seek for praise, I keep thee with more effort than I'd use To keep a dry-goods shop or big hotel. I keep thee with a power I seemed to lose With that last cook. I'll keep thee down the well, Or up the chimney-place! Or if I choose, I shall but keep thee in a Pumpkin shell.

This was, of course, meritorious, though somewhat suggestive of the cave-men, who, we have never been told, were Pumpkin Eaters.

* * * * *

Austin Dobson's version was really more lady-like:

BALLADE OF A PUMPKIN:

Golden-skinned, delicate, bright, Wondrous of texture and hue, Bathed in a soft, sunny light, Pearled with a silvery dew. Fair as a flower to the view, Ripened by summer's soft heat, Basking beneath Heaven's blue,-- This is the Pumpkin of Pete.

Peter consumed day and night, Pumpkin in pie or in stew; Hinted to Cook that she might Can it for winter use, too. Pumpkin croquettes, not a few, Peter would happily eat; Knowing content would ensue,-- This is the Pumpkin of Pete.

Everything went along right, Just as all things ought to do; Till Peter,--unfortunate wight,-- Married a girl that he knew. Each day he had to pursue His runaway Bride down the street,-- So her into prison he threw,-- This is the Pumpkin of Pete.

L'ENVOI

Lady, a sad lot, 'tis true, Staying your wandering feet; But 'tis the best place for you,-- This is the Pumpkin of Pete.

Like the other women present Dinah Craik felt the pathos of the situation, and gave vent to her feelings in this tender burst of song:

Could I come back to you, Peter, Peter, From this old pumpkin that I hate; I would be so tender, so loving, Peter,-- Peter, Peter, gracious and great.

You were not half worthy of me, Peter, Not half worthy the like of I; Now all men beside are not in it, Peter,-- Peter, Peter, I feel like a pie.

Stretch out your hand to me, Peter, Peter, Let me out of this Pumpkin, do; Peter, my beautiful Pumpkin Eater, Peter, Peter, tender and true.

Mr. Hogg took his own graceful view of the matter, thus:

Lady of wandering, Blithesome, meandering, Sweet was thy flitting o'er moorland and lea; Emblem of restlessness, Blest be thy dwelling place, Oh, to abide in the Pumpkin with thee.

Peter, though bland and good, Never thee understood, Or he had known how thy nature was free; Goddess of fickleness, Blest be thy dwelling place, Oh, to abide in the Pumpkin with thee.

Mr. Kipling grasped at the occasion for a ballad in his best vein. The plot of the story aroused his old-time enthusiasm, and he transplanted the pumpkin eater and his wife to the scenes of his earlier powers:

In a great big Mammoth pumpkin Lookin' eastward to the sea, There's a wife of mine a-settin' And I know she's mad at me. For I hear her calling, "Peter!" With a wild hysteric shout: "Come you back, you Punkin Eater,-- Come you back and let me out!" For she's in a punkin shell, I have locked her in her cell; But it really is a comfy, well-constructed punkin shell; And there she'll have to dwell, For she didn't treat me well, So I put her in the punkin and I've kept her very well.

Algernon Swinburne was also in one of his early moods, and as a result he wove the story into this exquisite fabric of words:

IN THE PUMPKIN

Leave go my hands. Let me catch breath and see, What is this confine either side of me? Green pumpkin vines about me coil and crawl, Seen sidelong, like a 'possum in a tree,-- Ah me, ah me, that pumpkins are so small!

Oh, my fair love, I charge thee, let me out From this gold lush encircling me about; I turn and only meet a pumpkin wall. The crescent moon shines slim,--but I am stout,-- Ah me, ah me, that pumpkins are so small!

Pumpkin seeds like cold sea blooms bring me dreams; Ah, Pete,--too sweet to me,--My Pete, it seems Love like a Pumpkin holds me in its thrall; And overhead a writhen shadow gleams,-- Ah me, ah me, that pumpkins are so small!

This intense poesy thrilled the heavens, and it was with a sense of relief to their throbbing souls that they listened to Mr. Bret Harte's contribution:

Which I wish to remark, That the lady was plain; And for ways that are dark And for tricks that are vain She had predilections peculiar, And drove Peter nearly insane.

Far off, anywhere, She wandered each day; And though Peter would swear, The lady would stray; And whenever he thought he had got her, She was sure to be rambling away.

Said Peter, "My Wife, Hereafter you dwell For the rest of your life In a big Pumpkin Shell." He popped her in one that was handy, And since then he's kept her quite well.

Which is why I remark, Though the lady was plain, For ways that are dark And tricks that are vain A husband is very peculiar, And the same I am free to maintain.

Oscar Wilde, in a poetic fervor and a lily-like kimono, recited with tremulous intensity this masterpiece of his own:

Oh, Peter! Pumpkin-fed and proud, Ah me; ah me! (Sweet squashes, mother!) Thy woe knells like a stricken cloud; (Ah me; ah me! Hurroo, Hurree!)

Lo! vanisht like an anguisht wraith; Ah me; ah me! (Sweet squashes, mother!) Wan hope a dolorous musing saith; (Ah me; ah me! Dum diddle dee!)

Hist! dare we soar? The Pumpkin Shell! Ah me; ah me! (Sweet squashes, mother!) Fast and forever! Sooth, 'tis well. (Ah me; ah me! Faloodle dee!)

There was little to be said after this, so the meeting closed with a solo by Lady Arthur Hill, sung with a truly touching touch:

In the pumpkin, oh, my darling, Think not bitterly of me; Though I went away in silence, Though I couldn't set you free.

For my heart was filled with longing, For another piece of pie; It was best to leave you there, dear, Best for you and best for I.

At Christmas the members of the Re-Echo Club voiced these pleasant sentiments:

BY MR. TENNYSON:

Give me no more! Though worsted slippers be The proper gift from woman unto man, Component of the universal plan; But, oh, too many hast thou given me, Give me no more!

BY MR. SHAKESPEARE:

To give or not to give, that is the question; Whether 'tis nobler on the whole to suffer The old exchange of trinkets, gauds and kickshaws, Or to take arms against this Christmas nuisance, And, by opposing, end it? To buy--to give-- No more; and by that gift to say we end The Christmas obligations to our friends We all are heir to! To buy--to give; To give--perchance to get; ay, there's the rub! For in those bundles gay what frights may come When we have shuffled off the ribbon bows And tissue paper! Who would gifts receive Of foolish books and little silver traps, That make us rather keep the things we buy, Than get these others that we know not of! Thus Christmas doth make cowards of us all, And, notwithstanding our good resolutions, Each year we bandy gifts, and follow out The same old Christmas programme!

BY MR. WORDSWORTH:

It was the very best of pies, All plummy, thick and sweet; A pie of most prodigious size-- And very few to eat.

'Twas passing rich, and few folks know How rich mince pie can be; But I have eaten it--and, oh, The difference to me!

BY MR. DOBSON:

When she gave me cigars (!) I smiled at the present. Her eyes were like stars When she gave me cigars. (I can stand sudden jars.) So I looked very pleasant When she gave me cigars (!) I smiled at the present.

BY MR. SWINBURNE:

If you eat turkey stuffing, And I eat hot mince pie, We'll vow that our digestion Is quite beyond all question; But soon we'll quit our bluffing And curl us up to die, If you eat turkey stuffing, And I eat hot mince pie.

BY MR. LONGFELLOW:

The day is done, and the darkness Falls on our little flat, As a feather is wafted downward From a lady's mushroom hat.

I've a feeling of fullness and sorrow That is not like being ill, And resembles colic only As a pillow resembles a pill.

But the night shall be filled with nightmares, And the food that was left to-day Shall be given to poor street Arabs, Or silently thrown away!

BY MR. MOORE:

'Twas ever thus, from childhood's bawl, I've seen my fondest hopes decay; Whatever I want most of all, I do not get it Christmas Day!

BY MISS PROCTER:

Seated one day at the table, I was stuffy and ill at ease, And my fingers wandered idly Over the nuts and cheese.

I know not what I had eaten, Or what I was eating then, But I struck a delicious flavor That I'd like to taste again.

It linked all elusive savors Into one perfect taste, Then faded away on my palate Without any undue haste.

I have sought, but I seek it vainly, That one lost taste so fine, That came from the head of the kitchen, And entered into mine.

BY MR. RILEY:

There, little girl, don't cry! You are awfully broke, I know; And of course you've spent Far more than you meant, And lots of bills you owe. But at Christmas time one has to buy-- There, little girl, don't cry, don't cry!

The Re-Echo Club met in their pleasant rooms at No. 4, Poetic Mews. Spring had passed, so their fancy was lightly turning to other matters than Love, and it chanced to turn lightly to the Cubist Movement in Art.

"Of course," mused the President, rolling his eyes in an especially fine frenzy, "this movement will strike the poets next."

"Ha," said Dan Rossetti, refraining for a moment from the refrain he was building, "we must be ready for it."

"We must advance to meet it," said Teddy Poe, who was ever of an adventurous nature. "What's it all about?"

"The principles are simple," observed Rob Browning, glancing from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven; "in fact, it's much like my own work always has been. I was born cubic. You see, you just symbolize the liquefaction of the essence of an idea into its emotional constituents, and there you are!"

"Dead easy!" declared Lally Tennyson, who went out poeting by the day, and knew how to do any kind. "What's the subject?"

"That's just the point," said the President; "preeminently and exclusively it's subjective, and you must keep it so. On no account allow an object of any kind to creep in. Now, here's one of the Cubist pictures. They call it 'A Nude Descending the Staircase.' They pick names at random out of a hat, I believe. Take this, you fellows, and throw it into poetry."

"Any rules or conditions?" asked Billy Wordsworth.

"Absolutely none. It's the Ruleless School."

Then the Poets opened the aspiration valves, ignited the divine spark plugs, and whiz! went their motor-meters in a whirring, buzzing melody.

Soon their Cubist emotions were splashed upon paper, and the Poets read with justifiable pride these symbolic results.

* * * * *

Ally Swinburne tossed off this poetic gem without a bit of trouble.

Square eyelids that hide like a jewel; Ten heads,--though I sometimes count more; Six mouths that are cubic and cruel; Of mixed arms and legs, twenty-four; Descending in Symbolic glories Of lissome triangles and squares; Oh, mystic and subtle Dolores, Our Lady of Stairs.

You descend like an army with banners, In a cyclone of wrecked parasols. You look like a mob with mad manners Or a roystering row of Dutch dolls. Oh, Priestess of Cubical passion, Oh, Deification of Whim, You seem to walk down in the fashion That lame lobsters swim.

Here we have Mr. P.B. Shelley's noble lines:

Hail to thee, blithe spirit! Nude thou never wert. Not from Heaven nor near it Breathed thy cubic heart In profuse stairs of unintelligible art.

What thou art, we know not; What is thee most like? Snakes tied in a bow-knot? Stovepipes on a strike? Or Bellevue inmates on a Suffrage hike!

We look before and after, And pine thy face to see; Our sincerest laughter Is aroused by thee. Art thou perchance the sad cube root of 23?

Mr. R. Kipling felt a flash of his old fire, and threw in a high speed:

On an old symbolic staircase, Looking forty ways at once; There's a Cubist Nude descending, With the queerest sort of stunts. For the staircase is a-falling, And the Noodle seems to say: "Though you hear my soul a-calling, You can't see me, anyway!"

Oh, this symbol balderdash, And this post-Impression trash; Can't you see their paint a-chunkin in a hotchy-potchy splash? Where the motives bold and brash Of the Cubist painters clash, And the Nude descends like thunder down a staircase gone to smash!

Mr. D.G. Rossetti, ever a sweet singer, warbled thus tunefully:

The Blessed Nude at eve leaned out From the gold staircase rail; Her paint was deeper than the depth Of waters in a pail. She wore three bonnets on her heads, And seven coats of mail.

And still she bowed herself and swayed In circling cubic charms. And the pigments of her painted soul Were loud as war's alarms. But the staircase lay as if asleep Along her fourteen arms.

(I saw her move!) But soon her path Was cubes instead of spheres; And then she disappeared among The staircase barriers; And, after she was gone, I saw She'd wept some large paint tears!

Mr. R. Browning found the subject greatly to his liking:

Who will may hear the Staircase story told; All its blobs, splotches, facets,--what you will; The vague Nude, compassed murkily about With ravage of six long sad hundred stairs, Dizzily plunging with tumultuous glee! Whirling the stairdust, hazarding oblique, The moon safe in her pocket! See she treads Cool citric crystals, fierce pyropus stone; While crushing sunbeams in a triple line Smirk at the insane roses in her hair, And Strojavacca, frowning, looks asquint To see that trick of toe,--that dizened heel,-- As she, the somewhat, hangs 'twixt naught and naught. A perfect Then,--a sub-potential Now-- A facile and slabsided centipede.

And here is Mr. B. Jonson's little jingle:

Still to be cubed, still to be square, As you were going down a stair; Still to see lurid pigments sluiced,-- Lady, it is to be deduced, Though art's hid causes are not found, All is not square, all is not round.

Give me a cube, give me a line That makes a whirling maze design; Robes made of sheet-iron, flowing free,-- Such sweet device more taketh me Than masterpieces by old Rubes Which charm not eyes attuned to cubes.

And Mr. J.W. Riley sang in his usual comforting strain:

There, Little Nude, don't cry! You've descended the stairs, I know; And the weird wild ways Of the Cubist Jays Have made you a holy show! But Post Impressions will soon pass by. There Little Nude, don't cry, don't cry!

Sir A. Tennyson caught the Cubical spirit neatly thus:

As the staircase is, the Nude is; thou art painted by a freak. And I think that he has knocked thee to the middle of next week. He will paint thee (till this fashion shall expend its foolish force), Something like a rabid dog,--a little larger than a horse. Semblance? Likeness? Scorned of Cubists! This th' evangel that he sings; Any picture's crown of glory is to look like other things! So thou art not seen descending in the ordinary way, But, like fifty motor-cycles, breaking speed laws in Cathay.

Mr. C. Kingsley was greatly interested:

My Cubist Nude, I have no song to give you; I could not pipe you, howsoe'er I tried; But ere I go, I wish that you would teach me That Staircase Slide!

Be skittish, child, and let who will be graceful, Do whizzy whirls whenever you've the chance; And so make life, death and that grand old staircase One song and dance.

Oscar Wilde was moody and this was his mood:

Adown the stairs the Nudelet came; (Pale pink cats up a purple tree!) Hark! to the smitten cubes of flame! Ah, me! Ah, jamboree!

Her soul seethed in emotions sweet; (Pale pink cats up a purple tree!) Symbolling like a torn-up street; Ah, jamboree! Ah, me!

And still the Nude's soul-cubes are there,-- (Pale pink cats up a purple tree!) In writhen glory of despair,-- Ah, me! Ah, Hully Gee!

Mr. W. Wordsworth was frankly disdainful:

She trod among the untrodden maze Of Cubists on a spree; A Nude whom there were none to praise, And very few could see.

A violet 'neath a mossy stone, Quite hidden from the eye, Is far more easy to discern Than that same Nude to spy.

She lived unseen. Though some few fakes Pretended her to see; But if she's on the stairs, it makes No difference to me.

Mr. Longfellow fairly let himself go:

The picture's done! And the staircase Falls like the crash of night. And the Nude is wafted downward Like a catapult in flight.

There's a feeling of strange emotion That is not akin to art; And resembles a picture only As a Tartar resembles a tart.

Such art has power to rouse Our laughter at any time, And comes like electrocution That follows after crime.

And Mr. Bunner's poetic gem has a charm all its own:

It was an old, old, old, old lady, On a staircase at half-past three; And the way she was painted together Was beautiful for to see.

She wasn't visible any, And the staircase, no more was he; For it was a Cubist picture With a feeling of deep skewgee.

'Twas a symbol of soul expression, Though you'd never have known it to be! That emotional old, old lady On a staircase at half-past three.

Mr. Wordsworth treated the subject boldly, thus:

She was a phantom of a fright When first she burst upon my sight; A Cubist apparition meant To symbolize a Nude's descent. Her eyes like soft-shell crabs aflare Like loads of brick her dusky hair; And all things else about her drawn As by one coming home at dawn. A fearsome shape, an image fierce, To haunt, to startle, and to pierce. I saw her upon nearer view, Like a symbolic oyster stew; A countenance in which did meet The paving blocks from some old street; The staircase, floating fancy-free, With steps of Cubic liberty. A perfect lady, nobly built, Constructed like a crazy quilt. Or a volcano on a spree, Or herd of elephants at tea. The staircase, by a bombshell wrecked, With something of a burst effect.

What do you think of A. Dobson's triolet:

Oh, see the Nude Descend the Stair! Fear not, oh, prude, To see the Nude; For by the rood, She isn't there! Oh, see the Nude Descend the Stair!

Of course, no one is a sweeter poetess than Miss A.A. Proctor:

Seated one day at my easel, I was hungry and somewhat faint, And my fingers wandered idly Over the tubes of paint.

I know not what I was drawing, Or what I was painting there, But I splotched a Cubic Symbol! Like a Nude Descending a Stair!

It flooded the crimson canvas With the gush of a broken dam; And it lay in sticky masses Like upset gooseberry jam.

It rioted blazing color, Like love ballyragging strife; It seemed the loquacious echo Of our discordant wife.

It linked all Futurist meanings Into one perfect cube, And broke itself up into facets Like a wreck in a Hudson Tube.

I seek, but I seek it vainly, That vast, symbolic line, That came from the head of the staircase And entered into mine.