Theodore Watts-Dunton: Poet, Novelist, Critic
Chapter VII
EAST ANGLIA
WHATEVER may have been those experiences with the gryengroes which made Groome, when speaking of the gypsies of 'Aylwin,' say 'the author writes only of what he knows,' it seems to have been after his intercourse with the gypsies that he and a younger brother, Alfred Eugene Watts (elsewhere described), were articled as solicitors to their father. His bent, however, was always towards literature, especially poetry, of which he had now written a great deal--indeed, the major part of the volume which was destined to lie unpublished for so many years. But before I deal with the most important period of Mr. Watts-Dunton's life--his life in London--it seems necessary to say a word or two about his visits to East Anglia, and especially to the Norfolk coast. There are some admirable remarks upon the East Coast in Mr. William Sharp's chapter on 'Aylwinland' in 'Literary Geography,' and he notes the way in which Rhona Boswell links it with Cowslip Land; but he does not give examples of the poems which thus link it, such as the double roundel called 'The Golden Hand.'
THE GOLDEN HAND {73a}
PERCY
Do you forget that day on Rington strand When, near the crumbling ruin's parapet, I saw you stand beside the long-shore net The gorgios spread to dry on sunlit sand?
RHONA
Do I forget?
PERCY
You wove the wood-flowers in a dewy band Around your hair which shone as black as jet: No fairy's crown of bloom was ever set Round brows so sweet as those the wood-flowers spanned.
I see that picture now; hair dewy-wet: Dark eyes that pictures in the sky expand: Love-lips (with one tattoo 'for dukkerin' {73b}) tanned By sunny winds that kiss them as you stand.
RHONA
Do I forget? The Golden Hand shone there: it's you forget, Or p'raps us Romanies ondly understand The way the Lover's Dukkeripen is planned Which shone that second time when us two met.
PERCY
Blest 'Golden Hand'!
RHONA
The wind, that mixed the smell o' violet Wi' chirp o' bird, a-blowin' from the land Where my dear Mammy lies, said as it fanned My heart-like, 'Them 'ere tears makes Mammy fret.' She loves to see her chavi {74} lookin' grand, So I made what you call'd a coronet, And in the front I put her amulet: She sent the Hand to show she sees me yet.
PERCY
Blest 'Golden Hand'!
In the same way that the velvety green of Hunts is seen in the verses I have already quoted, so the softer side of the inland scenery of East Anglia is described in the following lines, where also we find an exquisite use of the East Anglian fancy about the fairies and the foxglove bells.
At a waltz during certain Venetian revels after the liberation from the Austrian yoke, a forsaken lover stands and watches a lady whose child-love he had won in England:--
Has she forgotten for such halls as these The domes the angels built in holy times, When wings were ours in childhood's flowery climes To dance with butterflies and golden bees?-- Forgotten how the sunny-fingered breeze Shook out those English harebells' magic chimes On that child-wedding morn, 'neath English limes, 'Mid wild-flowers tall enough to kiss her knees?
The love that childhood cradled--girlhood nursed-- Has she forgotten it for this dull play, Where far-off pigmies seem to waltz and sway Like dancers in a telescope reversed? Or does not pallid Conscience come and say, 'Who sells her glory of beauty stands accursed'?
But was it this that bought her--this poor splendour That won her from her troth and wild-flower wreath Who 'cracked the foxglove bells' on Grayland Heath, Or played with playful winds that tried to bend her, Or, tripping through the deer-park, tall and slender, Answered the larks above, the crakes beneath, Or mocked, with glitter of laughing lips and teeth, When Love grew grave--to hide her soul's surrender?
Mr. Sharp has dwelt upon the striking way in which the scenery and atmosphere are rendered in 'Aylwin,' but this, as I think, is even more clearly seen in the poems. And in none of these is it seen so vividly as in that exhilarating poem, 'Gypsy Heather,' published in the 'Athenaeum,' and not yet garnered in a volume. This poem also shows his lyrical power, which never seems to be at its very best unless he is depicting Romany life and Romany passion. The metre of this poem is as original as that of 'The Gypsy Haymaking Song,' quoted in an earlier chapter. It has a swing like that of no other poem:--
GYPSY HEATHER
'If you breathe on a heather-spray and send it to your man it'll show him the selfsame heather where it wur born.'--SINFI LOVELL.
[Percy Aylwin, standing on the deck of the 'Petrel,' takes from his pocket a letter which, before he had set sail to return to the south seas, the Melbourne post had brought him--a letter from Rhona, staying then with the Boswells on a patch of heath much favoured by the Boswells, called 'Gypsy Heather.' He takes from the envelope a withered heather-spray, encircled by a little scroll of paper on which Rhona has written the words, 'Remember Gypsy Heather.']
I
Remember Gypsy Heather? Remember Jasper's camping-place Where heath-bells meet the grassy dingle, And scents of meadow, wood and chase, Wild thyme and whin-flower seem to mingle? Remember where, in Rington Furze, I kissed her and she asked me whether I 'thought my lips of teazel-burrs, That pricked her jis like whin-bush spurs, Felt nice on a rinkenny moey {76} like hers?'-- Gypsy Heather!
II
Remember Gypsy Heather? Remember her whom nought could tame But love of me, the poacher-maiden Who showed me once my father's game With which her plump round arms were laden Who, when my glances spoke reproach, Said, "Things o' fur an' fin an' feather Like coneys, pheasants, perch an' loach, An' even the famous 'Rington roach,' Wur born for Romany chies to poach!"-- Gypsy Heather!
III
Remember Gypsy Heather? Atolls and reefs, you change, you change To dells of England dewy and tender; You palm-trees in yon coral range Seem 'Rington Birches' sweet and slender Shading the ocean's fiery glare: We two are in the Dell together-- My body is here, my soul is there With lords of trap and net and snare, The Children of the Open Air,-- Gypsy Heather!
IV
Remember Gypsy Heather? Its pungent breath is on the wind, Killing the scent of tropic water; I see her suitors swarthy skinned, Who pine in vain for Jasper's daughter. The 'Scollard,' with his features tanned By sun and wind as brown as leather-- His forehead scarred with Passion's brand-- Scowling at Sinfi tall and grand, Who sits with Pharaoh by her hand,-- Gypsy Heather!
V
Remember Gypsy Heather? Now Rhona sits beneath the tree That shades our tent, alone and weeping; And him, the 'Scollard,' him I see: From bush to bush I see him creeping-- I see her mock him, see her run And free his pony from the tether, Who lays his ears in love and fun, And gallops with her in the sun Through lace the gossamers have spun,-- Gypsy Heather!
VI
Remember Gypsy Heather? She reaches 'Rington Birches'; now, Dismounting from the 'Scollard's' pony, She sits alone with heavy brow, Thinking, but not of hare or coney. The hot sea holds each sight, each sound Of England's golden autumn weather: The Romanies now are sitting round The tea-cloth spread on grassy ground; Now Rhona dances heather-crowned,-- Gypsy Heather!
VII
Remember Gypsy Heather? She's thinking of this withered spray Through all the dance; her eyes are gleaming Darker than night, yet bright as day, While round her a gypsy shawl is streaming; I see the lips--the upper curled, A saucy rose-leaf, from the nether, Whence--while the floating shawl is twirled, As if a ruddy cloud were swirled-- Her scornful laugh at him is hurled,-- Gypsy Heather!
VIII
Remember Gypsy Heather? In storm or calm, in sun or rain, There's magic, Rhona, in the writing Wound round these flowers whose purple stain Dims the dear scrawl of Love's inditing: Dear girl, this spray between the leaves (Now fading like a draggled feather With which the nesting song-bird weaves) Makes every wave the vessel cleaves Seem purple of heather as it heaves,-- Gypsy Heather!
IX
Remember Gypsy Heather? Oh, Rhona! sights and sounds of home Are everywhere; the skylark winging Through amber cloud-films till the dome Seems filled with love, our love, a-singing. The sea-wind seems an English breeze Bearing the bleat of ewe and wether Over the heath from Rington Leas, Where, to the hymn of birds and bees, You taught me Romany 'neath the trees,-- Gypsy Heather!
Another reason that makes it necessary for me to touch upon the inland part of East Anglia is that I have certain remarks to make upon what are called 'the Omarian poems of Mr. Watts-Dunton.' Although, as I have before hinted, St. Ives, being in Hunts, belongs topographically to the East Midlands, its sympathies are East Anglian. This perhaps is partly because it is the extreme east of Hunts, and partly because the mouth of the Ouse is at Lynn: to those whom Mr. Norris affectionately calls St. Ivians and Hemingfordians, the seaside means Yarmouth, Lowestoft, Cromer, Hunstanton, and the towns on the Suffolk coast. The splendour of Norfolk ale may also partly account for it. This perhaps also explains why the famous East Anglian translator of Omar Khayyam would seem to have been known to a few Omarians on the banks of the Ouse and Cam as soon as the great discoverer of good things, Rossetti, pounced upon it in the penny box of a second-hand bookseller. Readers of Mr. Watts-Dunton's obituary notice of F. H. Groome in the 'Athenaeum' will recall these words:--
"It was not merely upon Romany subjects that Groome found points of sympathy at 'The Pines' during that first luncheon; there was that other subject before mentioned, Edward FitzGerald and Omar Khayyam. We, a handful of Omarians of those antediluvian days, were perhaps all the more intense in our cult because we believed it to be esoteric. And here was a guest who had been brought into actual personal contact with the wonderful old 'Fitz.' As a child of eight he had seen him, talked with him, been patted on the head by him. Groome's father, the Archdeacon of Suffolk, was one of FitzGerald's most intimate friends. This was at once a delightful and a powerful link between Frank Groome and those at the luncheon table; and when he heard, as he soon did, the toast to 'Omar Khayyam,' none drank that toast with more gusto than he. The fact is, as the Romanies say, true friendship, like true love, is apt to begin at first sight."
This is the poem alluded to: it is entitled, 'Toast to Omar Khayyam: An East Anglian echo-chorus inscribed to old Omarian Friends in memory of happy days by Ouse and Cam':--
CHORUS
In this red wine, where memory's eyes seem glowing, And days when wines were bright by Ouse and Cam, And Norfolk's foaming nectar glittered, showing What beard of gold John Barleycorn was growing, We drink to thee, right heir of Nature's knowing, Omar Khayyam!
I
Star-gazer, who canst read, when Night is strowing Her scriptured orbs on Time's wide oriflamme, Nature's proud blazon: 'Who shall bless or damn? Life, Death, and Doom are all of my bestowing!' CHORUS: Omar Khayyam!
II
Poet, whose stream of balm and music, flowing Through Persian gardens, widened till it swam-- A fragrant tide no bank of Time shall dam-- Through Suffolk meads, where gorse and may were blowing,-- CHORUS: Omar Khayyam!
III
Who blent thy song with sound of cattle lowing, And caw of rooks that perch on ewe and ram, And hymn of lark, and bleat of orphan lamb, And swish of scythe in Bredfield's dewy mowing? CHORUS: Omar Khayyam!
IV
'Twas Fitz, 'Old Fitz,' whose knowledge, farther going Than lore of Omar, 'Wisdom's starry Cham,' Made richer still thine opulent epigram: Sowed seed from seed of thine immortal sowing.-- CHORUS: Omar Khayyam!
V
In this red wine, where Memory's eyes seem glowing, And days when wines were bright by Ouse and Cam, And Norfolk's foaming nectar glittered, showing What beard of gold John Barleycorn was growing, We drink to thee till, hark! the cock is crowing! Omar Khayyam!
It was many years after this--it was as a member of another Omar Khayyam Club of much greater celebrity than the little brotherhood of Ouse and Cam--not large enough to be called a club--that Mr. Watts-Dunton wrote the following well-known sonnet:--
PRAYER TO THE WINDS
On planting at the head of FitzGerald's grave two rose-trees whose ancestors had scattered their petals over the tomb of Omar Khayyam.
"My tomb shall be on a spot where the north wind may strow roses upon it."
OMAR KHAYYAM TO KWAJAH NIZAMI.
Hear us, ye winds! From where the north-wind strows Blossoms that crown 'the King of Wisdom's' tomb, The trees here planted bring remembered bloom, Dreaming in seed of Love's ancestral rose, To meadows where a braver north-wind blows O'er greener grass, o'er hedge-rose, may, and broom, And all that make East England's field-perfume Dearer than any fragrance Persia knows.
Hear us, ye winds, North, East, and West, and South! This granite covers him whose golden mouth Made wiser ev'n the Word of Wisdom's King: Blow softly over Omar's Western herald Till roses rich of Omar's dust shall spring From richer dust of Suffolk's rare FitzGerald.
I must now quote another of Mr. Watts-Dunton's East Anglian poems, partly because it depicts the weird charm of the Norfolk coast, and partly because it illustrates that sympathy between the poet and the lower animals which I have already noted. I have another reason: not long ago, that good East Anglian, Mr. Rider Haggard interested us all by telling how telepathy seemed to have the power of operating between a dog and its beloved master in certain rare and extraordinary cases. When the poem appeared in the 'Saturday Review' (December 20, 1902), it was described as 'part of a forthcoming romance.' It records a case of telepathy between man and dog quite as wonderful as that narrated by Mr. Rider Haggard:--
CAUGHT IN THE EBBING TIDE
The mightiest Titan's stroke could not withstand An ebbing tide like this. These swirls denote How wind and tide conspire. I can but float To the open sea and strike no more for land. Farewell, brown cliffs, farewell, beloved sand Her feet have pressed--farewell, dear little boat Where Gelert, {82} calmly sitting on my coat, Unconscious of my peril, gazes bland!
All dangers grip me save the deadliest, fear: Yet these air-pictures of the past that glide-- These death-mirages o'er the heaving tide-- Showing two lovers in an alcove clear, Will break my heart. I see them and I hear As there they sit at morning, side by side.
THE FIRST VISION
_With Raxton elms behind--in front the sea_, _Sitting in rosy light in that alcove_, _They hear the first lark rise o'er Raxton Grove_; '_What should I do with fame_, _dear heart_?' _says he_. '_You talk of fame_, _poetic fame_, _to me_ _Whose crown is not of laurel but of love_-- _To me who would not give this little glove_ _On this dear hand for Shakspeare's dower in fee_.
_While_, _rising red and kindling every billow_, _The sun's shield shines_ '_neath many a golden spear_, _To lean with you against this leafy pillow_, _To murmur words of love in this loved ear_-- _To feel you bending like a bending willow_, _This is to be a poet_--_this_, _my dear_!'
O God, to die and leave her--die and leave The heaven so lately won!--And then, to know What misery will be hers--what lonely woe!-- To see the bright eyes weep, to see her grieve Will make me a coward as I sink, and cleave To life though Destiny has bid me go. How shall I bear the pictures that will glow Above the glowing billows as they heave?
One picture fades, and now above the spray Another shines: ah, do I know the bowers Where that sweet woman stands--the woodland flowers, In that bright wreath of grass and new-mown hay-- That birthday wreath I wove when earthly hours Wore angel-wings,--till portents brought dismay?
THE SECOND VISION
_Proud of her wreath as laureate of his laurel_, _She smiles on him_--_on him_, _the prouder giver_, _As there they stand beside the sunlit river_ _Where petals flush with rose the grass and sorrel_: _The chirping reed-birds_, _in their play or quarrel_, _Make musical the stream where lilies quiver_-- _Ah_! _suddenly he feels her slim waist shiver_: _She speaks_: _her lips grow grey_--_her lips of coral_!
'_From out my wreath two heart-shaped seeds are swaying_, _The seeds of which that gypsy girl has spoken_-- '_Tis fairy grass_, _alas_! _the lover's token_.' _She lifts her fingers to her forehead_, _saying_, '_Touch the twin hearts_.' _Says he_, ''_Tis idle playing_': _He touches them_; _they fall_--_fall bruised and broken_.
* * * * *
Shall I turn coward here who sailed with Death Through many a tempest on mine own North Sea, And quail like him of old who bowed the knee-- Faithless--to billows of Genesereth? Did I turn coward when my very breath Froze on my lips that Alpine night when he Stood glimmering there, the Skeleton, with me, While avalanches rolled from peaks beneath?
Each billow bears me nearer to the verge Of realms where she is not--where love must wait.-- If Gelert, there, could hear, no need to urge That friend, so faithful, true, affectionate, To come and help me, or to share my fate. Ah! surely I see him springing through the surge.
[The dog, plunging into the tide and striking towards him with immense strength, reaches him and swims round him.]
Oh, Gelert, strong of wind and strong of paw Here gazing like your namesake, 'Snowdon's Hound,' When great Llewelyn's child could not be found, And all the warriors stood in speechless awe-- Mute as your namesake when his master saw The cradle tossed--the rushes red around-- With never a word, but only a whimpering sound To tell what meant the blood on lip and jaw.
In such a strait, to aid this gaze so fond, Should I, brave friend, have needed other speech Than this dear whimper? Is there not a bond Stronger than words that binds us each to each?-- But Death has caught us both. 'Tis far beyond The strength of man or dog to win the beach.
Through tangle-weed--through coils of slippery kelp Decking your shaggy forehead, those brave eyes Shine true--shine deep of love's divine surmise As hers who gave you--then a Titan whelp! I think you know my danger and would help! See how I point to yonder smack that lies At anchor--Go! His countenance replies. Hope's music rings in Gelert's eager yelp!
[The dog swims swiftly away down the tide.
Now, life and love and death swim out with him! If he should reach the smack, the men will guess The dog has left his master in distress. You taught him in these very waves to swim-- 'The prince of pups,' you said, 'for wind and limb'-- And now those lessons, darling, come to bless.
ENVOY
(The day after the rescue: Gelert and I walking along the sand.)
'Twas in no glittering tourney's mimic strife,-- 'Twas in that bloody fight in Raxton Grove, While hungry ravens croaked from boughs above, And frightened blackbirds shrilled the warning fife-- 'Twas there, in days when Friendship still was rife, Mine ancestor who threw the challenge-glove Conquered and found his foe a soul to love, Found friendship--Life's great second crown of life.
So I this morning love our North Sea more Because he fought me well, because these waves Now weaving sunbows for us by the shore Strove with me, tossed me in those emerald caves That yawned above my head like conscious graves-- I love him as I never loved before.
In these days when so much is written about the intelligence of the lower animals, when 'Hans,' the 'thinking horse,' is 'interviewed' by eminent scientists, the exploit of the Second Gelert is not without interest. I may, perhaps, mention a strange experience of my own. The late Betts Bey, a well-known figure in St. Peter's Port, Guernsey, had a fine black retriever, named Caro. During a long summer holiday which we spent in Guernsey, Caro became greatly attached to a friend, and Betts Bey presented him to her. He was a magnificent fellow, valiant as a lion, and a splendid diver and swimmer. He often plunged off the parapet of the bridge which spans the Serpentine. Indeed, he would have dived from any height. His intelligence was surprising. If we wished to make him understand that he was not to accompany us, we had only to say, 'Caro, we are going to church!' As soon as he heard the word 'church' his barks would cease, his tail would drop, and he would look mournfully resigned. One evening, as I was writing in my room, Caro began to scratch outside the door, uttering those strange 'woof-woofs' which were his canine language. I let him in, but he would not rest. He stood gazing at me with an intense expression, and, turning towards the door, waited impatiently. For some time I took no notice of his dumb appeal, but his excitement increased, and suddenly a vague sense of ill seemed to pass from him into my mind. Drawn half-consciously I rose, and at once with a strange half-human whine Caro dashed upstairs. I followed him. He ran into a bedroom, and there in the dark I found my friend lying unconscious. It is well-nigh certain that Caro thus saved my friend's life.