The weird of the wanderer Being the papyrus records of some incidents in one of the previous lives of Mr. Nicholas Crabbe
river, now high now low from middle notes ranging, strong and resonant
as the voice of an ever-young god who is both boy and man, warbling
unearthly melody around and above and between and below the golden
warbling of the lyre.
He sang; and the faces of all the immortals became diaphanous with
unimaginable radiance; and the steady godly eyes gleamed like fixed
stars at the rapturous magic of his singing. For he sang of arms and
the man, the deathless song of the man so ready at need, never so
strong nor so fierce nor so terrible as when he (naked) fought fearful
odds and a losing battle back to the wall, who wandered far and wide
after he had sacked the sacred citadel of Ilion--the deathless song of
much-contriving much-enduring Odysseys, and of all the deeds which ever
I had done since the distant day when I, a great boy, met Helen, the
divine one of goddesses, a tender girl, who watched me faring girded
high through the ford of Eyrotas by rugged Lakedaimon; and of the
doughty deeds which thenafter I did at the siege of Dardanian Ilion.
He sang of my wily contrivance, the Wooden Horse, whereby at length we
Argives took the city: of the wanderings of Golden Helen, and of mine:
of our meeting again in torrid Egypt and our wooing there, and of how
there I died, slain by unknowing Telegonos my own son and Kirke’s of
the awful braided tresses. And, in a solemn slow low descant, he sang
of how that was the first time, and the last, when ever I lay in the
pure arms of Helen, being dead.
He paused; and the immortal gods wept softly, at the sadness of his
song and the cruel fate which drove us ever here and there apart. And
it was dusky eve.
He bowed his beautiful godly young breast for the lucky horns of the
lyre to kiss again; and his wonderful fingers skilfully wielded the
quill which awakened the delicate voice of the strings. And he sang of
my far-future birth in the sea-girt island, kingdom of Victory queen of
the stalwart stately Anglicans: of my sordid squalid lot there; and of
the wily audacious ferocity of the deeds, which I did in contempt of
all men, to deliver myself and to soar.
He sang of how I, grieving in mind because not one single honourable
friend or companion came near me, but only rogues and tosspots and
false traitors, set out to wander in strange lands, studying all divine
mysteries and magic lore, seeking for wisdom everywhere. He sang of my
marvellous deeds, summoning ghostly souls from the dead and bending
them to my will: of how, in Egypt, I half-failed in the ordeal of the
scorching staff; and of the consequence which befel. And, there, his
sacred strain leaped, leaped like one who meets a sudden slimy toad
sitting very still upon his way, leaped, and was still.
And the immortal gods kept silence. Night flung her violet mantle
round the dome of heaven; and she pinned it with a star. But those
resplendent faces scintillated like many moons in the violet luminous
sheen, intense, immovable.
He took the lyre close to the warmth of his well-spread breast in the
hollow of his shoulder, uplifting his stainless throat, singing with
the well-struck strings. And he sang jewels five words long, which, on
the stretched forefinger of all time, shall sparkle for ever, singing
of my long fall backward through the rolling wheels of time: of my
vision in the secret subterranean shrine at Thebes: of my voyage adown
the sacred river of Egypt: of my coming to Tanis: of my doings with the
hierarch Amenemhat; and of my flight to the open sea.
He sang of my magic invocation of the azure-haired earth-shaking lord
of ocean: of the apparition of King Poseidon amiably-minded: of my
going to the shrine of far-darting Phoibos Apollon at Delphi, and the
oracle chaunted by the levated Pythia: of my meeting unafraid with Pan,
and his goodly gift of clear-seeing.
He sang (and his cadences rippled) of my furious drive down hill, over
the rivers of cold and of flame, for the third time into the world of
the dead.
He stretched out all the slim lithe strength of his ivory limbs,
lambent and supple and warm with refulgent youth, to the heavenly lyre.
His fair throat poured forth a stronger canorous strain, thrilled with
unspeakable splendour. And he sang of the singing of Golden Helen in
exile: to whose sweet anthem, all the blissful court, from all parts
answering, rang.
He sang of how I escaped from fetters and dungeon: of how my wiles
and my audacity and my endurance, sneered-at or scorned by men, made
great gods glad to serve me: of the fight of the six champions, sons of
kings and mighty heroes all. And Herakles, glory of Hera, burst into
boisterous blubberings, inasmuch as he had had no part in so finely
finished an affray.
He sang of my treatment of titans: of the wounding of shady Hades of
recording mind, inexorable king of the land of the shades. And all the
gods and goddesses cried aloud, beating on their blessed knees, because
of the sheer stupendous magnificence of my audacity.
He sang so divine a song, that even fancy’s ear records it not, and the
pen must pass on, leaving a blank: for, nor mortal speech, nor even the
inward shaping of the mind has colour fine enough to paint the sweet
great strain of his nectar, flower-like, fertile of song. He sang of
my wonderful journey out of the netherworld: of the swift death of my
shipmen, fearful, when they saw my mysterious coming: of my lonely
voyage in my unoared sail-less galley over the windless sea.
He sang the cause of my coming, which was Love, the Crown of all Wisdom.
He sang of the sturdy unswerving indomitable force, reward of my wiles
and my audacity and my endurance, which had brought me bearing spoils,
even the Treasure of Hades, from out of the deep and the shade, to the
height of the peak of lofty Olympos. It was Love, all-conquering Love.
Such was the close of his marvellous melody. And, as the last tone
thrilled, strong as a proclamation, Echo caught the strain, repeating
ever lowly, and more low, from sphere to sphere, LOVE ... Love ... Love
... Love.
Rosy-fingered Dawn, crowned with auroral coronal, flung wide the gates
of day: Helios Hyperion began to drive in scintillating splendour
across the sky: the rays of the rising sun splashed beams of golden
light over the clouded throne of the Father and King of gods and men,
when Hermes finished singing thus for me before the areiopagos of the
blessed gods.[60]
FOOTNOTES:
[60] It would be most improper to attempt to pick out the multifarious
quotations which adorn this extremely lovely poem. Those of us who had
the privilege of Mr. C.’s acquaintance in his recent life, cannot but
admire the stupendous erudition which enabled him to blend the Bible
with Homer, Dante Alighieri with Meleagros of Gadara, etc., etc., etc.,
with such perfectly chiselled facility. A. H.
THE TWENTY-SIXTH PAPYRUS
But King Zeys Pampator sat up, and said: “What, O divine ones
inhabiting olympian palaces, think ye now of this Odysseys?”
And they answered: “He is a hero.”
But boldly-steadfast Herakles rose from his throne, saying, in a voice
even louder than Stentor’s: “He is worthy of a chair in our college of
immortals.”
And the gods and goddesses sang together, making the _Sign_, “So mote
it be.”
But the Lord of the Lightning and the Dark Cloud spoke again, saying:
“What, O divine ones inhabiting olympian palaces, think ye now of
Golden Helen?”
And they answered: “She is a spoil well-won.”
But chaste Artemis, beautiful queen of arrows, rose from her throne,
saying: “Let the hero wear his spoil.”
And the gods and goddesses sang again together, making the _Sign_, “So
mote it be.”
But I saw that there were some who did not join in the voting; and
one of those was Queen Hera of the white arms, the most righteous of
goddesses; and another was blameless Queen Aphrodite of the violet
crown: the first, because it is bitter for a woman to be supplanted
in her husband: the second, because of jealousy on account of Queen
Helen’s transcendent beauty.
But the Father and King of gods and men said: “It pleaseth us; and so,
we, of our own free will, command that it shall be.”
And, saying this, he nodded with his immortal head, so that I might
be encouraged. For the nod of Zeys is the greatest pledge among the
immortals: for his pledge, even whatsoever he shall sanction with his
nod, is irrevocable, not false, nor unfulfilled. And, in the sight of
all, he drew me from Golden Helen’s side, out of my silver chariot,
where we had been standing together during a day and a night enraptured
with the singing of Hermes. And he breathed upon me, so that my mortal
nature was blown away from me: but I bathed in the breath of the god,
being soaked in the source of the fire of eternal youth, the prime and
flower of strength; and such red blood as was in my veins was sublimed,
giving place to crystalline ichor, very pure and limpid, such, to wit,
as flows in the veins of the blessed gods: for we eat no bread, nor
drink gleaming wine, wherefore we are bloodless and are named immortals.
And, while I was yet encompassed with the thick clouds of the god,
beautiful dark Sleep was permitted to light upon my eyelids; and I
slept, as a sweet boy sleeps, dreamlessly.
But, when, at length, I awakened, I was in another place. And Phoibos
Apollon, lord of the silver bow, and strenuous Herakles whom not Hera
but Eros could conquer, were come to conduct me to the marriage-feast.
And they spoke of many things: saying that the immortals were rejoicing
in the happiness of so wily a warrior and so fair a maid, save only
the lord Hermes who (after his long singing during a day and a night)
was curing a relaxed larynx, and also shady King Hades who was raging
horribly on account of painful perforations, and swearing that neither
I nor Golden Helen need ever think to expect hospitality from him
again. So, with mirthful minds and smiling lips, we set out all
light-heartedly.
The divine one of goddesses was brought by her Great Twin Brothers,
star-crowned Kastor the tamer of horses and Polydeykes the pugilist.
But, before she came to stand with me at the throne of King Zeys, then,
indeed, divine Memory illumined my noble mind, shewing me a remembrance
of a most graceful _Spell_. And, instantly, I stooped to the limpid
river which flows through the clear blue ætherial realm, taking a
handful of crystal water, a sacred lavation, wherewith to sprinkle the
maid whose hair was like a web of woven sunbeams, saying the _Spell
of The Three Who are One_. And all the immortals bowed their radiant
heads, greatly admiring the magic.
But, after the nuptials, we feasted, eating purple ambrosial jellies,
dainties, such as Zeys-nourished kings eat, with savours of
unblemished hecatombs, and quaffing foaming flagons of nectar distilled
from the apples of heaven and flavoured with roses and rosemary: till,
at last, rustic Pan threw nuts on the floor, for Love and Desire and
Sleep and Death and Hyakinthos and the cupbearers and other children
to scramble for. But, when we had drunk a last cup to Hermes the
Luck-bringer, I led Queen Helen to the palace which mighty Herakles
had lent to us. For that hero was shewing himself very friend-like
to me, on account of my wily deeds and my long endurance of evils,
since he also had done deeds and suffered intolerable evils in his
turn. Moreover, the said hero was very well-mannered and able to rule
himself, wherein he differed from many of the immortals. And, beside
all these things, he was the most married man on the peak of Olympos:
for which cause, no doubt, he was excited about my welfare.
In this manner was the Crown of All Wisdom confirmed to me, when,
having been chaired in the college of immortals, I led Queen Helen, the