
Public-domain ebook
The Feather Bed
Language: en260 downloads on Project Gutenberg
Subjects
Public-domain ebook sourced from Project Gutenberg #59742.

Public-domain ebook
Language: en260 downloads on Project Gutenberg
Subjects
Public-domain ebook sourced from Project Gutenberg #59742.
The opening · free to read
Will you accept the dedication of this poem which seems naturally yours? It was more than a year writing without losing much of the excitement of the original scheme, but when on the cooling of inspiration constructional flaws appeared, these proved to be beyond help of riveting and surface tinkering, so the edition is small and very few review copies will go out. Still the poem is a necessary signpost to those friends of mine who have found the change between the two halves of my recent collection of lyrics, Whipperginny, inexplicably abrupt: and though dissatisfied I am not ashamed. It would be as well, from other considerations altogether, not to let the honest burghers of Nashville, Tenn., already scandalized by your Poems about God, see a copy of the Feather-bed: but if this should happen and they demand an explanation, tell them that I have no anticonstitutional intentions. Explain that it is a study of a fatigued mind in a fatigued body and under the stress of an abnormal conflict, that they can read it, if they will, as a cautionary tale after the style of John Bunyan’s unregenerate Mr Badman, only that Badman was unregenerate (wasn’t he?) to the last, while I leave my young man in the throes of nightmare. Assure them that neither does the author nor in a more normal mood would the hero of the poem himself imagine convent life to be what it here seems to be; but that the staggering rebuff to the young man’s typical bullying attitude in love leads him to invent this monstrous libel in compensation; which libel is merely flattery to his own wounded pride.
The psychological interest of the piece for me, now I have finished, is in the way that the logical argument broken by circlings of associative thought, all however relevant to the emotional disturbance, is continually being caught up again with an effort by the drowsy intellect. When at last the sour grapes idea, with its accompanying fantastics, has determined a reasonable and apparently final decision of rupture both with the girl herself and with the traditional religion she represents, the effort relaxes and the mind is overborne in sleep by nightmares, its revolutionary enthusiasm flattened by the reaction of tradition. The Morning Star theme is an interpolation by the outside Orator to stabilize the drama which without some such solution comes dangerously near a manifesto of atheism.
When you visit us in England I want to talk to you about Lucifer and explain how I had been reading the Old and New Testaments while writing this poem. Briefly in this way, as a record of the progressive understanding of God throughout the ages by a single representative race, the Jews. God is presented in three degrees at least. There is God the creator of the race of man, but of man still animal of the animals, whose daughters the sons of Adam found fair; let us call that God, Saturn. Then there is Jehovah or Jove, Saturn’s successor: the Garden of Eden is the perfect symbolic expression of the birth of Jehovah. It is more than a fable of the dawn of sex consciousness, it dramatizes man’s recognition of the end of a long biological phase, and the birth pangs of the new experimental period called civilization. The old heritage of self-seeking instinct, in conflict with a new principle of social order found necessary for the further survival of the race, split the primitive idea of God into two, the ideas of Good and Evil, Good being the approval by the social mind of those non-conscious workings of the body which further its aims, Evil being the condemnation of the old Adam inclinations which run counter to it. This idea of Good then is Jehovah, the God of the present, predominantly male, violent, blundering, deceitful, with great insistence on uniformity of rites duties and taboos, at whatever cost to the individual; Jehovah’s greatest champion I found in Moses.
Finally there is Lucifer, the God of the future, only a weakling as yet, the hope of eventual adjustment between ancient habits and present needs. As the spirit of reconciliation, Lucifer puts out of date the negative virtue of Good fighting with Evil, and proposes an Absolute Good which we can now conceive of as Peace.
The doctrine of mutual responsibility for error, and of mutual respect between individuals, sexes, classes, groups, and nations, a higher conception than the eye for an eye and tooth for a tooth doctrine of Jehovah, is Lucifer’s. This ideal anarchy is the aspect of God momentarily seen, I thought, by Jesus Christ, before him prophesied by Isaiah and before him by Melchizedek; but since fallen even among Christians under the renewed tyranny of Jehovah. The story of Lucifer’s fall is clearly written in the Acts of the Apostles; where the violence of Moses towards the man who gathered sticks on the Sabbath Day is worthily imitated by Peter when he strikes dead Ananias and Sapphira for a partial witholding of a voluntary gift; where the low cunning of Jacob with Esau is matched by Paul’s stirring up the partizanship of Saducee against Pharisee while preaching the doctrine of tolerance.
This Light-Bringer Lucifer has been persistently misidentified by the priests of Jehovah with the spirit of Evil, their God’s arch-enemy. But I would have it put like this: if John Milton had paused to enquire why Jesus Christ promised his followers the Morning Star as a reward for virtue, Milton would have been spared the compunction which certainly was besetting him in Paradise Lost for having conceived of his Prince of Darkness as so much of a gentleman.
One day I must give you the full history of the famous encounter between the archangel Michael and Lucifer (outlined in the Epistle of Jude) when Lucifer asked the riddle still current in English speaking nurseries and Michael dared not answer or even curse him, because an open discussion of this particular point might prove dangerous to the fortunes of Jehovah. In the Revelations chapter which provides the familiar lesson for All Saints’ Day we hear that Michael had to admit the implied charge by resorting to violence. But guess the riddle and you shall have the answer given you; this is the proper course communication should take between poets.
In sudden cloud that blotting distance out Confused the compass of the traveller’s mind, Biassed his course, three times from the hill’s crest Trying to descend but with no track to follow, Nor visible landmark—three times he had struck The same sedged pool of steaming desolation, The same black monolith rearing up before it. This third time then he paused to recognize The Witches’ Cauldron only known before By hearsay, fly-like on whose rim he had crawled Three times and three times dipped to climb again Its uncouth sides, so to go crawling on.
By falls of scree, moss-mantled slippery rock, Wet bracken, drunken gurgling watercourses, He escaped limping at last, and broke the circuit Travelling down and down; but smooth descent Interrupted by new lakes and ridges, Sprawling unmortared walls of boulder granite, Marshes; one arm hung bruised where he had fallen, Blood welled a sticky trickle from his cheek, Mist gathering in his eye-brows ran full beads Down to his eyes, making them smart and blur.
At last he blundered on some shepherd’s hut— He thought, the hut took pity and appeared— With mounds of peat and welcome track of wheels Which he now followed to a broad green road Running from right to left; but still at fault Whether he stood this side or that of the hill, The mist being still on all, with little pause He chose the easier way, the downward way. Legs were dog-tired already, only the road, The slow descent with some relief of guidance Maintained his shambling five miles to the hour Coloured with day dreams. Then a finger post Broke through the mist, pointing into his face, But when he stopped to read gave him no comfort. SEVENTEEN MILES TO—somewhere, God knows what! The paint was weathered to a mere acrostic Which cold unfocussed eyes could never read— But jerking a derisive thumb behind it Up a rough stream-wet path “THE WITCHES’ CAULDRON ONE MILE.” Only a mile For two good hours of stumbling steeplechase! There was a dead snake by some humorous hand Twined on the pointing finger; far away A bull roared hoarsely, but all else was mist.
Then anger came upon him, in which heat He fell into deep thought and rhymes came strung Faster than speech might have kept pace with them. The Snake, the Bull! What laughter was it, ended His allegory and startled the graceful hare That secure in the mist came leaping down towards him? Witch in disguise, emissary of witches? Swiftly he takes a stone up, hurls it at her, Chases her, bawling childish angry threats; She screams. Now with red shame sorrow floods back Making his journey by twice three miles longer As though once revisiting the witches, Those unclean—it stood symbol in his mind For what, but what? He never wished her harm— She being a hare and having innocent eyes— It was her fault for blundering on him there. He never wished her harm, she should have known His angry fit, frustration, weariness Breaking a gentler mood. With slackening steps He once more takes the homeward road, that is, If it does lead home; it’s making uphill now And narrowing sadly. That fool finger-post Had only snakes to brag about and witches, And the bull roared no very helpful threat.
“Goodbye, but now forget all that we were Or said, or did to each other, here’s goodbye. Send no more letters now, only forget We ever met....” and the letter maunders on In the unformed uncompromising hand That witnesses against her, yet provides Extenuation and a grudging praise. Rachel to be a nun! Postulate now For her noviciate in a red brick convent: Praying, studying, wearing uniform, She serves the times of a tyrannic bell, Rising to praise God in the early hours With atmosphere of filters and stone stairs, Distemper, crucifixes and red drugget, Dusty hot-water pipes, a legacy-library....
Sleep never comes to me so tired as now Leg-chafed and footsore with my mind in a blaze Troubling this problem over, vexing whether To beat Love down with ridicule or instead To disregard new soundings and still keep The old course by the uncorrected chart, (The faithful lover, his unchanging heart) Rachel, before goodbye Obscures you in your sulky resignation Come now and stand out clear in mind’s eye Giving account of what you were to me And what I was to you and how and why, Saying after me, if you can say it, “I loved.”
Rachel so summoned answers thoughtfully But painfully, turning away her head, “I lived and thought I loved, for I had gifts Of most misleading, more than usual beauty, Dark hair, grey eyes, capable fingers, movement Graceful and certain; my slow puzzled smile Accusing of too much ingenuousness Yet offered more than I could hope to achieve, And if I thought I loved, no man would doubt it.” So speaks the image as I read her mind, Or is it my pride speaks on her behalf, Ventriloquizing to deceive myself? Anger, grief, jealousy, shame confuse the issue, Her beauty is a truth I can not blink However angry, jealous, sad, ashamed.
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