Chapter 2 Chapter 1 The Two Poets of Severn Park
The bright red color and irregular shape of Sevron Manor in the evening on the outskirts of London resembles the clouds in the sky at sunset.Severon Manor is all bright brick, the overall structure is strange and contoured, and even the floor plan seems wild and uninhibited.It was the result of the outburst of a speculative builder with a touch of art, who sometimes called the style Elizabethan and sometimes Queen Anne, apparently thinking that the styles of the two monarchs were exactly the same.Although no art work has ever been seriously produced here, it can be fairly described as an artistic community; while its claim to be an intellectual enclave is somewhat ambiguous, its claim to be a paradise is undisputed.For strangers, when they see this strange red house for the first time, they must be strange people who want to get used to it.He certainly won't be disappointed when he meets the residents here.If one day he sees this place as a dream, not an illusion, it will be not only delightful but perfect.
The residents here are not artists, but here is full of artistic atmosphere.That wistful young man with the auburn hair and shameless face—he's not really a poet, but he's certainly a poem.That wild old gentleman with the wild, pure white beard and white cap--the venerable liar was not a philosopher, but at least he was the cause of other people's thinking about philosophy.The scientist-like gentleman with the bald head like an egg and the neck like a bird, for all his scientific rigor, has not discovered any new species, and he can discover stranger things than himself. creature?
Therefore, and for this reason alone, this place deserves due attention.It should not be seen as an artist's workshop, but as a fragile finished work of art.People stepping into its social environment is like stepping into a finished comedy.
The most special thing is that when the extravagant dark roof is against the afterglow of the setting sun, and the whole crazy manor is as alien as floating clouds, a beautiful and moving illusion comes.This is especially the case on festival nights, when the little gardens are lit up and the trees hang like big Chinese lanterns gleaming like some hideous and monstrous fruit.
In the memory of local residents, this particular night is the scene that stands out most - the auburn-haired poet became a hero.This wasn't the only night he became a hero. Many times, just passing by his small back garden would hear his high-pitched preaching voice giving orders to people, especially women.The attitude of the woman in this case is one of the oddities here.Most of these women were of the type that could be vaguely described as liberated, openly protesting machismo, but they would often compliment a man by listening to speeches in a way that ordinary women would never do.Monsieur Lucian Gregory, the red-haired poet, is indeed (in a sense) a man to listen to, though he is laughed at at the end of his speeches.He gave his audience some amusement by addressing the trite subject of the lawlessness of art and the art of lawlessness in a base and somewhat novel falsetto.His charming and eerie appearance helps him in a way, and along with the style of presentation, he pushes the value of his appearance to the extreme.His dark red hair, parted in the middle, is almost exactly like a woman's, like the tedious curls of a Pre-Raphaelite virgin.But within this almost saintly oval his face popped out, widened and grim, the jaw jutting forward with a Cockney look of contempt.This combination of appearances immediately tickled and terrified the nerves of the nervous audience.He looked like a living example of blasphemy, a cross between an angel and an ape.
On this special night, even if the local residents forget anything, they will not forget the strange sunset scene that day.It looked like the end of the world then, and the whole sky seemed to be covered with bright feathers; you can only say that the sky was covered with feathers, the kind that almost brushed the cheeks.Under the sky these feathers are mostly gray with the strangest shades of purple and lavender and an unnatural pink or pale green; Covers the sun, making it an unseen beauty.Everything is close to the earth, as if telling a violent secret.Zenith seems to be a secret.It speaks of that glorious littleness which is the very soul of local patriotism.The sky looks small.
If I say that some people remember that night simply by the oppressive sky, others remember it because it marked the first appearance of the second poet at Sevron Park.For a long time, the red-haired poet had been in charge of it all by himself, and on this particular sunset, it came to an abrupt end.The new poet, who called himself Gabriel Syme, had a mild-looking mortal visage, with a prominent beard and fair hair.However, people noticed that he was not as gentle as he appeared, and he blatantly stated his opinions on the nature of poetry that were completely different from the famous poet Gregory, and used this to show off his appearance.Syme said he was a poet of law, a poet of order; no, he was a respectable poet.So, all the inhabitants of Sevron Manor present looked at him as if he had just fallen from the sky of disbelief.
In fact, Mr. Lucien Gregory, the anarchist poet, connected two things in tandem.
"It is probable," he said suddenly, in a lyrical style, "that on this cloudy and distressing night a venerable poet looms ominously upon the land. You say you are a A legal poet; I say you contradict your words. I am only surprised that there were no comets and earthquakes on the night you appeared in this garden."
The man with the docile blue eyes and gray beard bore these reprimands with a submissive dignity.In the crowd, Gregory's sister Rosamund, who had red hair like her brother's but had a kind face, laughed with the mixture of admiration and reproach she usually bestows on the wise men of the family.
In fact, Gregory restored the orator's high spirits.
"An artist is the same as an anarchist," he said, "you can substitute the two words anywhere. An anarchist is an artist. The man who threw the bomb is an artist because he prefers everything He knows that an explosion of fire, a blast of perfect thunder is far more valuable than the grotesque corpses of ordinary policemen. An artist ignores all regimes and abolishes all rules. A poet delights only in chaos. If Otherwise, the most poetic thing in the world would be the Underground Railroad."
"Indeed," said Mr Syme.
"Nonsense!" said Gregory.Anyone who said something outlandish, Gregory would become rational. "Why do all the clerks and laborers on the train look so sad and tired, quite sad and tired? I'll tell you, it's because they know the trains are running and they'll arrive no matter where they buy their tickets. They passed Sloan Square and knew the next stop was Victoria, it must be. Oh, they were ecstatic, their eyes were like stars, and their souls were like returning to Eden again, if the next stop was no suspense. Words from Baker Street!"
"You are a man without poetry," replied the poet Syme, "and if what you say about the clerks is true, they will be as dull as your poems. Hitting the mark is a rare and queer thing, and missing Targets are ridiculous and obvious things. When a man hits a distant bird with a savage arrow, we think it's epic; when a man hits a faraway station with a savage locomotive , isn't that also epic? Chaos is stupid, because in chaos a train could actually go anywhere, Baker Street or Baghdad. But man is a magician, and all his magic is in that, he Say Victoria, and here comes Victoria Station! Nay, take your paltry collection of poems and essays, and let me read a train timetable with tears of pride. Take your Byron, who celebrates the debacle of humanity; I'm Bradshaw, and he's celebrating his win. I'm going to say, give me Bradshaw!"
"Do you have to go?" Gregory asked sarcastically.
"I tell you," continued Syme passionately, "every train comes, I think it breaks through the platoons of the besiegers, and the men overcome the chaos. You say contemptuously that when a man leaves Sloan Square, he Definitely going to Victoria. I'd say a person can do a thousand different things and whenever I do get there, I always have the feeling of getting away with it. When I hear the train conductor yell out the word 'Victoria' , it is not a meaningless word, to me it is a messenger's cry of conquest. To me it is really 'Victoria', it is Adam's victory."
Gregory shook his bulky red head, with a cold, bleak smile on his face. "Even then," he said, "we poets always had to ask the question, 'Now that you're there, what is Victoria?' You think Victoria is like the New Jerusalem. We know that the New Jerusalem is just like Victoria. Yea, the poet will not be content even in the streets of Paradise. The poet will always rebel."
"Then," said Syme impatiently, "what poetry is there in rebellion? You might say there is poetry in seasickness. Nausea is rebellion. Both nausea and rebellion are wholesome things in certain critical situations; but if I could understand I should be hanged for why they're poetic. Rebellion in the abstract is - disgusting. It's just vomiting."
The girl's face twitched at the repulsive word, but Syme was too impassioned to notice her.
"When things go the right way," he cried, "that's what is poetic! For example, our digestive powers work divinely and silently, which is the basis of all poetry. Yes, the most poetic thing is more poetic than flowers. And be more poetic, more poetic than the stars—the most poetic thing in the world is not to be sick."
"Indeed," said Gregory haughtily, "the example you have chosen—"
"I beg your pardon," said Syme coldly, "that I forgot that we have done away with all the rules."
For the first time a red spot appeared on Gregory's forehead. "You don't expect me," he said, "to revolutionize society on this meadow, do you?"
Syme looked him straight in the eyes and smiled contentedly. "No, I'm not," he said, "but I guess if you take your anarchism seriously, changing society is exactly what you're going to do."
Gregory's big bull-like eyes blinked suddenly like an angry lion, and bystanders could almost imagine his red mane standing on end.
"So don't you think," he said in a dangerous tone, "that I take my anarchism seriously?"
"Say it again, please," said Syme.
"Don't I take my anarchism seriously?" cried Gregory, clenching his fists.
"My dear friend!" said Syme, stepping aside, surprised and curiously delighted to find Rosamund Gregory still beside him.
"Mr. Syme," she said, "do men who talk like you and my brother speak the truth? Are you speaking the truth now?"
Syme smiled. "What about you?" he asked.
"What do you mean?" asked the girl, her eyes serious.
"My dear Miss Gregory," said Syme mildly, "there are many kinds of sincerity and hypocrisy. When you say 'thank you' because the waiter gave you salt, do you mean it? No. When you say ' Do you mean it when the earth is round'? No. It is, but you don't mean it. Well, sometimes a man like your brother does find a thing he means, and it might just be One-half true, one-fourth true, one-tenth true, but he said more than he meant — driven entirely by the need to express it sincerely."
She gazed at him calmly, with a serious and open face, overshadowed by the irrational sense of duty which is the essence of the most frivolous woman, and of the world's oldest maternal love.
"He's really an anarchist, isn't he?" she asked.
"Only in the sense I mentioned," replied Syme, "or, as you wish, it's just nonsense."
She wrinkled her broad brow and said suddenly, "Did he really use—a bomb or something like that?"
Syme laughed in a way that seemed out of proportion to his small, playboy frame.
"My God, no!" he said, "that kind of thing needs to be done anonymously."
Hearing this, she grinned, delighted at Gregory's absurdity and his safety.
Syme walked with her in a corner of the garden, and continued to articulate his views.Despite his superficial affectation, he was a fundamentally humble man, but he was sincere.A humble person always talks too much, and a proud person takes himself too closely.He defended decency with violence and hyperbole, and exalted neatness and propriety with passion.The scent of lilacs surrounded him all the time.As soon as he faintly heard the accordion begin to play in the distant street, he felt his exaggerated language gradually change into a weak tone in the underground or out of the world.He stared at the girl's red hair and playful face and talked for a few minutes, then, realizing that he should know the people here, stood up, but to his surprise, the people in the garden had already left.Even as he hurried away, the champagne still lingered in his head, which he could not explain afterwards.The girl had no part in the frenzy that ensued, and they did not meet again until the end of his story.But all the frenzy and adventures that followed him, she repeated in some unspeakable way like music, her blazing strange hair running like a red thread through those black, shoddy night-scapes.The following story may not happen, it may be just a dream.
As Syme stepped out of the garden into the starlit street, the silence and the emptyness of the street made him realize (in some strange way) that the silence here was alive, not dead.A street lamp towered over the garden gate, gilding the leaves of the fence behind him.Just a foot or so from the lamppost stood a figure in a black top hat and frock coat, a face almost as dark in the truncated shadow.From the fiery red bangs under the light and the aggressive momentum, it is known that this is the poet Gregory.His appearance is a bit like a masked thug waiting for his enemies with a sword in hand.
He saluted hesitantly, and Syme returned the salute politely.
"I've been waiting for you," said Gregory, "may I chat with you for a while?"
"Of course. Talk about what?" Syme asked with a touch of surprise.
Gregor tapped the lamp-post with his stick, and then the tree. "Talk about this and this," he said, "order and anarchy. Here is your precious order, a thin iron lamp, ugly and barren; here is anarchy, rich and lively and fertile Ego—that's anarchy, in brilliant green and gold."
"All the same," answered Syme patiently, "you've only seen the tree by the light so far. I want to know when you'll be able to see the light by the reflection of the tree." He paused a little, and went on: "What I want to ask is, have you been standing here in the darkness just to continue our little argument?"
"No," cried Gregory, his soaring voice echoing through the street, "I stand here not to continue our argument, but to end it forever."
There was silence again.Syme instinctively waited for something serious to say, though he understood nothing.Gregory began to speak in a calm voice with a bewildering smile. "Mr. Syme," he said, "you have managed to do a remarkable thing this evening. What you have done to me no man has ever managed to do before."
"It's true!"
"Now I remember," thought Gregory, "that there was another man who did it successfully, the captain of a cheap ferry in the South End (if I remember correctly). You've pissed me off. .”
"I'm very sorry!" replied Syme gravely.
"My anger and your insult are too shocking. I'm afraid an apology can't get rid of it," Gregory said very calmly. "A duel can't get rid of it. Even if I kill you, I can't get rid of it. Only the way I choose can get rid of it." This insult, I will prove to you that what you said is wrong at the cost of my life and honor."
"What did I say wrong?"
"You say I'm not a serious anarchist."
"There are degrees of seriousness," replied Syme, "and I never doubt that you are completely sincere in this sense, that what you think and say is entirely worthwhile, or that you think a paradox It will bring awareness to a truth that has been overlooked."
Gregory watched him calmly and painfully. "In other senses," he asked, "you don't think I'm serious? You think I'm a libertine who occasionally tells the truth. You don't think I'm serious in a deeper, deadlier sense."
Syme struck the stones in the path violently with his cane. "Serious!" he yelled. "My God! Is this street serious? Are these goddamn Chinese lanterns serious? Are all the people serious here? There's probably some truth to some people coming here to talk nonsense, but I rather despise those Someone who talks about something more serious than his own life — whether that's about religion, or just drinking."
"Very well," said Gregory grimly, "you'll see something more serious than drinking or religion."
Syme stood still, waiting with his usual gentleness, until Gregory spoke again.
"You just said that you believe in religion. Do you really believe in a certain religion?"
"Oh," said Syme, smiling, "we're all Catholics now."
"Then can you swear by any god or saint of your religion that you will not tell any of Adam's children what I am about to tell you, especially not to the police? If you will Undertake this terrible self-denial, and if you agree to subject your soul to a vow you would never utter, and a truth you would never conceive, I will return you with a promise—"
"You'll pay me a promise?" asked Syme, just as the other side paused.
"It's going to be a very pleasant evening, I'll assure you," said Syme, taking off his hat abruptly.
"Your proposal," said he, "is too stupid for me to refuse. You say that a poet is always an anarchist, and I disagree; but I at least hope that he will always be an activist. Permit me, this Here and now, I swear as a Christian, as a good comrade, and as a fellow artist, that I will not report this to the police, whatever it is. Now, let me say something crazy, what the hell is this?"
"I think," Gregory said to him calmly, looking around, "we'll have to call a carriage." He blew two long whistles, a carriage drove up, and they got into it without a word. car.Gregory gave the coachman the address of a remote tavern on the banks of the Thames in the Chesque Country.The carriage drove forward quickly, and the two strange men in the carriage left their strange manor in this way.
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