Here are Ladies
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James Stephens >> Here are Ladies
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He had all the grave wisdom of the stupid, and the extraordinary energy
and persistence which perpetuates them. He never could learn a lesson,
but he could, and did, pinch the boy next to him into adept prompting,
and would intimidate any one into doing his sums. Indeed, the man of
whom he was the promise had no need for ordinary learning. The lighter
accomplishments of life had no appeal, nor would the deeper lessons
have any meaning for him. He is simply a big, physical appetite,
untrammelled by anything like introspection or conscience, and working
in perfect innocence for the fulfilment of its simple wants. For at
base his species are surely the most simple of human creatures. In
spite of their complex physical structure they are one-celled organisms
driven through life with only a passionate hunger as their motive
power, and with no complexities of thought or emotion to hamper their
loud progressions. None but those of their own kind can suffer from
their ravages, and, even so, they fly the contact of each other with
horror.
Doubtless by this time Bull is a prosperous and wealthy citizen
somewhere, the proprietor of a curved waistcoat and a gold watch.
Possessions other than these he would regard with the amiable tolerance
of a philosopher regarding a child with toys. So strongly acquisitive
a nature must win the particular little battles which it is fitted to
wage. When a conscienceless mind is buttressed by a pugnacious
temperament then houses and land, and cattle and maidservants, and
such-like, the small change of existence, are easily gotten.
II
The sunlight of youth has a special quality which will never again be
known until we rediscover it in Paradise. What a time it was! How the
sun shone, and how often it shone! I remember playing about in a
parched and ragged field with a leaf from a copy-book stuck under my
cap to aid its quarter-inch peak in keeping off the glare of that
tremendous sunshine.
Tip-and-Tig, Horneys and Robbers, Relievo we played, and another game,
the name of which did not then seem at all strange, but which now wears
an amazing appearance--it was, Twenty-four Yards on the Billy-Goat's
Tail. I wonder now what was that Billy-Goat, and was he able to wag the
triumphant tail of which twenty-four yards was probably no more than an
inconsiderable moiety. There were other games: Ball-in-the-Decker,
Cap-on-the-Back, and Towns or Rounders. These were all summer games.
With the lightest effort of imagination I can see myself and other
tireless atoms scooting across reaches of sunlight. I can hear the
continuous howl which accompanied our play, and can see that ragged,
parched field spreading, save for the cluster of boys, wide and silent
to the further, greener fields, where the cows were lying down in great
coloured lumps, and one antic deer, a pet, would make such astonishing
journeys, jumping the entire circuit of the field on four thin and
absolutely rigid legs; for when it made these peculiar excursions it
never seemed to use its legs--these were held quite rigidly, and the
deer bounded by some powerful, spring-like action, its brown coat
flashing in the sunlight, and its movement a rhythmic glory which the
boys watched with ecstasy and laughter.
An old ass was native to that field also. He had been a bright,
kind-hearted donkey at one time: a donkey whose nose might be tickled,
and who would allow one to climb upon his back. But the presence of
boys grew disturbing as he grew old, and the practical jokes of which
his youth took no heed induced a kind of insanity in his latter age.
He took to kicking the cows as they browsed peacefully, and, later, he
developed a horrid appetite for fowl, and would stalk and kill and eat
hens whenever possible. Later still he directed this unhealthy
appetite towards small boys, and after he had eaten part of one lad's
shoulder and the calf from another boy's leg he disappeared--whether he
was sold to some innocent person, or had been slaughtered mysteriously,
we did not know. We professed to believe that he had died of the
horrible taste of the boys he had bitten, and, afterwards, whenever we
played cannibals, we refused, greatly to their chagrin, to kill and eat
these two boys, on the ground that their flesh was poisonous; but the
others we slaughtered and fed on with undiminished gusto.
There were only two trees in the field--great, gnarled monsters casting
a deep shade. In that shade the grass grew long and green and juicy.
After a game the boys would fling themselves down in the shadow of the
trees to chew the sweet grass, and play "knifey," and talk.--Such
talk!--endless and careless, and loud as the converse of young bulls.
What did we talk about? Delightful and inconsequent shoutings--
"That is a hawk up there, he's going to soar. How does he keep so
steady without moving his wings? Watch now! down he drops like a
stone. . . . If you give your rabbit too many cabbage leaves he'll die
of the gripes. . . . Did you ever play jack-stones? a fellow showed me
how, look! . . . When we were at the sea yesterday Jimmy Nelson
wouldn't go out from the shore. He was afraid of his life--he wouldn't
even duck down. I swam nearly out of sight, didn't I, Sam? So did
Sam. . . . You could climb right up to the top of that tree if you
tried. No you couldn't.--Yes I could, it's forked all the way
up. . . . The new master wears specs--Old Four-Eyes! and he grins at a
fellow. I don't think he's much. . . . How do midges get born? . . .
My brother has one with four blades and a thing for poking stones out
of a horse's hoof. . . . A horse-hair won't break the cane at all:
it's all bosh: rosin is the only thing. . . ."
There was a little stream which twisted a six-foot path through the
field, the sunshine dashing off its waters in brilliant flashes. The
top of the water swarmed with flying insects and strange, small
spider-things skimmed over its surface with amazing swiftness. We
believed there were otters in that stream--they came out at nightfall
and, unless you had the good fortune to be rescued by a Newfoundland
dog, they would hold you down under water until you were drowned. We
also held there were leeches in the stream--they would grip you by the
hundred thousand and suck you to death in five minutes, and they clung
so tightly that one could not prise their mouths open with a poker. We
hoped there were whales in it, but not one of us desired a shark
because it is the Sailor's Enemy.
An iron railing ran by part of the field. Every hole and joint of it
was crammed with earwigs, and these could be poked out of the crevices
with a straw. When an amazing number of them had been poked out there
was always another one left. The very last earwig that could be
discovered was the King. He was able and willing to bite ten times as
badly as any of the others, and he was awfully vicious when his nest
was broken into. Furthermore, he had the ability to put a curse on you
before he died, and he always did this because he was so vicious. If a
King Earwig had time to curse you before he was killed terrible things
might happen. His favourite curse was to translate himself into the
next piece of bread you would eat, and then you would see one-half of
him waggling in a hole in the bread: the other half you had already
eaten.--For this reason the King Earwig was always allowed to go free
until he was not looking, then he was killed with great suddenness.
I remember how the slow evening shadows drew over the quiet fields. The
sunlight slowly faded to a mist of gold, into which the great trees
thrust timorous, shy fingers, and these gradually widened, until, at
last, the whole horizon bowed into the twilight.
Across the field there could be heard the voice of the river, a
furtive, desolate hoarseness in the dusk. The cows in the far fields
had long ago wandered home to be milked, scarcely a bird moved in the
high silences, the gnats had hidden themselves away in the deep, rugged
bark of the trees, and, through the dimness, the heavy beetles were
hurling like stones, and dropping and rising again in a laborious
flight.
III
He could remember that he had wept to be allowed go to school. Even
more vivid was his recollection of the persuasive and persistent tears
which he had shed to be allowed to stay at home.
Most of the joys of school were exhausted after he had submitted to one
hour of dreary discipline.--To be compelled to sit still when every
inch of one's being clamoured to move about; to have to stand up and
stare at a blackboard upon which meaningless white scrawls were
perpetually being drawn, and as perpetually being wiped out to a
master's meaningless, monotonous verbal accompaniment; to have to join
in a chant which began with "a, b, c," and droned steadily through a
complexity of sounds to a ridiculously inadequate "z"--such things
became desperately boring. One was not even let go to sleep, and if
one wept from sheer ennui, then one was clouted. School, he shortly
decided, was not worth anybody's while, but he also discovered that a
torment had commenced which was not by any artifice to be evaded.
Along the road to school there ran a succession of meadows--the path
was really a footway through fields--and how not to stray into these
meadows was a problem demanding the entire of one's attention.
Sometimes a rabbit bolted almost from under one's feet--it flapped away
through the grass, and bobbed up and down in a great hurry. Then his
heart filled with envy. He said to himself--
"That rabbit is not going to school: if it was it wouldn't run so
quickly."
It was paltry comfort to hurl a wad of grass after it.
Through most of the journey there was an immense, lazy bee with a bass
voice, and he droned defiance three feet away from one's cap which
almost jolted to be put over him. He seemed to understand that at such
an hour he was not in any danger, and so he would drop to the grass,
roll on his back, and cock up his legs in ecstasy.
"Bees," said he to himself in amazement and despair, "do not go to
school."
Each bush and tree seemed, for the moment, to be inhabited by a bird
whose song was unfamiliar and the markings on whom he could not
remember to have seen before; and he had no time to stay and note them.
He dragged beyond these objects reluctantly, pondering on the
unreasonable savagery of parents who sent one to school when the sun
was shining.
But the greatest obstacle to getting to school was the river which
danced briskly through the fields. The footpath went for a stretch
along this stream, and, during that piece of the journey, haste was not
possible. There are so many things in a river to look at. The
movement of the water in itself exercises fascinations over a boy.
There are always bubbles, based strongly in froth, sailing gallantly
along.--One speculates how long a bubble will swim before it hits a
rock, or is washed into nothing by an eddy, or is becalmed in a
sheltered corner to ride at jaunty anchor with a navy of similar
delicate tonnage.
Further, if one finds a twig on the path, or a leaf, there is nothing
more natural than to throw these into the river and see how fast or how
erratically they sail. Pebbles also clamour to be cast into the
stream. Perhaps a dragon-fly whirls above the surface of the water to
hold one late from school. The grasses and rushes by the marge may
stir as a grey rat slips out to take to the water and swim low down and
very fast on some strange and important journey. The inspection of
such an event cannot be hurried. One must, if it is possible, discover
where he swims to, and if his hole is found it has to be blocked up
with stones, even though the persistent bell is clanging down over the
fields.
Perhaps a big frog will push out from the grass and go in fat leaps
down to the water--plop! and away he swims with his sarcastic nose up
and his legs going like fury. The strange, very-little-boy motions of
a frog in water is a thing to ponder over. There are small frogs also,
every bit as interesting, thin-legged, round-bellied anatomies who try
to jump two ways at once when they are observed, and are caught so
easily that it is scarcely worth one's trouble to chase them at all.
Just where the path turned there was an arch under which the river
flowed.--It was covered in with an iron grating. Surely it was a place
of mystery. Through the bars the dark, swirling waters were dimly
visible--there were things in there. Black lumps rose out of the
water, and, for a little distance, the slimy, shimmering, cold-looking
walls could be seen. Beyond there was a deeper gloom, and, beyond that
again, a blank, mysterious darkness. Through the grating the voice of
the stream came back with a strange note. On the outside, under the
sun, it was a tinkle and a rush, a dance indeed, but within it was a
low snarl that deepened to a grim whisper. There was an edge of malice
to the sound: something dark and very terrible brooded on the face of
those hidden waters. It was the home of surmise.--What might there not
be there? There might be gully-holes where the waters whirled in wide
circles, and then flew smoothly down, and down, and down. If one could
have got in there to see! To crawl along by the slippery edge in the
darkness and solitude! It was very hard to get away from this place.
A little farther on two goats were tethered. As one passed they would
cease to pluck the grass and begin to dance slowly, such dainty, antic
steps, with their heads held down and their pale eyes looking upwards
with a joke in them. They did not really want to fight; they wanted to
play but were too shy to admit it.
And here the schoolhouse was in sight. The bell had stopped: it was
now time to run.
He gripped the mouth of his satchel with one hand to prevent the lesson
books from jumping out as he ran, he gripped his pocket with the other
hand to prevent his lunch from being jolted into the road.
Another few yards and he was at the gate--some one was glaring out
through a window. It was a big face rimmed with spectacles and
whiskers--a master. He knew that when yonder severe eye had lifted
from him it had dropped to look at a watch, and he also knew exactly
what the owner of the severe eye would say to him as he sidled in.
THE MOON
If the Moon had a hand
I wonder would she
Stretch it down unto me?
If she did, I would go
To her glacier land,
To her ice-covered strand.
I would run, I would fly,
Were the cold ever so,
And be warm in the snow.
O Moon of all Light,
Sailing far, sailing high
In the infinite sky.
Do not come down to me,
Lest I shriek in affright,
Lest I die in the night
Of your chill ecstasy.
THERE IS A TAVERN IN THE TOWN
I
The old gentleman entered, and was about to sit down, when a button
became detached from some portion of his raiment and rolled upon the
floor. He picked the button up and observed that he would keep it for
his housekeeper to sew on, and, while speaking on the strangeness of
housekeeping and buttons, he came slowly to the subject of matrimony--
"Like so many other customs," said he, "marriage is not native to the
human race, nor is it altogether peculiar to it. So far as I am aware
no person was ever born married, and in extreme youth bachelors and
spinsters are so common as to call for no remark. Nature strives, not
for duality as in the case of the Siamese Twins but for individuality.
We are all born strongly separated, and I am often inclined to fancy
that this ceremony of joining appears very like flying in the face of
Providence. I have also thought, on the other hand, that the
segregation of humanity into male and female is not an economic
practice, but I fear the foundation of the sex habit is by this time so
deeply trenched in our natures as to be practically ineradicable.
"Throughout nature the male and female habit is usual: all beasts are
born of one or the other gender, and this is also the case in the
vegetable kingdom: but I am not aware that the ridiculous and wasteful
preparations with which we encumber matrimony obtain also among plants
and animals. Certainly, among some animals courtship, as we understand
it, is practised--Wolves, for instance, are an extraordinarily acute
people who make good husbands and fathers, and in these relations they
display a tenderness and courtesy which one only acquainted with their
out-of-door manners would scarcely credit them with. Their courtship
is conducted under circumstances of extraordinary rigour. A he-wolf
who becomes enamoured of a female from another tribe is forced, in
attempting to wed her, to set his life upon the venture, and,
disdaining all the fury of her numerous relatives, he must forcibly
detach her from her family, kill or maim all her other suitors, sustain
in a wounded and desperate condition a prolonged chase over the
snow-clad Russian Steppes, and, ultimately, consummate his nuptials, if
he can, with as many limbs as his lady's family have failed to collect
off him. This is a courtship admirably fitted to evolve a hardy and
Spartan race strong in the virtues of reliance and self-control.
"Spiders, on the other hand, are a people whom I despise on several
counts, but must admire on others. They conduct their love affairs in
an even more tragic style. In every event matrimony is a tragedy, but
in the case of spiders it is a catastrophe. Spiders are a very sour
and pessimistic people who live in walls, corners of hotel bedrooms and
holes generally, in which places they weave very delicate webs, and sit
for a long period in a state of philosophic ecstasy, contemplating the
infinite. Their principal pastimes are killing flies and committing
suicide--both of which games should be encouraged. Like so many other
unhappy creatures they are born with a gender from which there is no
escape. The male spider is very much smaller than the female, and he
does not care greatly for his life. When he does not desire to live
any longer he commits matrimony or suicide. He weds a large and fierce
wife, who, when in expectation of progeny, kills him, and, being a
thorough-going person as all females are, she also eats him, possibly
at his own request, and thus she relieves her husband of the tedium of
existence and herself of the necessity for seeking immediate victual.
I do not know whether male spiders are very plentiful or extremely
scarce, but I cite this as an example of the extravagance and economy
of the female gender.
"Of the courting habits of fish I have scanty knowledge. Fish are very
ugly, dirty creatures who appear to live entirely in water, and they
have been known to follow a ship for miles in the disgusting hope of
garbage being thrown to them by the steward. Their chief pastime is
weighing each other, for which purpose they are liberally provided with
scales. They can be captured by nets, or rods and lines, or, when they
are cockles, they can be captured by the human hand, but, in this
latter case, they cannot be tamed, having very little intelligence.
The cockle has no scale, and feels the deprivation keenly, hiding
himself deep in the sea and seldom venturing forth except at
night-time. He is composed of two shells and a soft piece, is chiefly
useful for poisoning children and is found at Sandymount, a place where
nobody but a cockle would live. Other fish may be generally described
as, crabs, pinkeens, red herrings and whales. How these conduct their
matrimonial adventures I do not know--the statement that whales are
fond of pinkeens is true only in a food sense, for these races have
never been observed to intermarry.
"A great many creatures capture or captivate their mates by
singing.--These are usually, but not always, birds, and include wily
wagtails, larks, canary birds and the crested earwig. Poets, music
hall comedians and cats may also be included in this category. Dogs
are imperative and dashing wooers, but they seldom sing. Peacocks
expand their tails before the astonished gaze of their brides, showing
how the female sex is over-borne by minor, unimportant advantages.
Frogs, I believe, make love in the dark, which is a wise thing for them
to do--they are very witty folk, but confirmed sentimentalists.
Grocers' assistants attract their mates by exposing very tall collars
and brown boots. Drapers' assistants follow suit, with the comely
addition of green socks and an umbrella--they are never known to fail.
Some creatures do not marry at all. At a certain period they break in
two halves, and each half, fully equipped for existence, waggles away
from the other.--They are the only perfectly happy folk of whom I am
aware. For myself, I was born single and I will remain so, I will
never be a slave to the disgusting habit of matrimony."
Having said this with great firmness, the old gentleman shed two more
buttons from his waistcoat, and, after sticking three nails and a piece
of twine through his garments, he departed very happily. The
gentleman-in-waiting sneezed three times in a loud voice, and gave a
war-whoop, but I took no notice of these impertinences.
II
I had not seen the old gentleman for a long time, and when he entered
with one foot in a boot and the other in a carpet slipper, I was
overjoyed. When the bubbling tankard which I had ordered was placed
before him he seized my two hands, wrung them heartily and dashed into
the following subject--
"It must be remembered," said he, "that dancing is not an art but a
pastime, and should, therefore, be freed from the too-burdensome
regulations wherewith an art is encumbered. An art is a
highly-specialised matter hedged in on every side by intellectual
policemen, a pastime is not specialised, and never takes place in the
presence of policemen, who are well known to be the sworn enemies of
gaiety. For example, theology is an art but religion is a pastime: we
learn the collects only under compulsion, but we sing anthems because
it is pleasant to do so. Thus, eating oysters is an art by dint of the
elaborate ceremonial including shell-openers, lemons, waiters and
pepper, which must be grouped around your oyster before you can
conveniently swallow him, but eating nuts, or blackberries, or a
privily-acquired turnip--these are pastimes.
"The practice of dancing is of an undoubted antiquity. History teems
with reference to this custom, but it is difficult to discover what
nationality or what era first witnessed its evolution. I myself
believe that the first dance was performed by a domestic hen who found
an ostrich's egg, and bounded before Providence in gratitude for
something worthy of being sat upon.
"In all places and in all ages dancing has been utilised as a first-aid
to language. The function of language is intellectual, that of dancing
is emotional. It is scarcely possible to say anything of an emotional
nature in words without adventuring into depths or bogs of
sentimentality from which one can only emerge greasy with dishonour.
When we are happy we cannot say so with any degree of intelligibility:
in such a context the spoken word is miserably inadequate, and must be
supplemented by some bodily antic. If we are merry we must skip to be
understood. If we are happy we must dance. If we are wildly and
ecstatically joyous then we will become creators, and some new and
beneficent dance-movements will be added to the repertory of our
neighborhood.
"Children will dance upon the slightest provocation, so also do lambs
and goats; but policemen, and puckauns, and advertisement agents, and
fish do not dance at all, and this is because they have hard hearts.
Worms and Members of Parliament, between whom, in addition to their
high general culture, there is a singular and subtle correspondence, do
not dance, because the inelastic quality of their environment forbids
anything in the nature of freedom. Frogs, dogs, and very young
mountains do dance.
"A frog is a most estimable person. He has a cold body but a warm
heart, and a countenance of almost parental benevolence, and the joy of
life moves him to an almost ceaseless activity. I can never observe a
frog on a journey without fancying that his gusto for travel is
directed by a philanthropic impulse towards the bedside of a sick
friend or a meeting to discuss the Housing of the Working Classes. He
has danced all the way to, he will dance all the way from his
objective, but the spectacle of many men dancing is provocative of
pain.--To them dancing is a duty, and a melancholy one. If one danced
to celebrate a toothache one might take lessons from them. They stand
in the happy circle, their features are composed to an iron gravity,
their hands are as rigid as those of a graven image, and then, the
fatal moment having arrived, they agitate their legs with a cold fury
which is distinctly unpleasant. Having finished they dash their
partners from their sides and retire to blush and curse in a corner.
"When a man dances he should laugh and crow and snap his fingers and
make faces; otherwise, he is not dancing at all, he is taking exercise.
No person should be allowed to dance without first swearing that he
feels only six years of age. People who admit to feeling more than ten
years old should be sent to hospital, and any one proved guilty of
fourteen years of age should be lodged in gaol without the option.
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