In the visitor’s book at Crome Ivor had left, according to his invariable custom in these cases, a poem. He had improvised5 it magisterially6 in the ten minutes preceding his departure. Denis and Mr. Scogan strolled back together from the gates of the courtyard, whence they had bidden their last farewells; on the writing-table in the hall they found the visitor’s book, open, and Ivor’s composition scarcely dry. Mr. Scogan read it aloud:
“The magic of those immemorial kings,
Who webbed enchantment7 on the bowls of night.
Sleeps in the soul of all created things;
In the blue sea, th’ Acroceraunian height,
In the eyed butterfly’s auricular wings
And orgied visions of the anchorite;
In all that singing flies and flying sings,
In rain, in pain, in delicate delight.
Weave here their wizardries about my soul.
Crome calls me like the voice of vesperal bells,
Haunts like a ghostly-peopled necropole.
Fate tears me hence. Hard fate! since far from Crome
My soul must weep, remembering its Home.”
“Very nice and tasteful and tactful,” said Mr. Scogan, when he had finished. “I am only troubled by the butterfly’s auricular wings. You have a first-hand knowledge of the workings of a poet’s mind, Denis; perhaps you can explain.”
“What could be simpler,” said Denis. “It’s a beautiful word, and Ivor wanted to say that the wings were golden.”
“You make it luminously9 clear.”
“One suffers so much,” Denis went on, “from the fact that beautiful words don’t always mean what they ought to mean. Recently, for example, I had a whole poem ruined, just because the word ‘carminative’ didn’t mean what it ought to have meant. Carminative—it’s admirable, isn’t it?”
“Admirable,” Mr. Scogan agreed. “And what does it mean?”
“It’s a word I’ve treasured from my earliest infancy,” said Denis, “treasured and loved. They used to give me cinnamon when I had a cold—quite useless, but not disagreeable. One poured it drop by drop out of narrow bottles, a golden liquor, fierce and fiery10. On the label was a list of its virtues11, and among other things it was described as being in the highest degree carminative. I adored the word. ‘Isn’t it carminative?’ I used to say to myself when I’d taken my dose. It seemed so wonderfully to describe that sensation of internal warmth, that glow, that—what shall I call it?—physical self-satisfaction which followed the drinking of cinnamon. Later, when I discovered alcohol, ‘carminative’ described for me that similar, but nobler, more spiritual glow which wine evokes12 not only in the body but in the soul as well. The carminative virtues of burgundy, of rum, of old brandy, of Lacryma Christi, of Marsala, of Aleatico, of stout14, of gin, of champagne15, of claret, of the raw new wine of this year’s Tuscan vintage—I compared them, I classified them. Marsala is rosily16, downily carminative; gin pricks17 and refreshes while it warms. I had a whole table of carmination values. And now”—Denis spread out his hands, palms upwards18, despairingly—“now I know what carminative really means.”
“Well, what DOES it mean?” asked Mr. Scogan, a little impatiently.
“Carminative,” said Denis, lingering lovingly over the syllables19, “carminative. I imagined vaguely20 that it had something to do with carmen-carminis, still more vaguely with caro-carnis, and its derivations, like carnival21 and carnation22. Carminative—there was the idea of singing and the idea of flesh, rose-coloured and warm, with a suggestion of the jollities of mi-Careme and the masked holidays of Venice. Carminative—the warmth, the glow, the interior ripeness were all in the word. Instead of which...”
“Do come to the point, my dear Denis,” protested Mr. Scogan. “Do come to the point.”
“Well, I wrote a poem the other day,” said Denis; “I wrote a poem about the effects of love.”
“Others have done the same before you,” said Mr. Scogan. “There is no need to be ashamed.”
“I was putting forward the notion,” Denis went on, “that the effects of love were often similar to the effects of wine, that Eros could intoxicate23 as well as Bacchus. Love, for example, is essentially24 carminative. It gives one the sense of warmth, the glow.
‘And passion carminative as wine...’
was what I wrote. Not only was the line elegantly sonorous25; it was also, I flattered myself, very aptly compendiously26 expressive27. Everything was in the word carminative—a detailed28, exact foreground, an immense, indefinite hinterland of suggestion.
‘And passion carminative as wine...’
I was not ill-pleased. And then suddenly it occurred to me that I had never actually looked up the word in a dictionary. Carminative had grown up with me from the days of the cinnamon bottle. It had always been taken for granted. Carminative: for me the word was as rich in content as some tremendous, elaborate work of art; it was a complete landscape with figures.
‘And passion carminative as wine...’
It was the first time I had ever committed the word to writing, and all at once I felt I would like lexicographical authority for it. A small English-German dictionary was all I had at hand. I turned up C, ca, car, carm. There it was: ‘Carminative: windtreibend.’ Windtreibend!” he repeated. Mr. Scogan laughed. Denis shook his head. “Ah,” he said, “for me it was no laughing matter. For me it marked the end of a chapter, the death of something young and precious. There were the years—years of childhood and innocence—when I had believed that carminative meant—well, carminative. And now, before me lies the rest of my life—a day, perhaps, ten years, half a century, when I shall know that carminative means windtreibend.
‘Plus ne suis ce que j’ai ete
Et ne le saurai jamais etre.’
It is a realisation that makes one rather melancholy29.”
“Carminative,” said Mr. Scogan thoughtfully.
“Carminative,” Denis repeated, and they were silent for a time. “Words,” said Denis at last, “words—I wonder if you can realise how much I love them. You are too much preoccupied30 with mere31 things and ideas and people to understand the full beauty of words. Your mind is not a literary mind. The spectacle of Mr. Gladstone finding thirty-four rhymes to the name ‘Margot’ seems to you rather pathetic than anything else. Mallarmé’s envelopes with their versified addresses leave you cold, unless they leave you pitiful; you can’t see that
Poste et j’ajouterai, dia!
Balzac, chez cet Hérédia,’
is a little miracle.”
“You’re right,” said Mr. Scogan. “I can’t.”
“You don’t feel it to be magical?”
“No.”
“That’s the test for the literary mind,” said Denis; “the feeling of magic, the sense that words have power. The technical, verbal part of literature is simply a development of magic. Words are man’s first and most grandiose34 invention. With language he created a whole new universe; what wonder if he loved words and attributed power to them! With fitted, harmonious35 words the magicians summoned rabbits out of empty hats and spirits from the elements. Their descendants, the literary men, still go on with the process, morticing their verbal formulas together, and, before the power of the finished spell, trembling with delight and awe36. Rabbits out of empty hats? No, their spells are more subtly powerful, for they evoke13 emotions out of empty minds. Formulated37 by their art the most insipid39 statements become enormously significant. For example, I proffer40 the constatation, ‘Black ladders lack bladders.’ A self-evident truth, one on which it would not have been worth while to insist, had I chosen to formulate38 it in such words as ‘Black fire-escapes have no bladders,’ or, ‘Les echelles noires manquent de vessie.’ But since I put it as I do, ‘Black ladders lack bladders,’ it becomes, for all its self-evidence, significant, unforgettable, moving. The creation by word-power of something out of nothing—what is that but magic? And, I may add, what is that but literature? Half the world’s greatest poetry is simply ‘Les echelles noires manquent de vessie,’ translated into magic significance as, ‘Black ladders lack bladders.’ And you can’t appreciate words. I’m sorry for you.”
“A mental carminative,” said Mr. Scogan reflectively. “That’s what you need.”
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1
amorous
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| adj.多情的；有关爱情的 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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improvised
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| a.即席而作的,即兴的 | |
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magisterially
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| adv.威严地 | |
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enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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8
cogent
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| adj.强有力的，有说服力的 | |
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9
luminously
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| 发光的； 明亮的； 清楚的； 辉赫 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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11
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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12
evokes
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| 产生，引起，唤起( evoke的第三人称单数 ) | |
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evoke
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| vt.唤起，引起，使人想起 | |
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15
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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rosily
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| adv.带玫瑰色地，乐观地 | |
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17
pricks
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| 刺痛( prick的名词复数 )； 刺孔； 刺痕； 植物的刺 | |
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18
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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19
syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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20
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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21
carnival
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| n.嘉年华会，狂欢，狂欢节，巡回表演 | |
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22
carnation
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| n.康乃馨（一种花） | |
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23
intoxicate
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| vt.使喝醉，使陶醉，使欣喜若狂 | |
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24
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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25
sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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compendiously
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| adv.扼要地；简要地；摘要地；简洁地 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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29
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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30
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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31
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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32
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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grandiose
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| adj.宏伟的，宏大的，堂皇的，铺张的 | |
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harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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36
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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37
formulated
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| v.构想出( formulate的过去式和过去分词 )；规划；确切地阐述；用公式表示 | |
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38
formulate
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| v.用公式表示；规划；设计；系统地阐述 | |
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insipid
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| adj.无味的，枯燥乏味的，单调的 | |
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40
proffer
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| v.献出，赠送；n.提议，建议 | |
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