Part 30

Voke Easeley said: "The plaint of Citronella is full of a passion of dream that only the Italian poets have found the language for."

Fothy winked at me and I made an excuse and slipped into the library and looked them up -- and, well, would you believe it! -- they weren't lovers at all! And I might have known it from the first, for I always use citronella for mosquitoes in the country.

They were still pretending when I got back, all of them, and Aurelia was saying: "Citronella differs psychologically from Juliet -- she is more like poor, dear Francesca in her feeling of the cosmic inevitability of tragedy. But stegomyia had a strain of Hamlet in him."

"Yes, a strain of Hamlet," said Voke Easeley. "A strain of Hamlet in his nature, Aurelia -- and more than a strain of Tristram!"

"It is a thing that Maeterlinck should have written, in his earlier manner," said Mrs. Voke Easeley.

"The story has its Irish counterpart, too," said Leila Brown, who rather specializes, you know, on all those lovely Lady Gregory things. "I have always wondered why Yeats or Synge hasn't used it."

"The essential story is older than Ireland," said the Swami. "It is older than Buddha. There are three versions of it in Sanskrit, and the young men sing it to this day in Benares."

Affectation! Affectation! Oh, how I abhor affectation!

It was perfectly HORRID of Fothy just the same.

ANYONE might have been fooled.

I might have been myself, if I were not too intellectually honest, and Fothy hadn't tipped me the wink.

HERMIONE'S SALON OPENS

Perchance last night you felt the world careen, Leap in its orbit like a punished pup Which hath a hornet on his burning bean? Last night, last night -- historic yestere'en! -- Hermione's Salon was opened up!

Without, the night was cold. But Thought, within, Roared through the rooms as red and hot as Sin. Without, the night was calm; within, the surge And snap of Thought kept up a crackling din As if in sport the well-known Cosmic Urge with Psychic Slapsticks whacked the dome and Shin Of Swami, Serious Thinker, Ghost and Goat. From soup to nuts, from Nut to Super Freak, From clams to coffee, all the Clans were there. The groggy Soul Mate groping for its Twin, The burgling free verse Blear, the Hobo Pote,

Clairvoyant, Cubist bug and Burlapped Greek, Souse Socialists and queens with bright green hair, Ginks leading barbered Art Dogs trimmed and Sleek, The Greenwich Stable Dwellers, Mule and Mare, Pal Anarchs, tamed and wrapped in evening duds, Philosophers who go wherever suds Flow free, musicians hunting after eats, And sandaled dames who hang from either ear Strange lumps -- "art jools" -- the size of pickled beets, Writers that write not, hunting Atmosphere, Painters and sculptors that ne'er paint nor sculp, Reformers taking notes on Brainstorm Slum, Cave Men in Windsor Ties, all gauche and glum, With strong iron jaws that crush their food to Pulp, And bright Boy Cynics playing paradox, And th' inevitable She that knitteth Belgian socks -- A score of little groups ! -- all bees that hum About the futile blooms of Piffledom.

III

A wan Erotic Rotter told me that The World could not be Saved except through Sin; A she eugenist, sexless, flabby, fat, With burst veins winding through unhealthy skin, With loose, uncertain lips preached Purity; A Preacher blasphemed just to show he dared; A dame praised Unconventionality In words her secretary had prepared; A bare-legg'd painter garbed in Leopard hide Quarreled with a Chinese lyre and scared the dogs; A slithering Dancer slunk from side to side In weird, ungodly, Oriental togs; A pale, anemic, frail Divinity Confided that she thought the great Blond Beast Himself was Art's own true Affinity; An Anarch gloomed; "The Mummy at the Feast Gets all the pleasure from the festive board!" I know not what they meant; I only wunk Within myself, and praised the great god Bunk. A Yogi sought the Silences and snored.

But 'twas Hermione that Got the Hand! Ah, yes, she talked! Of Purpose, and of Soul, And how Life's parts are equal to its Whole. And Thought -- and do the Masses Understand? She lightly touched on Life and Love and Death, And Cosmic Consciousness, and on Unrest, Substance and Shadow, Solid Things and Breath, The New Art movements her sweet voice caressed, Philanthropy, Genetics, Social Duty, The Mother-Teacher claimed a passing smile, And she made clear we all must worship Beauty And Concentrate on Things that are Worth While. "Each night," she said, "each night ere I retire Into the Depths I peer, and I inquire, "Have I today some Worth-while Summit scaled? Or have I failed to climb? Oh, have I failed? These little talks between the Self and Soul -- Oh, don't you think? -- still help us toward the Goal; They help us shape the Universal Laws In sweet accordance with our glorious Cause!" "Hermione," said I, "they do! They do!" "Thank you," said she, "I KNEW you'd understand!" I said to her, the while I pressed her hand, "All, all, my interest I owe to you!"

And then I left, and following my feet Soon found that they had led me to the street.

And there I found a burly Garbage Man Who through bleak winter nights from can to can Goes on his ashy way, sans rest or pause, Goes on his way, still faithful to his Cause.

"Tell me," said I, "if now across the verge Of night should come the kindly Cosmic Urge, Strong-armed and virile, full of vim and help, And offer you with thee here cans to help, Would you accept the Cosmic Urge's aid, Or would you rise up free and unafraid And say, 'My restless Personality Bids me return a negative to thee!'"

"Old scout," says he, "I've never really brought My intellects to bear on that there though! I gets no help, I asks no help from none -- But I have noticed, bo, that one by one, And soon or late, and gradual, day by day, Most things in life eventual comes my way! Into the Ashes Can the whole world goes, Old hats, old papers, toys and styles and clo'es, Eventual they dump "em down the bay!"

Symbolic Garbage Man! Sans rest or pause, In steadfast faith work for thy Sacred Cause! Some time, perhaps, all piles of twisted bunk, All half-baked faddists, heaps of mental junk, Unto the waiting Scow we'll cart away Eventual to dump 'em down the bay!

THE PERFUME CONCERT

THE Loveliest man gave us a talk the other evening -- our Little Group of Serious Thinkers, you know -- on the Art of the Future.

And what do you think it is to be? You'd never guess! Never!

The entertainment of the future will be a Perfume concert!

Every scent, if you get what I mean, corresponds to some color, and ever color corresponds to some sound, and every sound corresponds to some emotion.