EVERYMAN'S AUTUMN

Evening Star, Issue 21706, 28 April 1934, Page 2

EVERYMAN'S AUTUMN

[Written by Banach u, for the ‘Evening Star.’]

When, I called with some books and papers., the ‘ convalescent was rrinily reading’ au .anthology on; his sunny porch. , I peeped, and found that the book-was seasonably open at the ‘ Ode to Autumn.’ He was a difficult convalescent. at any time, and when I asked facetiously if he'felt plump and ripe .and the,bosom friend of the sun, ho.: retorted that lie ’ was a pariah, a miserable, outcast,.-an untouchable. He said that he was ■ Ishmael, and that the pen of■ every romantic Nature poet was pointed derisively, at him. A man in his' Weak bodily state was receptive, and expected- to .be aware of the season, but he was not aware of autumn as ! those chaps knew it, for never in his life had he seen Autumn sitting careless on a granary floor. Nor did he want to see-her on a half-reaped furrow sound .asleep. Poets who saw her with rich pomegranates on her crown ,aud ripe, sheaves round her zone made him sick. Tlio. device of personification was overdone, especially personification into the female form. There •are so. few springs, and far too many girls; a mere handful of autumns, and too many buxom- sunburned matrons with poppies in their hats. In the country, I hazarded, Nature might be like that. He snorted. Happy autumn fields! He knew them, happy autumn fields featuring haystacks bandaged with scrim and torn sacking weighted with rusting kerosene tins. This whole fancy-dress cantata business was overdone. There was a deal of nonsense written about all the seasons, but autumn had suffered most, and that was because of the romance quartering. The other seasons had sensible northern names that kept them from becoming too high faintin’; spring could do little but bounce and leap and crow; summer was complacent and easy-going; the truest thing ever said about winter in poetry was that Marian’s nose was red and raw. Why could the poets not be equally frank about autumn, and say that it was thin and wispy and untidy? They couldn’t because of this tradition of lusciousness and wine presses overflowing with apples in heaps. To the Mediterranean richness they added Nordic sentiment, and the result was all the stuff about lights growing dim, all the feverish catching at warmth and sweetness before they disappeared. Nobody ever suspected that summer had been wonderful until autumn reminded them. Why should poets who were sincere about love and life and death, the minute they heard the word “ autumn,” begin to talk like a vicar at a harvest festival P

A leaf lighting on the invalid’s rug diverted him. “Pestilence-stricken multitudes!” he quoted, and could find no fault with that diagnosis. Anyone with an oak tree in ‘a small garden will find that it colours. his autumn. The first sign of autumn is a couple of oak leaves in the bath. By night there are several on the pillow, and when the wind stirs the curtains a few more begin, a dry pattering under the bed. The gardening notes advise sweeping leaves into a corner, whore they will rot into the • richness of leaf mould. Gardening notes must be written from one of those charmed places where never ( wind blows loudly. Oak leaves will not be tempted to rot into tho richness of leaf mould, in any corner of this garden. Sweep them as the wind blbjvs, and the wind changes. If seven maids with seven mops swept them for half a year, it would make no difference. Leaves do not know it is their privilege to rot into richness; they want to play at boats in the spouting and block it tip. The housekeeper brought out afternoon tea. She dratted the oak leaves and added her contribution to autumn, that the days were drawing in and we’d notice it more when the clocks .\yere put back.. The blitter was harder, like, already. Soon it would have to bo warmed before it was spread. There was one thing about autumn, the butter didn’t run like it did in the heat. There were troubles all the year round. The boys wouldn’t remember to be careful about switching off the light, and that. The colder days meant porridge for breakfast, and everything. The coal bills are bigger, but you don’t have to get up so early, like. It’s nice to know there will be something coming in all winter, and it’s nice to be able and go out and pick your own chrysanthemums.

When the tea -things had been removed my host, slightly mellowed, wondered why there was not an autumn poem as universal in type as his housekeeper. Ho wanted a poem that was rich here and there, without, exuding luseiousness; one that was decently grateful without oozing gratitude; one that was touched by the sun without swooning in heat. He wanted a poem that recaptured autumn’s wistfulness and was not an over-hearty welcome to lusty winter. He wanted one that was careful and not prodigal. I had it in a number of the ‘Spectator’ 1 had brought him, a translation from the Gorman by Stephen Spender. It was not over-ripe, and it did not take for granted that everyone had gathered in a good harvest. The countryside was not dressed up, and autumn was not disguised as a sunbrowned lady. It was not in the romantic tradition, save for the'thin accompaniment of the sobbing violins to which Verlaine has set all autumn poems.

Lord, it is time. The summer was so huge. Now lay your shadows on the sun dials, And across tho floor let the winds loose. Command the last fruits to ho fine; Give to them yet two southerly days more;

Drive all their ripeness in and pour Tho last sweet drop into the heavy wine. Who now no home has. builds himself none more; Who- now a-kine is, he will stay si) long. ; He will watch, read, write letters that are long, And through the avenues hero and there When the leaves run, restlessly wander.