A Christmas Garland

Yonder, that swarm of things insectual
Wheeling Nowhither in Particular—­
What is it?

SPIRIT OF THE YEARS.

          That?  Oh that is merely one

Of those innumerous congeries
Of parasites by which, since time began,
Space has been interfested.

SPIRIT SINISTER.

What a pity
We have no means of stamping out these pests!

SPIRIT IRONIC.

Nay, but I like to watch them buzzing round,
Poor little trumpery ephaeonals!

CHORUS OF THE PIETIES (aerial music).

Yes, yes!
What matter a few more or less?
Here and Nowhere plus
Whence and Why makes Thus.
Let these things be.
There’s room in the world for them and us.

Nothing is,
Out in the vast immensities
Where these things flit,
Irrequisite
In a minor key
To the tune of the sempiternal It.

SPIRIT IRONIC.

The curious thing about them is that some Have lesser parasites adherent to them—­ Bipedular and quadrupedular Infinitesimals.  On close survey You see these movesome.  Do you not recall, We once went in a party and beheld All manner of absurd things happening On one of those same—­planets, don’t you call them?

SPIRIT OF THE YEARS (screwing up his eyes at the Solar System).

One of that very swarm it was, if I mistake not. It had a parasite that called itself Napoléon.  And lately, I believe, Another parasite has had the impudence To publish an elaborate account Of our (for so we deemed it) private visit.

SPIRIT SINISTER.

His name?

RECORDING ANGEL.

One moment.

(Turns over leaves.)

            Hardy, Mr. Thomas,
  Novelist.  Author of “The Woodlanders,”
  “Far from the Madding Crowd,” “The Trumpet Major,”
  “Tess of the D’Urbervilles,” etcetera,
  Etcetera.  In 1895
  “Jude the Obscure” was published, and a few
  Hasty reviewers, having to supply
  A column for the day of publication,
  Filled out their space by saying that there were
  Several passages that might have been
  Omitted with advantage.  Mr. Hardy
  Saw that if that was so, well then, of course,
  Obviously the only thing to do
  Was to write no more novels, and forthwith
  Applied himself to drama, and to Us.

SPIRIT IRONIC.

Let us hear what he said about Us.

THE OTHER SPIRITS.

Let’s.

RECORDING ANGEL (raising receiver of aerial telephone).

3 oh 4 oh oh 3 5, Space….  Hulloa. Is that the Superstellar Library? I’m the Recording Angel.  Kindly send me By Spirit-Messenger a copy of “The Dynasts” by T. Hardy.  Thank you.

A pause.  Enter Spirit-Messenger, with copy of “The Dynasts.”

Thanks.

Exit Spirit-Messenger.  The Recording Angel reads “The Dynasts”
aloud.

Just as the reading draws to a close, enter the Spirit of Mr.
Clement Shorter and Chorus of Subtershorters.  They are visible
as small grey transparencies swiftly interpenetrating the
brains of the spatial Spirits.

SPIRIT OF THE PITIES.

It is a book which, once you take it up,
You cannot readily lay down.

SPIRIT SINISTER.

There is
Not a dull page in it.

SPIRIT OF THE YEARS.

          A bold conception

Outcarried with that artistry for which
The author’s name is guarantee.  We have
No hesitation in commending to our readers
A volume which—­

The Spirit of Mr. Clement Shorter and Chorus of Subtershorters
are detected and expelled.

_—­we hasten to denounce_
As giving an entirely false account
Of our impressions.

SPIRIT IRONIC.

Hear, hear!

SPIRIT SINISTER.

Hear, hear!

SPIRIT OF THE PITIES.

Hear!

SPIRIT OF THE YEARS.

Intensive vision has this Mr. Hardy, With a dark skill in weaving word-patterns Of subtle ideographies that mark him A man of genius.  So am not I, But a plain Spirit, simple and forthright, With no damned philosophical fal-lals About me.  When I visited that planet And watched the animalculae thereon, I never said they were “automata” And “jackaclocks,” nor dared describe their deeds As “Life’s impulsion by Incognizance.” It may be that those mites have no free will, But how should I know?  Nay, how Mr. Hardy? We cannot glimpse the origin of things, Cannot conceive a Causeless Cause, albeit Such a Cause must have been, and must be greater Than we whose little wits cannot conceive it. “Incognizance”!  Why deem incognizant An infinitely higher than ourselves? How dare define its way with us?  How know Whether it leaves us free or holds us bond?

SPIRIT OF THE PITIES.

Allow me to associate myself With every word that’s fallen from your lips. The author of “The Dynasts” has indeed Misused his undeniably great gifts In striving to belittle things that are Little enough already.  I don’t say That the phrenetical behaviour Of those aforesaid animalculae Did, while we watched them, seem to indicate Possession of free-will.  But, bear in mind, We saw them in peculiar circumstances—­ At war, blinded with blood and lust and fear. Is it not likely that at other times They are quite decent midgets, capable Of thinking for themselves, and also acting Discreetly on their own initiative, Not drilled and herded, yet gregarious—­ A wise yet frolicsome community?

SPIRIT IRONIC.

What are these “other times” though?  I had thought Those midgets whiled away the vacuous hours After one war in training for the next. And let me add that my contempt for them Is not done justice to by Mr. Hardy.

SPIRIT SINISTER.

Nor mine.  And I have reason to believe
Those midgets shone above their average
When we inspected them.

A RUMOUR (tactfully intervening).

            Yet have I heard
  (Though not on very good authority)
  That once a year they hold a festival
  And thereat all with one accord unite
  In brotherly affection and good will.

SPIRIT OF THE YEARS (to Recording Angel).

Can you authenticate this Rumour?

RECORDING ANGEL.

  Such festival they have, and call it “Christmas.”

SPIRIT OF THE PITIES.

Then let us go and reconsider them
Next “Christmas.”

SPIRIT OF THE YEARS (to Recording Angel).

When is that?

RECORDING ANGEL (consults terrene calendar).

This day three weeks.

SPIRIT OF THE YEARS.

On that day we will re-traject ourselves.
Meanwhile, ’twere well we should be posted up
In details of this feast.

SPIRIT OF THE PITIES (to Recording Angel).

Aye, tell us more.

RECORDING ANGEL.

I fancy you could best find what you need
In the Complete Works of the late Charles Dickens.
I have them here.

SPIRIT OF THE YEARS.

Read them aloud to us.

The Recording Angel reads aloud the Complete Works of Charles
Dickens.

RECORDING ANGEL (closing “Edwin Drood”).

’Tis Christmas Morning.

SPIRIT OF THE YEARS.

Then must we away.

SEMICHORUS I. OF YEARS (aerial music).

’Tis time we press on to revisit
That dear little planet,
To-day of all days to be seen at
Its brightest and best.

Now holly and mistletoe girdle
Its halls and its homesteads,
And every biped is beaming
With peace and good will.

SEMICHORUS II.

  With good will and why not with free will?
    If clearly the former
  May nest in those bosoms, then why not
    The latter as well?
  Let’s lay down no laws to trip up on,
    Our way is in darkness,
  And not but by groping unhampered
    We win to the light.

  The Spirit and Chorus of the Years traject themselves, closely
    followed by the Spirit and Chorus of the Pities, the Spirits
    and Choruses Sinister and Ironic, Rumours, Spirit Messengers,
    and the Recording Angel.

  There is the sound of a rushing wind.  The Solar System is seen
    for a few instants growing larger and larger—­a whorl of dark,
    vastening orbs careering round the sun.  All but one of these
    is lost to sight.  The convex seas and continents of our planet
    spring into prominence.

  The Spirit of Mr. Hardy is visible as a grey transparency
    swiftly interpenetrating the brain of the Spirit of the Years,
    and urging him in a particular direction, to a particular
    point.

  The Aerial Visitants now hover in mid-air on the outskirts of
    Casterbridge, Wessex, immediately above the County Gaol.

SPIRIT OF THE YEARS.

  First let us watch the revelries within
  This well-kept castle whose great walls connote
  A home of the pre-eminently blest.

  The roof of the gaol becomes transparent, and the whole
    interior is revealed, like that of a beehive under glass. 
    Warders are marching mechanically round the corridors of
    white stone, unlocking and clanging open the iron doors of
    the cells.  Out from every door steps a convict, who stands at
    attention, his face to the wall.

  At a word of command the convicts fall into gangs of twelve,
    and march down the stone stairs, out into the yard, where they
    line up against the walls.

  Another word of command, and they file mechanically, but not
    more mechanically than their warders, into the Chapel.

SPIRIT OF THE PITIES.

  Enough!

SPIRITS SINISTER AND IRONIC.

’Tis more than even we can bear.

SPIRIT OF THE PITIES.

Would we had never come!

SPIRIT OF THE YEARS.

            Brother, ’tis well
  To have faced a truth however hideous,
  However humbling.  Gladly I discipline
  My pride by taking back those pettish doubts
  Cast on the soundness of the central thought
  In Mr. Hardy’s drama.  He was right.
  Automata these animalculae
  Are—­puppets, pitiable jackaclocks.
  Be’t as it may elsewhere, upon this planet
  There’s no free will, only obedience
  To some blind, deaf, unthinking despotry
  That justifies the horridest pessimism.
  Frankly acknowledging all this, I beat
  A quick but not disorderly retreat.

  He re-trajects himself into Space, followed closely by his
    Chorus, and by the Spirit and Chorus of the Pities, the
    Spirits Sinister and Ironic with their Choruses, Rumours,
    Spirit Messengers, and the Recording Angel.