Satan Absolved Part 1

Satan Absolved.

by Wilfred Scawen Blunt.

PREFACE

In publishing this poem, the Author feels that some apology is needed. It deals with matters of a kind not usually treated in modern verse, and which ask to be approached, if at all, with dignity and reverence. He trusts that he will not be found lacking on this essential point.

Nevertheless, he cannot expect but that he may wound by his plain speaking the feelings of those among his readers who sincerely believe that Nineteenth Century Civilisation is synonymous with Christianity, and that the English Race, above all those in existence, has a special mission from Heaven to subdue and occupy the Earth. The self-complacency of the Author's countrymen on this head is too deeply seated to be attacked without offence. He has not, however, shrunk from so attacking, and from insisting on the truth that the hypocrisy and all-acquiring greed of modern England is an atrocious spectacle--one which, if there be any justice in Heaven, must bring a curse from G.o.d, as it has surely already made the angels weep. The destruction of beauty in the name of science, the destruction of happiness in the name of progress, the destruction of reverence in the name of religion, these are the pharisaic crimes of all the white races; but there is something in the Anglo-Saxon impiety crueller still: that it also destroys, as no other race does, for its mere vain-glorious pleasure. The Anglo-Saxon alone has in our day exterminated, root and branch, whole tribes of mankind. He alone has depopulated continents, species after species, of their wonderful animal life, and is still yearly destroying; and this not merely to occupy the land, for it lies in large part empty, but for his insatiable l.u.s.t of violent adventure, to make record bags and kill. That things are so is ample reason for the hardest words the Author can command.

To his fellow poets and poetic critics the Author too would say a word. He has chosen as the vehicle of his thought a metre to which in English they are unaccustomed, the six-foot Alexandrine couplet. For some reason which the Author has never understood, this, the cla.s.sic metre in France, has stood in disrepute with us. Yet he ventures to think that, for rhetorical and dramatic purposes, it is infinitely preferable to our own heroic couplet, and preferable even, in any hands but the strongest, to our traditional blank verse. He believes, moreover, that if our skilled dramatists would make trial of it, it would, by its extreme flexibility and the natural break of its cesura, enable them to capture that shyest of all shy things--success in a rhymed modern play. At least, he trusts that they will give it their consideration, and not condemn him off-hand because, having a rhetorical subject to deal with, he has treated it rhetorically and in what he considers the best rhetoric form, though both rhetoric and Alexandrines are out of fashion.

Lastly, he has to discharge, in connection with his poem, a double debt of grat.i.tude. The poem, unworthy as it is, is, by permission, dedicated to the first of living thinkers, Mr. Herbert Spencer. To his reasoned and life-long advocacy of the rights of the weak in Man's higher evolution is due all that in the poem is intellectually worthiest, to this and to the inspiration of much personal encouragement and sympathy received by the Author at a moment of public excitement when it was onerous yet necessary for the Author to speak unpopular truths.

To Mr. Spencer's great name the Author would add the name of that other senior of the ideal world, Mr. George Frederick Watts, the first of living painters, with whom, while the poem was in progress, it was his privilege to spend many emotional hours in high communings on Life and Death and the tragic Beauty of the world. He would thank him publicly here for the leave generously given him to add to the volume its chief ornament, the frontispiece, which is a reproduction of Mr. Watts' Angel of Pity weeping over the dead birds' wings.

To both these heroic workers in the cause of good the Author in grat.i.tude inscribes himself their faithful servant, disciple, and friend.

FERNYCROFT, NEW FOREST.

_July 27th, 1899._

SATAN ABSOLVED

A Victorian Mystery

(_In the antechamber of Heaven. Satan walks alone. Angels in groups conversing_).

SATAN

To-day is the Lord's "day." Once more on His good pleasure I, the Heresiarch, wait and pace these halls at leisure Among the Orthodox, the unfallen Sons of G.o.d.

How sweet in truth Heaven is, its floors of sandal wood, Its old-world furniture, its linen long in press, Its incense, mummeries, flowers, its scent of holiness!

Each house has its own smell. The smell of Heaven to me Intoxicates and haunts--and hurts. Who would not be G.o.d's liveried servant here, the slave of His behest, Rather than reign outside? I like good things the best, Fair things, things innocent; and gladly, if He willed, Would enter His Saints' kingdom--even as a little child (_laughs_).

I have come to make my peace, to crave a full "amaun,"

Peace, pardon, reconcilement, truce to our daggers-drawn, Which have so long distraught the fair wise Universe, An end to my rebellion and the mortal curse Of always evil-doing. He will mayhap agree I was less wholly wrong about Humanity The day I dared to warn His wisdom of that flaw.

It was at least the truth, the whole truth I foresaw When he must needs create that simian "in His own Image and likeness." Faugh! the unseemly carrion!

I claim a new revision and with proofs in hand, No Job now in my path to foil me and withstand.

Oh, I will serve Him well!

(_Certain Angels approach_). But who are these that come With their grieved faces pale and eyes of martyrdom?

Not our good Sons of G.o.d? They stop, gesticulate, Argue apart, some weep,--weep, here within Heaven's gate!

Sob almost in G.o.d's sight! ay, real salt human tears, Such as no Spirit wept these thrice three thousand years.

The last shed were my own, that night of reprobation When I unsheathed my sword and headed the lost nation.

Since then not one of them has spoken above his breath Or whispered in these courts one word of life or death Displeasing to the Lord. No Seraph of them all, Save I this day each year, has dared to cross Heaven's hall And give voice to ill news, an unwelcome truth to Him.

Not Michael's self hath dared, prince of the Seraphim.

Yet all now wail aloud. What ails ye, brethren? Speak!

Are ye too in rebellion?

ANGELS

Satan, no. But weak With our long earthly toil, the unthankful care of Man.

SATAN

Ye have in truth good cause.

ANGELS

And we would know G.o.d's plan, His true thought for the world, the wherefore and the why Of His long patience mocked, His name in jeopardy.

We have no heart to serve without instructions new.

SATAN

Ye have made a late discovery.

ANGELS

There is no rain, no dew, No watering of G.o.d's grace that can make green Man's heart, Or draw him nearer Heaven to play a G.o.dlier part.

Our service has grown vain. We have no rest nor sleep; The Earth's cry is too loud.

SATAN

Ye have all cause to weep Since you depend on Man. I told it and foretold.

ANGELS

Truly thou didst.

SATAN

Dear fools! But have ye heart to hold Such plaint before the Lord, to apprise Him of this thing In its full naked fact and call your reckoning?

ANGELS

We dare not face his frown. He lives in ignorance.

His pride is in His Earth. If He but looks askance We tremble and grow dumb.

SATAN

And ye will bear it then?

ANGELS

We dare not grieve His peace. He loves this race of men.

SATAN