[Illustration: When Graith was young]
When Graith was young, and Stroom returned
From conquering the Northern Stars;
And showed to her the road he'd burned
Across the sky, to make his wars;
And smiled at Fear, and hid his scars--
He little dreamed his fate could hold
The doom of dwarfish avatars
That Vega sent, when Stroom was old.
When you are talking things over with any one, you have to take some
precautions. If you have just come from a cathedral, and try to discuss
its stained glass, with the janitor of your apartment house, say,--why,
it won't be much use, because stained glass means to him bathroom
windows, and that's all his mind will run on. I am in exactly that
position at this moment. I don't mean bathroom windows, I mean what is
the use of my saying a word about Stroom and Graith, to any one who may
think they are a firm of provision dealers in Yonkers. Any woman who
began this essay thinking that Graith was a new perfume,--any man who
said to himself "Stroom? Oh, yes: that Bulgarian ferment,"--are readers
who would really do better to go and read something else.
Having settled that, I must now admit that until yesterday I knew
nothing about them myself. Yet, centuries ago, Stroom and Graith were on
every one's tongues. Then, I don't know what happened, but a strange
silence about them began. One by one, those who had spoken of them
freely in some way were hushed. The chronicles of the times became
silent, and named them no more.
We think when we open our histories, we open the past. We open only such
a small part of it! Great tracts disappear. Forgetfulness or secret
taboos draw the dim curtains down, and hide from our sight awful
thoughts, monstrous deeds, monstrous dooms....
Even now, in the bright lights and courage of the era we live in, there
has been only one writer who has ventured to name Stroom and Graith.
His name was Dixon; he was at Oxford, in the fifties, with that
undergraduate group which included Burne-Jones, William Morris, and on
the outside, Rossetti. Where he found what so long had been hidden, even
he does not say. But he wrote certain poems, in which Stroom and Graith,
and the Agraffe appear.
This fact is recorded in only one book that I know of, and that is in
the fifth volume of Mr. T. Humphry Ward's English Poets. When I opened
this book, I read for the first time about Dixon. I also read one of his
poems, which was wildish and weird:
"Go now from the shore,
Far ruined: the grey shingly floor
To thy crashing step answers, the doteril cries,
And on dipping wing flies:
'Tis their silence!"
Not knowing what a doteril was, I looked to see if the editor had
explained: but no, all he said was that Dixon was fond of such words.
He added that others such as Stroom, Graith, and Agraffe appeared in his
poems.
But he didn't print those poems in this collection, or explain those
strange names.
The sound of them fascinated me. I sat there and dreamed for a while;
and it was out of these dreamings that I wrote that verse at the head
of this essay. Some stern and vast mystery seemed to me about to enfold.
What part the Agraffe played in it (a mediaeval beast I imagined) I could
not know, could not guess. But I pictured a strong-hearted Stroom to
myself as some hero, waging far, lonely fights, against foes on the edge
of the skies; and I dreamed of how Vega stood waiting, until Stroom
married Graith, and of how at the height of his majesty she inflicted
her doom--a succession of abhorrent rebirths as a grotesque little
dwarf.
[Illustration: Where the doteril cries]
Still, these were only my imaginings, and I wanted the records. I sent
to the public library, and got out all of Dixon they had. Great red and
gold volumes. But the one that I wanted--not there.... I sent to several
famous universities.... It was not to be found.
I turned my search over to an obliging old friend, a librarian, and sat
down feeling thwarted, to console myself with some other poet. There
were many in Volume V of the English Poets, but not a one of them calmed
me. I read restlessly every day, waiting to hear about Stroom. Then at
last, one rainy evening, a telegram came! It was from that old friend.
"Have found all those words Dixon used, in a dialect dictionary. It
gives: 'Stroom: rightly strom: a malt strainer, a wicker-work basket or
bottle, placed under the bunghole of a mash-tub to strain off the hops.'
Mr. Dixon used it because he loved its sound, I suppose. As to Graith,
it means 'furniture, equipment, apparatus for traveling.' And agraffes
are the ornamented hooks used to fasten Knights' armor. They are
mentioned in Ivanhoe."
Well, poets are always disappointing me.