The Ballad of a Barber by Aubrey Beardsley

Aubrey Beardsley's poem first appeared in the July 1896 issue of The Savoy.

Here is the tale of Carrousel,

The barber of Meridian Street,

He cut, and coiffed, and shaved so well,

That all the world was at his feet.

The King, the Queen, and all the Court,

To no one else would trust their hair,

And reigning belles of every sort

Owed their successes to his care.

With carriage and with cabriolet

Daily Meridian Street was blocked,

Like bees about a bright bouquet

The beaux about his doorway nocked.

Such was his art he could with ease

Curl wit into the dullest face;

Or to a goddess of old Greece

Add a new wonder and a grace.

All powders, paints, and subtle dyes,

And costliest scents that men distil,

And rare pomades, forgot their price

And marvelled at his splendid skill.

The curling irons in his hand

Almost grew quick enough to speak,

The razor was a magic wand

That understood the softest cheek.

Yet with no pride his heart was moved;

He was so modest in his ways!

His daily task was all he loved,

And now and then a little praise.

An equal care he would bestow

On problems simple or complex;

And nobody had seen him show

A preference for either sex.

How came it then one summer day,

Coimng the daughter of the King,

He lengthened out the least delay

And loitered in his hairdressing?

The Princess was a pretty child,

Thirteen years old, or thereabout.

She was as joyous and as wild

As spring flowers when the sun is out.

Her gold hair fell down to her feet

And hung about her pretty eyes;

She was as lyrical and sweet

As one of Schubert's melodies.

Three times the barber curled a lock,

And thrice he straightened it again;

And twice the irons scorched her frock,

And twice he stumbled in her train.

His fingers lost their cunning quite,

His ivory combs obeyed no more;

Something or other dimmed his sight,

And moved mysteriously the floor.

He leant upon the toilet table,

His fingers fumbled in his breast;

He felt as foolish as a fable,

And feeble as a pointless jest.

He snatched a bottle of Cologne,

And broke the neck between his hands;

He felt as if he was alone,

And mighty as a king's commands.

The Princess gave a little scream,

Carrousel's cut was sharp and deep;

He left her softly as a dream

That leaves a sleeper to his sleep.

He left the room on pointed feet;

Smiling that things had gone so well.

They hanged him in Meridian Street.

You pray in vain for Carrousel.

The Raven Edgar Allan Poe

I am a big fan of Edgar Allan Poe; his poems and stories are equally fantastic and I believe him to be one of the best writers and poets of the 19th century, if not of all time. Dante Gabriel Rossetti was also very fond of Poe, especially his most famous poem The Raven. Before and around the time the Pre-Raphaelite brotherhood was formed in 1848 Rossetti made a series of drawings for Poe's poems and verse. This is his drawing for The Raven. It is beautiful and I find really captures the mood of the poem. I have included the wonderful poem here too.

The Raven: Angel Footfalls 1848

The Raven

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. `'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door - Only this, and nothing more.' Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore - For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore - Nameless here for evermore. And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating `'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door - Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; - This it is, and nothing more,' Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, `Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; - Darkness there, and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!' This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!' Merely this and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. `Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore - Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; - 'Tis the wind and nothing more!' Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door - Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door - Perched, and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, `Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven. Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore - Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door - Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as `Nevermore.' But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only, That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered - Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before - On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.' Then the bird said, `Nevermore.' Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, `Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore - Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore Of "Never-nevermore."' But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore - What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking `Nevermore.' This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er, She shall press, ah, nevermore! Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. `Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' `Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! - Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted - On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore - Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' `Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore - Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore - Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' `Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting - `Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted - nevermore!

La Belle Dame Sans Merci

Having read John Keats' poem La Belle Dame Sans Merci for the first time yesterday, I wish to share this beautiful poem and some of the lovely artworks inspired by it. John Keats was very popular with the Pre-Raphaelites, Rossetti in particular. Rossetti himself insisted that Keats be included in the 'List of Immortals' of 1848. Throughout the various Pre-Raphaelite phases Keat's poem continued to be a source of inspiration with generations of painters.

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,

Alone and palely loitering?

The sedge has withered from the lake,

And no birds sing.

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,

So haggard and so woe-begone?

The squirrel’s granary is full,

And the harvest’s done.

I see a lily on thy brow,

With anguish moist and fever-dew,

And on thy cheeks a fading rose

Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads,

Full beautiful—a faery’s child,

Her hair was long, her foot was light,

And her eyes were wild.

I made a garland for her head,

And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;

She looked at me as she did love,

And made sweet moan.

I set her on my pacing steed,

And nothing else saw all day long,

For sidelong would she bend, and sing

A faery’s song.

She found me roots of relish sweet,

And honey wild, and manna-dew,

And sure in language strange she said—

‘I love thee true’.

She took me to her Elfin grot,

And there she wept and sighed full sore,

And there I shut her wild wild eyes

With kisses four.

And there she lullèd me asleep,

And there I dreamed—Ah! woe betide!—

The latest dream I ever dreamt

On the cold hill side.

I saw pale kings and princes too,

Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;

They cried—‘La Belle Dame sans Merci

Thee hath in thrall!’

I saw their starved lips in the gloam,

With horrid warning gapèd wide,

And I awoke and found me here,

On the cold hill’s side.

And this is why I sojourn here,

Alone and palely loitering,

Though the sedge is withered from the lake,

And no birds sing.

 This is an early pencil sketch by Rossetti, from April 1848 - a few months before the PRB was founded. The first of three sketches Rossetti would do for this poem, a watercolour of a similar composition was done in 1855 with Lizzie Siddal as the model. This sketch is just a little early for Lizzie to be the model, but I do think that the knight looks like Walter Deverell.
The unfinished sketch below is a later one, 1855, with Lizzie most probably as the model. Though unfinished, it is a beautiful work, and illustrates the 6th stanza which is written above the horse's head. (always nice to see Rossetti's handwriting) I am surprised that Rossetti never completed a full painting of La Belle Dame sans Merci, despite doing some sketches.

                                                             

Frank Cadogan Cowper 1926

I love this version by Frank Cadogan Cowper. He is often described as 'the last of the Pre-Raphaelites' because he carried on the Pre-Raphaelite style long after that kind of work had fallen out of favour with the public. It is very aesthetic in its composition; focusing mainly on the beautiful woman in the centre, with the sleeping knight lying rather comically in the foreground, the evening light glinting of his armor and the poppies, symbolic of sleep and death, are beginning to grow around him.  The woman is traditional Pre-Raphaelite, but  her dress I find unusual; rather Art Nouveau - the date of this painting is 1926, though an earlier version is 1905; these both would have been after the Art Nouveau period, which I think was influential of this painting.

Sir Frank Dicksee 1903

Ah! What a lovely painting! Frank Dicksee sure knows how to paint a really aesthetically pleasing work of art. The landscape, horse and woman are all beautiful. I especially like the details on the horse's reins and the overall glowing light. However, I do admit to finding the knight a little odd. Yes, he is wonderfully painted, but why is he standing in that position? It looks more like something from a religious subject. I think Dicksee is depicting, like Rossetti, stanza 6 where the woman is enchanting the knight with her singing, rather like the sirens... and he cannot look at anything else but her. 

John William Waterhouse is a favourite of mine, and this version of La Belle Dame Sans Merci is really lovely. This depiction I find a little darker than the others, for in the other paintings the woman is rather removed, but in Waterhouse's version we see the woman in the act of enchanting the knight and literally trapping him, with that lovely hair of hers... how I wish I had hair like that! The light of the woman's face and dress contrasted with the man in shadow makes the audience focus on her; she is the primary subject in the painting. Also, her dress is beautiful...The colour of it is divine!

So, I now feel inspired to read more of John Keats' poems, and I also fancy watching that film about Keats with the great Ben Whishaw in it - a good reason to watch any film I think! 

Best Wishes