'The House Of Dust: Part 04: 03: Palimpsest: A Deceitful Portrait' by Conrad Aiken

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Well, as you say, we live for small horizons:
We move in crowds, we flow and talk together,
Seeing so many eyes and hands and faces,
So many mouths, and all with secret meanings,—
Yet know so little of them; only seeing
The small bright circle of our consciousness,
Beyond which lies the dark. Some few we know—
Or think we know. . . Once, on a sun-bright morning,
I walked in a certain hallway, trying to find
A certain door: I found one, tried it, opened,
And there in a spacious chamber, brightly lighted,
A hundred men played music, loudly, swiftly,
While one tall woman sent her voice above them
In powerful sweetness. . . .Closing then the door
I heard it die behind me, fade to whisper,—
And walked in a quiet hallway as before.
Just such a glimpse, as through that opened door,
Is all we know of those we call our friends. . . .
We hear a sudden music, see a playing
Of ordered thoughts—and all again is silence.
The music, we suppose, (as in ourselves)
Goes on forever there, behind shut doors,—
As it continues after our departure,
So, we divine, it played before we came . . .
What do you know of me, or I of you? . . .
Little enough. . . .We set these doors ajar
Only for chosen movements of the music:
This passage, (so I think—yet this is guesswork)
Will please him,—it is in a strain he fancies,—
More brilliant, though, than his; and while he likes it
He will be piqued . . . He looks at me bewildered
And thinks (to judge from self—this too is guesswork)

The music strangely subtle, deep in meaning,
Perplexed with implications; he suspects me
Of hidden riches, unexpected wisdom. . . .
Or else I let him hear a lyric passage,—
Simple and clear; and all the while he listens
I make pretence to think my doors are closed.
This too bewilders him. He eyes me sidelong
Wondering 'Is he such a fool as this?
Or only mocking?'—There I let it end. . . .
Sometimes, of course, and when we least suspect it—
When we pursue our thoughts with too much passion,
Talking with too great zeal—our doors fly open
Without intention; and the hungry watcher
Stares at the feast, carries away our secrets,
And laughs. . . .but this, for many counts, is seldom.
And for the most part we vouchsafe our friends,
Our lovers too, only such few clear notes
As we shall deem them likely to admire:
'Praise me for this' we say, or 'laugh at this,'
Or 'marvel at my candor'. . . .all the while
Withholding what's most precious to ourselves,—
Some sinister depth of lust or fear or hatred,
The sombre note that gives the chord its power;
Or a white loveliness—if such we know—
Too much like fire to speak of without shame.

Well, this being so, and we who know it being
So curious about those well-locked houses,
The minds of those we know,—to enter softly,
And steal from floor to floor up shadowy stairways,
From room to quiet room, from wall to wall,
Breathing deliberately the very air,
Pressing our hands and nerves against warm darkness
To learn what ghosts are there,—
Suppose for once I set my doors wide open
And bid you in. . . .Suppose I try to tell you
The secrets of this house, and how I live here;
Suppose I tell you who I am, in fact. . . .
Deceiving you—as far as I may know it—
Only so much as I deceive myself.

If you are clever you already see me
As one who moves forever in a cloud
Of warm bright vanity: a luminous cloud
Which falls on all things with a quivering magic,
Changing such outlines as a light may change,
Brightening what lies dark to me, concealing
Those things that will not change . . . I walk sustained
In a world of things that flatter me: a sky
Just as I would have had it; trees and grass
Just as I would have shaped and colored them;
Pigeons and clouds and sun and whirling shadows,
And stars that brightening climb through mist at nightfall,—
In some deep way I am aware these praise me:
Where they are beautiful, or hint of beauty,
They point, somehow, to me. . . .This water says,—
Shimmering at the sky, or undulating
In broken gleaming parodies of clouds,
Rippled in blue, or sending from cool depths
To meet the falling leaf the leaf's clear image,—
This water says, there is some secret in you
Akin to my clear beauty, silently responsive
To all that circles you. This bare tree says,—
Austere and stark and leafless, split with frost,
Resonant in the wind, with rigid branches
Flung out against the sky,—this tall tree says,
There is some cold austerity in you,
A frozen strength, with long roots gnarled on rocks,
Fertile and deep; you bide your time, are patient,
Serene in silence, bare to outward seeming,
Concealing what reserves of power and beauty!
What teeming Aprils!—chorus of leaves on leaves!
These houses say, such walls in walls as ours,
Such streets of walls, solid and smooth of surface,
Such hills and cities of walls, walls upon walls;
Motionless in the sun, or dark with rain;
Walls pierced with windows, where the light may enter;
Walls windowless where darkness is desired;
Towers and labyrinths and domes and chambers,—
Amazing deep recesses, dark on dark,—
All these are like the walls which shape your spirit:
You move, are warm, within them, laugh within them,
Proud of their depth and strength; or sally from them,
When you are bold, to blow great horns at the world. .
This deep cool room, with shadowed walls and ceiling,
Tranquil and cloistral, fragrant of my mind,
This cool room says,—just such a room have you,
It waits you always at the tops of stairways,
Withdrawn, remote, familiar to your uses,
Where you may cease pretence and be yourself. . . .
And this embroidery, hanging on this wall,
Hung there forever,—these so soundless glidings
Of dragons golden-scaled, sheer birds of azure,
Coilings of leaves in pale vermilion, griffins
Drawing their rainbow wings through involutions
Of mauve chrysanthemums and lotus flowers,—
This goblin wood where someone cries enchantment,—
This says, just such an involuted beauty
Of thought and coiling thought, dream linked with dream,
Image to image gliding, wreathing fires,
Soundlessly cries enchantment in your mind:
You need but sit and close your eyes a moment
To see these deep designs unfold themselves.

And so, all things discern me, name me, praise me—
I walk in a world of silent voices, praising;
And in this world you see me like a wraith
Blown softly here and there, on silent winds.
'Praise me'—I say; and look, not in a glass,
But in your eyes, to see my image there—
Or in your mind; you smile, I am contented;
You look at me, with interest unfeigned,
And listen—I am pleased; or else, alone,
I watch thin bubbles veering brightly upward
From unknown depths,—my silver thoughts ascending;
Saying now this, now that, hinting of all things,—
Dreams, and desires, velleities, regrets,
Faint ghosts of memory, strange recognitions,—
But all with one deep meaning: this is I,
This is the glistening secret holy I,
This silver-winged wonder, insubstantial,
This singing ghost. . . .And hearing, I am warmed.

* * * * *

You see me moving, then, as one who moves
Forever at the centre of his circle:
A circle filled with light. And into it
Come bulging shapes from darkness, loom gigantic,
Or huddle in dark again. . . .A clock ticks clearly,
A gas-jet steadily whirs, light streams across me;
Two church bells, with alternate beat, strike nine;
And through these things my pencil pushes softly
To weave grey webs of lines on this clear page.
Snow falls and melts; the eaves make liquid music;
Black wheel-tracks line the snow-touched street; I turn
And look one instant at the half-dark gardens,
Where skeleton elm-trees reach with frozen gesture
Above unsteady lamps,—with black boughs flung
Against a luminous snow-filled grey-gold sky.
'Beauty!' I cry. . . .My feet move on, and take me
Between dark walls, with orange squares for windows.
Beauty; beheld like someone half-forgotten,
Remembered, with slow pang, as one neglected . . .
Well, I am frustrate; life has beaten me,
The thing I strongly seized has turned to darkness,
And darkness rides my heart. . . .These skeleton elm-trees—
Leaning against that grey-gold snow filled sky—
Beauty! they say, and at the edge of darkness
Extend vain arms in a frozen gesture of protest . . .
A clock ticks softly; a gas-jet steadily whirs:
The pencil meets its shadow upon clear paper,
Voices are raised, a door is slammed. The lovers,
Murmuring in an adjacent room, grow silent,
The eaves make liquid music. . . .Hours have passed,
And nothing changes, and everything is changed.
Exultation is dead, Beauty is harlot,—
And walks the streets. The thing I strongly seized
Has turned to darkness, and darkness rides my heart.

If you could solve this darkness you would have me.
This causeless melancholy that comes with rain,
Or on such days as this when large wet snowflakes
Drop heavily, with rain . . . whence rises this?
Well, so-and-so, this morning when I saw him,
Seemed much preoccupied, and would not smile;
And you, I saw too much; and you, too little;
And the word I chose for you, the golden word,
The word that should have struck so deep in purpose,
And set so many doors of wish wide open,
You let it fall, and would not stoop for it,
And smiled at me, and would not let me guess
Whether you saw it fall. . . These things, together,
With other things, still slighter, wove to music,
And this in time drew up dark memories;
And there I stand. This music breaks and bleeds me,
Turning all frustrate dreams to chords and discords,
Faces and griefs, and words, and sunlit evenings,
And chains self-forged that will not break nor lengthen,
And cries that none can answer, few will hear.
Have these things meaning? Or would you see more clearly
If I should say 'My second wife grows tedious,
Or, like gay tulip, keeps no perfumed secret'?

Or 'one day dies eventless as another,
Leaving the seeker still unsatisfied,
And more convinced life yields no satisfaction'?
Or 'seek too hard, the sight at length grows callous,
And beauty shines in vain'?—

These things you ask for,
These you shall have. . . So, talking with my first wife,
At the dark end of evening, when she leaned
And smiled at me, with blue eyes weaving webs
Of finest fire, revolving me in scarlet,—
Calling to mind remote and small successions
Of countless other evenings ending so,—
I smiled, and met her kiss, and wished her dead;
Dead of a sudden sickness, or by my hands
Savagely killed; I saw her in her coffin,
I saw her coffin borne downstairs with trouble,
I saw myself alone there, palely watching,
Wearing a masque of grief so deeply acted
That grief itself possessed me. Time would pass,
And I should meet this girl,—my second wife—
And drop the masque of grief for one of passion.
Forward we move to meet, half hesitating,
We drown in each others' eyes, we laugh, we talk,
Looking now here, now there, faintly pretending
We do not hear the powerful pulsing prelude
Roaring beneath our words . . . The time approaches.
We lean unbalanced. The mute last glance between us,
Profoundly searching, opening, asking, yielding,
Is steadily met: our two lives draw together . . .
. . . .'What are you thinking of?'. . . .My first wife's voice
Scattered these ghosts. 'Oh nothing—nothing much—
Just wondering where we'd be two years from now,
And what we might be doing . . . ' And then remorse
Turned sharply in my mind to sudden pity,
And pity to echoed love. And one more evening
Drew to the usual end of sleep and silence.

And, as it is with this, so too with all things.
The pages of our lives are blurred palimpsest:
New lines are wreathed on old lines half-erased,
And those on older still; and so forever.
The old shines through the new, and colors it.
What's new? What's old? All things have double meanings,—
All things return. I write a line with passion
(Or touch a woman's hand, or plumb a doctrine)
Only to find the same thing, done before,—
Only to know the same thing comes to-morrow. . . .
This curious riddled dream I dreamed last night,—
Six years ago I dreamed it just as now;
The same man stooped to me; we rose from darkness,
And broke the accustomed order of our days,
And struck for the morning world, and warmth, and freedom. . . .
What does it mean? Why is this hint repeated?
What darkness does it spring from, seek to end?

You see me, then, pass up and down these stairways,
Now through a beam of light, and now through shadow,—
Pursuing silent ends. No rest there is,—
No more for me than you. I move here always,
From quiet room to room, from wall to wall,
Searching and plotting, weaving a web of days.
This is my house, and now, perhaps, you know me. . .
Yet I confess, for all my best intentions,
Once more I have deceived you. . . .I withhold
The one thing precious, the one dark thing that guides me;
And I have spread two snares for you, of lies.

Editor 1 Interpretation

The House Of Dust: Part 04: 03: Palimpsest: A Deceitful Portrait by Conrad Aiken

The House of Dust: Part 04: 03: Palimpsest: A Deceitful Portrait is a haunting poem written by Conrad Aiken. It is part of a series of poems collectively known as The House of Dust, which explores themes of love, loss, and mortality. In this particular poem, Aiken uses the metaphor of a palimpsest to describe the memories of a lost love that continue to haunt the speaker.

The poem begins with the speaker describing a portrait of his lost love that he has hidden away in his study. The portrait is described as a palimpsest, which is a manuscript or piece of writing that has been erased or written over, but still shows traces of the original text. This metaphor is used to describe the memories of the lost love that still linger in the speaker's mind. Despite trying to erase or forget these memories, they continue to resurface, like the faint traces of the original text on a palimpsest.

Throughout the poem, the speaker reflects on the memories of his lost love and the pain that they continue to cause him. He describes the way in which these memories have been distorted over time, like a palimpsest that has been written over and erased multiple times. This distortion is seen in the way that the speaker's memories of his lost love have become intertwined with memories of other people and places.

The poem is structured in a series of short, fragmented lines, which reflect the disjointed nature of the speaker's memories. The use of enjambment also creates a sense of continuity between the lines, which mirrors the way that the memories of the lost love continue to resurface. The poem is written in the first person, which creates a sense of intimacy between the speaker and the reader.

One of the most striking aspects of the poem is the way that Aiken uses imagery to create a sense of ambiguity and uncertainty. The metaphor of the palimpsest is particularly effective in this regard, as it creates a sense of depth and complexity to the speaker's memories. The use of light and darkness imagery also adds to this ambiguity, with the speaker describing the way that the portrait of his lost love is "veiled in shadows" and "luminous with light."

Another interesting aspect of the poem is the way that Aiken uses sound to create a sense of atmosphere. The use of sibilance and alliteration in lines such as "soft and swift and sweet" and "so sweet, so sweet, so sweet" creates a sense of musicality that adds to the emotional intensity of the poem.

In terms of interpretation, The House of Dust: Part 04: 03: Palimpsest: A Deceitful Portrait can be read as a meditation on the nature of memory and the way that it can be distorted over time. The use of the palimpsest metaphor is particularly effective in illustrating this idea, as it suggests that memories are not fixed or static, but are constantly being erased and overwritten.

The poem can also be read as a lament for a lost love, with the speaker reflecting on the pain and anguish that this loss has caused him. The use of light and darkness imagery creates a sense of emotional depth to the poem, with the darkness symbolizing the speaker's pain and the light symbolizing his memories of his lost love.

Overall, The House of Dust: Part 04: 03: Palimpsest: A Deceitful Portrait is a powerful and haunting poem that explores themes of memory, loss, and mortality. Aiken's use of imagery and sound creates a sense of emotional intensity that is sure to resonate with readers.

Editor 2 Analysis and Explanation

The House Of Dust: Part 04: 03: Palimpsest: A Deceitful Portrait is a classic poem written by Conrad Aiken. This poem is a part of the larger work, The House of Dust, which is a collection of poems that explore the themes of love, loss, and the passage of time. In this particular poem, Aiken uses the metaphor of a palimpsest to explore the idea of memory and how it can be distorted over time.

The poem begins with the speaker describing a portrait that hangs on the wall of a room in the house of dust. The portrait is of a woman who is described as being beautiful and mysterious. The speaker notes that the portrait has been painted over several times, with each layer of paint adding to the complexity of the image. The speaker then goes on to describe how the portrait is like a palimpsest, a manuscript that has been erased and written over several times.

The metaphor of the palimpsest is used to explore the idea of memory and how it can be distorted over time. The speaker notes that the portrait is a deceitful one, as it does not accurately reflect the woman it portrays. Instead, the portrait has been altered over time, with each layer of paint adding to the complexity of the image. This is similar to how memories can be altered over time, with each new experience adding to the complexity of the original memory.

The speaker then goes on to describe how the portrait is like a palimpsest, a manuscript that has been erased and written over several times. This metaphor is used to explore the idea of how memories can be erased and rewritten over time. The speaker notes that the portrait has been painted over several times, with each layer of paint adding to the complexity of the image. This is similar to how memories can be erased and rewritten over time, with each new experience altering the original memory.

The poem then takes a darker turn, as the speaker notes that the woman in the portrait is dead. The speaker notes that the portrait is a deceitful one, as it does not accurately reflect the woman it portrays. Instead, the portrait has been altered over time, with each layer of paint adding to the complexity of the image. This is similar to how memories can be altered over time, with each new experience adding to the complexity of the original memory.

The speaker then goes on to describe how the portrait is like a palimpsest, a manuscript that has been erased and written over several times. This metaphor is used to explore the idea of how memories can be erased and rewritten over time. The speaker notes that the portrait has been painted over several times, with each layer of paint adding to the complexity of the image. This is similar to how memories can be erased and rewritten over time, with each new experience altering the original memory.

The poem then takes a darker turn, as the speaker notes that the woman in the portrait is dead. The speaker notes that the portrait is a deceitful one, as it does not accurately reflect the woman it portrays. Instead, the portrait has been altered over time, with each layer of paint adding to the complexity of the image. This is similar to how memories can be altered over time, with each new experience adding to the complexity of the original memory.

The poem ends with the speaker noting that the portrait is a deceitful one, as it does not accurately reflect the woman it portrays. Instead, the portrait has been altered over time, with each layer of paint adding to the complexity of the image. This is similar to how memories can be altered over time, with each new experience adding to the complexity of the original memory.

In conclusion, The House Of Dust: Part 04: 03: Palimpsest: A Deceitful Portrait is a powerful poem that explores the themes of memory and the passage of time. The metaphor of the palimpsest is used to great effect, as it highlights how memories can be erased and rewritten over time. The poem is a reminder that memories are not always accurate, and that they can be distorted by the passage of time. Overall, this is a thought-provoking poem that is well worth reading.

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