# Pharos and Pharillon/The Poetry of C. P. Cavafy

​Modern Alexandria is scarcely a city of the soul. Founded upon cotton with the concurrence of onions and eggs, ill built, ill planned, ill drained—many hard things can be said against it, and most Yet to some of them, are said by its inhabitants. Yet to some of them, as they traverse the streets, a delightful experience can occur. They hear their own name proclaimed in firm yet meditative accents—accents that seem not so much to expect an answer as to pay homage to the fact of individuality. They turn and see a Greek gentleman in a straw hat, standing absolutely motionless at a slight angle to the universe. His arms are extended, possibly. "Oh, Cavafy…!" Yes, it is Mr. Cavafy, and he is going either from his flat to the office, or from his office to the flat. If the former, he vanishes when seen, with a slight gesture of despair. If the latter, he may be prevailed upon to begin a sentence—an immense complicated yet shapely sentence, full of parentheses that never get mixed and of reservations that really do reserve; a sentence that moves with logic to its foreseen end, yet to an end that is always more vivid and thrilling than one foresaw. Sometimes the sentence is finished in the street, sometimes the traffic murders it, sometimes it lasts into the flat. ​It deals with the tricky behaviour of the Emperor Alexius Coninenus in 1096, or with olives, their possibilities and price, or with the fortunes of friends, or George Eliot, or the dialects of the interior of Asia Minor. It is delivered with equal ease in Greek, English, or French. And despite its intellectual richness and human outlook, despite the matured charity of its judgments, one feels that it too stands at a slight angle to the universe: it is the sentence of a poet.
Greek who wishes to compose poetry has a special problem; between his written and spoken language yawns a gulf. There is an artificial "literary" jargon by schoolmasters and journalists, which has tried to revive the classical tradition, and which only succeeds in being dull. And there is the speech of the people, varying from place to place, and everywhere stuffed with non-Hellenic constructions and words. Can this speech be used for poetry and for cultivated prose? The younger generation believes that it can. A society (Nea Zoe) was started in Alexandria to encourage it, and shocks the stodgy not only by its writings but by its vocabulary—expressions are used that one might actually hear in a shop. Similar movements are born and die all over the Levant, from Smyrna and Cyprus to Jannina, all testifying to the zeal of a race who, alone among the peoples of the Eastern Mediterranean, appear to possess the literary sense and to desire that words should be alive. Cavafy is one of the heroes of this movement, though not one of its extremists. Eclectic by nature, he sees that a new theory might be as sterile as the old, and that the final test must be ​the incommunicable one of taste. His own poems are in Demotic, but in moderate Demotic.
They are all short poems, and unrhymed, so that there is some hope of conveying them in a verbal translation. They reveal a beautiful and curious world. It comes into being through the world of experience, but it is not experience, for the poet is even more incapable than most people of seeing straight:
Here let me stand. Let me too look at Nature a little, the radiant blue of the morning sea, the cloudless sky and the yellow beach; all beautiful and flooded with light. Here let me stand. And let me deceive myself into thinking that I saw them— (I really did see them one moment, when first I came) —that I am not seeing, even here, my fancies, my memories, my visions of voluptuousness.
It is the world within. And since the poet cannot hope to escape from this world, he should at all costs arrange and rule it sensibly. "My mind to me a kingdom is," sang the Elizabethan, and so is Cavafy's; but his is a real, not a conventional, kingdom, in which there may be mutinies and war. In "The City" he sketches the tragedy of one who misgoverned, and who hopes to leave the chaos behind him and to "build another city, better than this." Useless!
The city shall ever follow you. In these same streets you shall wander, and in the same purlieux you shall roam, and in the same house you shall grow grey. . . . . no ship to take you to other lands, there is no road. You have so shattered your life here, in this small corner, that in all the world you have ruined it.
​And in "Ithaca" he sketches another and a nobler tragedy—that of a man who seeks loftily, and finds at the end that the goal has not been worth the effort. Such a man should not lament. He has not failed really.
Ithaca gave you your fair voyage. Without her you would not have ventured on the way, but she has no more to give you.
And if you find Ithaca a poor place, she has not mocked you.
You have become so wise, so full of experience, that you should understand by now what these Ithacas mean.
The above extracts illustrate one of Cavafy's moods—intensely subjective; scenery, cities and legends all re-emerge in terms of the mind. There is another mood in which he stands apart from his subject-matter, and with the detachment of an artist hammers it into shape. The historian comes to the front now, and it is interesting to note how different is his history from an Englisliman's. He even looks back upon a different Greece. Athens and Sparta, so drubbed into us at school, are to him two quarrelsome little slave states, ephemeral beside the Hellenistic kingdoms that followed them, just as these are ephemeral beside the secular empire of Constantinople. He reacts against the tyranny of Classicism—Pericles and Aspasia and Themistocles and all those bores. Alexandria, his birthplace, came into being just when Public School Greece decayed; kings, emperors, patriarchs have trodden the ground between his office and his flat; his literary ancestor—if he has one—is Callimachus, and his poems bear such titles as "The Displeasure of the Seleucid," "In the Month ​of Athyr," Manuel Comnenus," and are prefaced by quotations from Philostratus or Lucian.
Two of these poems shall be quoted in full, to illustrate his method. In the first he adopts the precise, almost mincing style of a chronicle to build up his effect. It is called "Alexandrian Kings" and deals with an episode of the reign of Cleopatra and Antony.
An Alexandrian crowd collected to see the sons of Cleopatra, Cæsarion and his little brothers Alexander and Ptolemy, who for the first time were brought to the Gymnasium, there to be crowned as kings amidst a splendid display of troops,
Alexander they named king of Armenia, of Media, and of the Parthians. Ptolemy they named king of Cilicia, of Syria, and Phœnicia. Cæsarion stood a little in front, clad in silk the colour of roses, with a bunch of hyacinths at his breast. His belt was a double line of sapphires and amethysts, his sandals were bound with white ribbons embroidered with rosy pearls. Him they acclaimed more than the small Him they named "King of Kings!"
The Alexandrians knew perfectly well that all this was words and empty pomp.
But the day was warm and exquisite, the sky clear and blue, the Gymnasium of Alexandria a triumph of art, the courtiers' apparel magnificent, Cæsarion full of grace and beauty of the Lagidas (son of Cleopatra, blood of the Lagidæ!),
and the Alexandrians ran to see the show and grew enthusiastic, and applauded in Greek, in Egyptian, and some in Hebrew, bewitched with the beautiful spectacle, though they knew perfectly well how worthless, what empty words, were these king-makings.
Such a poem has, even in a translation, a "distinguished" air. It is the work of an artist not interested in facile beauty. In the second example, though its subject-matter is pathetic, Cavafy stands equally aloof. The poem is broken into half-lines; he is spelling out an epitaph on a young man who died in the month of Athyr, the ancient Egyptian November, and he would convey the obscurity, the poignancy, that sometimes arise together out of the past, entwined into a single ghost:
It is hard to read . . . on the ancient stone. "Lord Jesus Christ" . . . I make out the word "Soul." "In the month of Athyr . . . Lucius fell asleep." His age is mentioned . . . "He lived years . . ."— The letters KZ show . . . that he fell asleep young. In the damaged part I see the words . . . "Him . . . Alexandrian." Then come three lines . . . much mutilated. But I can read a few words . . . perhaps "our tears" and "sorrows." And again: "Tears" . . . and: "for us his friends mourning." I think Lucius . . . was much beloved. In the month of Athyr . . . Lucius fell asleep . . .
Such a writer can never be popular. He flies both too slowly and too high. Whether subjective or objective, he is equally remote from the bustle of the moment, he will never compose either a Royalist or a Venizelist Hymn. He has the strength (and of course the limitations) of the recluse, who, though not afraid of the world, always stands at ​a slight angle to it, and, in conversation, he has sometimes devoted a sentence to this subject. Which is better—the world or seclusion? Cavafy, who has tried both, can't say. But so much is certain—either life entails courage, or it ceases to be life.