The third in the line of Victoria College's notable poets, Eric ("Sam") Palmer, died in February, 1927, having had but a bare avarter of a century in which to develop and express his talents. As a boy of twelve he had written fairy plays to be acted by his sisters and friends; all through his secondary school life he had intermittently demonstrated his creative ability; but it was not till he had graced this College's portals that he produced consistently poems, poetic drama and sketches in any abundance. He had reached a new level during 1925 with "The Black Ship." The next year was so occupied in studying for honours in modern languages that the major call of his life—poetry—was relatively neglected. At the conclusion of his examination period he had sufficient leisure to fulfil his ambition to write. In a letter to me just previous to his death he wrote: "At last I have no more swot to do and I can devote all my time to writing." This became the dominant note of his life—the promised fulfilment of his hopes—freedom from fettering examinations.

It is all the more a tragedy in the light of this last letter that, whilst tramping on the slopes of Ben More the following week, he should have lost his way, become embedded in a shingle slide, and have died of exposure before the numerous search parties discovered him. All that had been written up to that date was the introduction to the unwritten work. During 1925 I had seen numbers of briefly sketched synopsis of plots for future reference that Sam had scribbled into exercise books at the moment of inspiration. There were dozens of these embryo ideas waiting leisure for their fruition. Some were sketches of one act plays, others of full length dramas, some of long poems of an epic nature—all were, to my mind at any rate, ideas more worthy than anything he had actually developed. What would have come out of these plots in the years following 1927 can only be conjectured; but I feel that, in the light of what has been written, there would have been given to this country some of its purest poetry, and to the world some of its greatest poetic drama.

It is not exaggeration for me to say that I knew Sam better than anybody. We were at Training College together constantly for two years, and during most of the second year we lived together, sleeping side by side in a very small room. As our conversation tended to be monologues, with me as audience, I learned the inmost secrets of his mind. We spent innumerable hours on the beaches round Wellington, with Sam baring his mind to me, telling me what he hoped to do, whence came his inspiration, what he thought of people and things, poetry, and music. Most vividly I remember our walking one Sunday from Seatoun, where both our parents lived, round the coast to Lyall Bay, and there, after a swim and lunch, a long discourse, in which Wagner and Heine, Beethoven and Goethe, Handel and Shakespeare were the major themes and a host of lesser beings the minor. My part, I must confess, was that of listener. Later, as always, we discussed his own works. It was on this occasion he told me of the vivid way his characters lived for him. He had not long finished "The Black Ship." The chief character in this drama of 10th century Norway is Gerda, a magnificent woman, half Viking, half Latin, who dominates the whole play with her presence and personality. I thought she was by far the best character till that time created by my friend, and at Lyall Bay on that afternoon I told him so. "Yes," he replied, "she was so real I used to walk with her and see her with me always." This sudden revelation solved for me the puzzle of his peculiarly preoccupied expression and his mortalessness. He was not, as most people thought, dreaming, but living with his created people rather than with we poor real ones. Sam enjoyed company; loved tramping and football; but always his true companionship was with his "own" people, his personally created friends.

Before briefly outlining Palmer's work it is necessary to explain the source of his inspiration. Unlike most of his contemporaries, who look on the modern social fabric as their chief fountainhead of inspiration, Palmer read widely in the literatures of Europe, studied other manners and times, synthesised these and produced his own works. In order to study European ideas he became a proficient reader of French, German, Spanish and Italian, being as conversant with great poetry plays and novels in these languages page 36 as he was with our own English. Literatures whose vernacular he had not acquired, such as Russian and Scandinavian, were studied in translation. Thus through a deep study of the writings of the world's greatest men Palmer gained his own technique and knowledge. I have always felt that much was lost by his neglect of the world as it is to-day, by his ignorance, as it undoubtedly was, of the common doings and thoughts of his daily companions. There is something too "booky" about his characters; often they are without feeling; they lack humour, they make love in a wordy, unnatural way. The love scene in "The Ghost of the Years" is poetically complete but emotionally empty; the lovers talk about being in love without at any time conveying the impression that they are in love. But perhaps these imperfections would have been eliminated as the years advanced and Palmer came more in contact with the ordinary Philistines of the social round.

Based then on his extensive and intensive knowledge of European literature, Palmer's first notable effort in his forte—poetic drama—was "Claire de Lune," completed in 1920. This is a long, rambling, poorly constructed romance of Mediaeval France, in which the heroine does not appear until the last act! Outside of the last act the play has no merit except that of industry and gives little promise of the future. Whilst this play was being written—it took some years to complete—Palmer was at secondary school, suffering under the iniquities of an educational system pampering the athletic and the mediocre. His difficulties with mathematics and the scorn of his ignorant compainions and form masters at his attempts at creative work forced an escape in modern language study and in reading. Not until his entry into Training College in 1924, whence he came after many vicissitudes in employment, did he find that sympathetic atmosphere so essential to poetic production. Here he wrote "The Syracusans" as a science project, taking the College by storm. Short poems, songs, one-act plays followed each other in rapid profusion. His stored up ideas burst forth.

Perhaps this account of the writing of one poem will illustrate the release that the new surroundings allowed him.

Sam and I were sitting together listening to a certain lecturer deliver his opinions regarding, let us say, the value and ways of teaching spelling to unresisting children. Suddenly Sam dug his elbows rather violently into my ribs and whispered, "I say, I've thought of it. Look!" And I sat dumbfounded watching the birth of a poem—there, as fast as it was possible for a human being to write, Sam wrote this fine poem, already published with "The Blind Crowder":—

Rome.

Scarlet of Toga, tawny face i' the sun,
Swift canter and loose rein, and heavy tread
Of bell-yoked oxen, and light paces sped
By the young slave-girl when her work is done—
All clangour that from morn to eve may run
Ere night the heat of living hath outsped
And laid her as a city of the dead—
A thousand-thousand hearts that beat as one—

Aloft, apart, bathed in the sunny air,
Light upon light of marble, snow on snow,
Palace and tower rise candid, pure and spare
In the hot morning; while the doves swoop low
In such simplicity, the very skies
Are wooed to silence, amorous of their eyes.

This burst of production gave us "Jacques Choiseul," a stirring play of the French peasant caught in the maelstrom of the Reign of Terror. After the first scene (a crowded palace garden), which never satisfied its author, this play, completed in 1924, is one marked by strong characterisation, forceful situations and poetic beauty. The leading character himself dazzled by his new environment is an outstanding study of conflicting emotions.

During the Christmas vacation, 1924-25, "The Black Ship" was written. The idea and the characters had been working themselves out in Palmer's mind for some years; he had written scenarios and scraps of the dialogue long before the whole task was undertaken. The sunshine of January, 1925, the relief from study; swimming, boating, tramping—all these helped to consummate his best ideas. Here we have the best characterisation and the truest form in all his works. Sigurd's struggle against his wife's wishes and his final identification with them is splendidly handled. Gerda has persuaded Sigurd to murder Harald in order to restore their fallen fortunes. Later the wrath of Harald's wife pursues the murderers. The changing emotions of Gerda from defiance to fear of the "Black Lady" is the main theme of the play. The interest is maintained through changing scenes until Gerda and page 37 Sigurd, constantly attempting to escape their fate, die high above a Norwegian Fjord.

This play was very favourably commented upon by John Masefield and Arthur Mee, to whom it was sent for criticism. The actual stage work is of the highest order, but on too lavish a scale for the modern theatre. Perhaps some day a New Zealand cast may read or act this fine play announcing to this country that it has bred at least one person of unusual brilliance in the field of poetic drama.

Following "The Black Ship" came several sketches and one-act plays, such as "The Blind Crowder," "The Peasant," "Nightfall" and "Caprice Vennois." All of these have poetic if not dramatic merit. They were all meant for the s age, but not the stage of to-day. They have not the elements that grip modern audiences and make box-office profits.

The setting of "The Ghost of the Years" is Renaissance Spain. The Bishop of Saragossa sees the world of his youth slipping away from him. There is arising a new youth, a new world. His attempt to arrest this change by interfering in his ward's romance fails. This signifies to him that he must abnegate his wishes and character in favour of the rising tide of ideas. Except in the handling of the love scenes this play is, to my mind, equal to "The Black Ship" in dramatic ability. The poetry is more mature, however, adding to the fluency of the dialogue.

Here Palmer's literary output of significance ceases. During 1926 he was far too occupied studying for Honours, and teaching children, to write more than scraps of verse. And just when he had earned the leisure to write extensively, he died. The loss to New Zealand's, and, indeed, the world's literature nobody can calculate. It is not what has been written so much as what would have been that we must consider when we remember Eric Lee Palmer.

M. R.