A Literary Page or Two

Darcy Cresswell's latest book, “Present Without Leave” (Cassells, London) is a most important addition to our New Zealand literature. It is real literature, a refreshing departure from modern styles and methods, and the story of a New Zealander who, because of his unique personality and his talk, has won the favour and the company of many of the writers and thinkers of note of the England of the past decade. That he has done this on his own personality and with a slender purse tells us that Cresswell is certainly a man of unusual culture and character. That he also attained this self-confessed object by an equally self-confessed system of delightful vagabondage is the very fact that makes “Present Without Leave” such interesting reading.

Cresswell's “Poets Progress,” of which the book under notice is a continuation, was published in 1930 and met with a fair measure of success. Both books are written in an archaic style reminiscent of Bunyan or Defoe and are autobiographical. They relate Cresswell's quest after greatness in the world of literature and of his unassailable belief in his poetry. In “Present Without Leave” Cresswell relates how his father offers him land and money, but he disdains such material things and with a modest allowance from his presumably disgusted parent sets forth for England, signing on a vessel as a humble seaman. But before he departs, Cresswell has caustic and sometimes outrageous comments to make about New Zealanders and of their alleged gross materialism. Readers will not take him seriously in this because they will have realised that he is a poet of the most improvident and unpractical order. We are convinced though of Cresswell's belief in his pen and in his own strange Providence—that guides him apparently per medium of dreams and omens.

After many adventures and quaint dealings with characters of the lesser world, and like Ernest Dowson and other egregious poets (Cresswell has a queer urge and a queer liking for strange and possibly uncouth people) our poet arrives in England. Here he prowls about the countryside selling his poems from door to door and sleeping in dosshouses. His meeting with William Rothenstein gives him an entry to the literary elect and to the titled ladies and gentlemen. Here we realise that Cresswell has that spark that kindles greatness. He is sponsored by Arnold Bennett, has his “Poets Progress” published, assists Rothenstein in the writing of “Men and Memories,” is advanced a substantial sum to produce an anthology of verse, meets Eric Gill, Sir Edward Marsh, H. G. Wells (with whom he turns somersaults on the lawn) and many other notabilities. You may ask how our errant poet finances himself in such select and presumably expensive company. Mostly through money given to him or lent to him by his friends. Obviously then Cresswell is without any mercenary pride, though his pride in his poetic mission is terrific. We forgive him much because of his delightful candour.

“Present Without Leave” will live in New Zealand literature long after many other New Zealand books are forgotten. It is real literature and an autobiography of considerable interest. Although one is left with a suspicion that Cresswell is writing with his tongue in his cheek and is adventuring at the expense of his friends, we will freely forgive this lovable vagabond because of the unique literary dish he has compounded for our delectation.