Repetitio Mater Studiorum

on repetition in the study of art

In school with my children we study one poet or poetry collection every term, reading from them every day for twelve weeks, and formally memorizing one or two of them as we go. The way we structure this is each of us who are old enough to do so (currently me, the seven year old, the five year old, and the three year old), look through the book and choose one poem for me to read aloud that day. We simply read the four chosen poems, one after another, and then continue on with our other school work. While we memorize a set selection of poems formally, often the children latch on to one or two poems in the collection, and end up choosing and reading them so often that we all inadvertently memorize them as well.

This past Michaelmas term we were studying the poems of Walter de la Mare. Almost immediately the children fell in love with the poem The Pedlar, and over the course of the next twelve weeks I probably read that poem at least three of every five school days. It’s a rather long poem to read aloud, seven stanzas of ten lines each. On the face of it, it tells a simple story. “There came a Pedlar to an evening house; sweet Lettice, from her lattice looking down, Wondered what man he was, so curious…” He offers her sweets and trinkets, yet she remembers the warning she hs been given not to trust a flatterer from outside. She wants to turn away, but even more she longs to take one bite of one of the delicious treats. The woodland animals, one by one, beg her not to trust the man, not to give in, but his honeyed words are so tempting and sweet, and he asks simply one lock of hair in payment, that in the end she cuts the lock of hair and gives it to him for a bite. The poem then ends the way you might expect. “O sad the sound of weeping in the wood! Now only night is where the pedlar was.” And alas, as a warning to us all, “O people! hasten, hasten, do not buy his woeful wares; the bird of grief doth brood there where his heart should be; and far away dew lies on grave-flowers this selfsame day.”

A simple little story, I thought at first. By the fifth read-through I was getting bored. “This one again?” I’d think to myself. By the tenth I started getting interested again. As with many fairy stories, more is going on here than meets the eye. First of all, there are the many recognizable motif from other stories: Eve and the serpent and the forbidden fruit. Snow White and the poisoned apple and the friendly woodland animals. The classic prohibition or warning that is not heeded. The golden lock of hair as a token of affection. A timeless story, that works on many levels besides just the literal. I began to notice more sinister interpretations as well. The pedlar comes at night to an empty house and unsuspecting maiden, who gives him a piece of herself symbolizing her love, for one forbidden pleasure, thinking it will be of no harm, but bringing to her only a broken heart and death. There are many metaphorical interpretations that are on offer here.

We continued reading it every day. I began to memorize huge chunks of it without trying. I began repeating lines of it in my head at random times during the day. I began to look forward with delight to hearing my three year old say “The Pedwar” in her little, high pitched voice, as she pointed to the page. Slowly, without realizing it, a poem that I found merely okay at first read through became a poem I love and know by heart, that actively lives in my memory and thoughts. And isn’t that such a testament to the power of repetition? As the Latin proverb tells us, repetition is the mother of learning. This is true not just for languages and math, but also for art. We often need more than one encounter with a specific work of art in order to learn it and love it. We need time to plumb its depths. We need time to notice its subtleties. We need time to fall in love with it. Perhaps, if you feel like you don’t quite “get” poetry, all you need to do is read the same good poem over and over and over again, and see the new things you start to notice. Repetition is the mother of learning, after all. Even of learning to love.

The Pedlar by Walter de la Mare

There came a Pedlar to an evening house;
     Sweet Lettice, from her lattice looking down,
     Wondered what man he was, so curious
     His black hair dangled on his tattered gown:
     Then lifts he up his face, with glittering eyes, -
     'What will you buy, sweetheart? - Here's honeycomb,
     And mottled pippins, and sweet mulberry pies,
     Comfits and peaches, snowy cherry bloom,
     To keep in water for to make night sweet:
     All that you want, sweetheart, - come, taste and eat!'

     Ev'n with his sugared words, returned to her
     The clear remembrance of a gentle voice: -
     'And O! my child, should ever a flatterer
     Tap with his wares, and promise of all joys
     And vain sweet pleasures that on earth may be;
     Seal up your ears, sing some old happy song,
     Confuse his magic who is all mockery:
     His sweets are death.' Yet, still, how she doth long
     But just to taste, then shut the lattice tight,
     And hide her eyes from the delicious sight!

     'What must I pay?' she whispered. 'Pay!' says he,
     'Pedlar I am who through this wood do roam,
     One lock of hair is gold enough for me,
     For apple, peach, comfit, or honeycomb!'
     But from her bough a drowsy squirrel cried,
     'Trust him not, Lettice, trust, oh trust him not!'
     And many another woodland tongue beside
     Rose softly in the silence - 'Trust him not!'
     Then cried the Pedlar in a bitter voice,
     'What, in the thicket, is this idle noise?'

     A late, harsh blackbird smote him with her wings,
     As through the glade, dark in the dim, she flew;
     Yet still the Pedlar his old burden sings, -
     'What, pretty sweetheart, shall I show to you?
     Here's orange ribands, here's a string of pearls,
     Here's silk of buttercup and pansy glove,
     A pin of tortoiseshell for windy curls,
     A box of silver, scented sweet with clove:
     Come now,' he says, with dim and lifted face,
     'I pass not often such a lonely place.'

     'Pluck not a hair!' a hidden rabbit cried,
     'With but one hair he'll steal thy heart away,
     Then only sorrow shall thy lattice hide:
     Go in! all honest pedlars come by day.'
     There was dead silence in the drowsy wood;
     'Here's syrup for to lull sweet maids to sleep;
     And bells for dreams, and fairy wine and food
     All day thy heart in happiness to keep'; -
     And now she takes the scissors on her thumb, -
     'O, then, no more unto my lattice come!'

     O sad the sound of weeping in the wood!
     Now only night is where the Pedlar was;
     And bleak as frost upon a too-sweet bud
     His magic steals in darkness, O alas!
     Why all the summer doth sweet Lettice pine?
     And, ere the wheat is ripe, why lies her gold
     Hid 'neath fresh new-pluckt sprigs of eglantine?
     Why all the morning hath the cuckoo tolled,
     Sad to and fro in green and secret ways,
     With lonely bells the burden of his days?

     And, in the market-place, what man is this
     Who wears a loop of gold upon his breast,
     Stuck heartwise; and whose glassy flatteries
     Take all the townsfolk ere they go to rest
     Who come to buy and gossip? Doth his eye
     Remember a face lovely in a wood?
     O people! hasten, hasten, do not buy
     His woful wares; the bird of grief doth brood
     There where his heart should be; and far away
     Dew lies on grave-flowers this selfsame day!