Faeries & Sylphs in Wessex: the writing of John Cowper Powys

John Cowper Powys, author

Today, the name of writer John Cowper Powys (1872-1963) will be unfamiliar to most people. He was, nevertheless, a prolific writer of novels and poetry and was (and is) highly regarded by those who know his work. Part of his fall from favour may be related to the fact that none of his novels seem to be under 500 pages in length (although that’s never been a problem with Tolkien…)

The landscape, history and mythology of Wessex are at the centre of much of Powys’ work (despite his Welsh-ness). The supernatural penetrated his thinking and, even, his everyday life. Powys was inspired by Thomas Hardy’s Wessex (the counties of Dorset, Somerset and western Hampshire) and he celebrated the region’s inherent mystery and antiquity- for example, one of his novels is Maiden Castle (1936), named after the Iron Age hillfort south of Dorchester. In the novel, this site is where is the character Uryen tries to raise the ancient gods. The fort is huge and impressive and has inspired other artists- for example, composer John Ireland‘s 1921 orchestral work Mai Dun and photographs and paintings by Paul Nash. The latter called the fort “the largest and most perfect earthwork in the world. To say it is the finest in Dorset is, perhaps, enough, for in no part of any country, I believe – not even in Wiltshire, where Avebury stands – can be found so complete a sequence of hill architecture…” He sensed its powerful aura too- its unsettling spirit of place- “Its presence to-day, after the immense passage of time, is miraculously undisturbed; the huge contours strike awe into even the most vulgar mind; the impervious nitwits who climbed on to the monoliths of Stonehenge to be photographed, slink out of the shadow of the Maiden uneasily.”

Paul Nash, Maiden Castle, 1943

Returning to John Cowper Powys, the author had a highly intimate relationship with faery-lore. Admittedly, he wrote a good deal of poetry that was very conventional in its approach. For example, in To Thomas Hardy he described how “fairy fingers ring the flowery bells,” he demanded in On the Downs- “Squeeze out the cowslip wine, O fairy hands!” and in To W B Yeats he imagined a time “when woods were free/ To elfin feet and fairy minstrelsy.”

In these poems Powys’ fairies are the very familiar faes of late Victorian verse: they are tiny, winged and frail (he addresses a straw blown in the wind as a “wandering elf”- although this image also brings to mind the habit of Highland Scottish fairies of travelling in small whirlwinds). The fae beings of Powys’ verse care for nature (clearing slugs and snails from blackthorn leaves in Fairies’ Song) and they are both inspiration and illusion.

However, there was a deeper and more powerful undercurrent in his verse. In his Autobiography, published in 1934, Powys described Wordsworth’s “cerebral mystical passion for young women.” He saw this as being intimately bound up with the Romantic poet’s abnormally sensual sensitivity to the elements and, Powys declared, Wordsworth wanted his girls to be “elemental.”

Elsewhere in the same book, Powys confessed to being a “nympholept or sylpholept” himself. He was powerfully attracted to slim, sylph-like young females and he was perfectly open in his books about this “erotic obsession.” His ideal sylph had long, slender thighs, narrow boyish hips and “ankles of ravishing perfection”- “as fragile as wild anemones.” Sylphs are, of course, the elemental beings of the air who form part of the mythology of Paracelsus. For Powys, these faery beings were a constant source of desire and distraction. His poem Blasphemy is addressed to a “fairy form [and] flower-like face” with “piteous tender breast.” He asks her “Why did you come with your childish grace/ And trouble my heart’s rest?” A verse written To my friends curses them because they “have driven the fairies far away/ Lest their white limbs should hide the heavenly crown.” For Powys, the fairies truly were succubi or lhiannan shee, supernatural lovers who haunted and possessed their human lovers.

This desire for thin nymphets is entwined with Powys’ perception that the great god Pan and all his retinue are still present and active in the world. A poem about Montacute House in Somerset assures us that “Here, undisturbed may dusky Dryads dream/ That Pan with all his music haunteth still…” Of course, Pan is alive still in Arcadia in Greece as well: his pipes are heard by all that heed, for “the beautiful must always last/ Secure from change” (Odi Profanum). For Powys, Pan is the god of lusty passion for nymphs (indeed, in his poem The Truth? he called on people to drop their masks and to admit that they were all, really, “satyrs shamelessly/ Goblins, Imps and Elves”). At the same time, though, Pan is also the deity of the natural world, found in plants, clouds and waters, driving life and fertility in everything.

One thought on “Faeries & Sylphs in Wessex: the writing of John Cowper Powys

  1. Reblogged this on johnkruseblog and commented:
    Here I reblog a posting from my site ‘British Fairies.’ John Cowper Powys was (from our modern perspective) shockingly open about his sexual preferences. He described himself as a ‘nympholept’ (a man under the spell of nymphs, much like others- such as Byron- before him) and his novels (as well as his verse) are full of the evidence of this.

    Powys literally described several young women, the subjects of love interest in his novels, as ‘nymphs’ or ‘elfin sylphs.’ He also compared these girls to various Greek goddesses- “the delicate Artemis-like beauty of her young breasts” (‘Wolf Solent, 1929, 89) and, in 1933’s ‘Glastonbury Romance,’ a main character is named Persephone, whose slender waist, hips and ankles are the subject of frequent commentary.

    Since Nabokov’s ‘Lolita,’ the equivalence of ‘nymphet’ and young female has become well-established. It was, perhaps, not so widely known (except to those with some familiarity with the classics) before that publication, but the association is inescapable if you analyse Powys’ books from the 1920s and ’30s. The nymph and sylph-like traits that attract him are repeated in novel after novel: a neck “as slender as a flower stalk” (‘Maiden Castle, 1937, 250); “provocatively slender girls” and “the maddening slenderness and softness of Perdita’s body… [with] the extreme littleness of her wrists.” (‘Weymouth Sands’ 1934 223 & 164); “narrow boyish hips” and “flat boy’s breasts” in ‘Glastonbury Romance’, 637 & 536; “a slender little figure… [with] touchingly thin legs” (Wolf Solent, 232).

    All in all, then, Powys was consistently frank about his ideal: a “slight and girlish” or “slender and virginal” body, “the softness of her childish figure that made it different from what a boy’s would have been.” In other words, he liked to look at younger teens rather than more mature women. Few authors would dare to be so frank today, but- after much suffering and struggle- Powys had come to terms with his “vices,” which, he readily confessed, included sadism, voyeurism and a “congenital nympholepsy.” In his work he was accepting and tolerant of a wide range of sexual preferences including gay attraction (which he shared himself) and- even- incest. His ‘sylpholepsy’ (as he also termed it) was something he had tried to escape but could not renounce or deny. Powys had to accept and live with his obsession with “slender Sylphid forms, forms with little oval heads, hips like those of delicate boys and with ankles as fragile as wild anemones.” It was innate, it was part of his nature, and he could not be ashamed of it.

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