The Bridling of Pegasus Part 17

Then in early autumn they sing again, with more measure, more continence, let us say with more self-criticism and fastidiousness; and though the note may not be so boisterous, it is more mellow and mature.

No doubt Dante and Milton did not take this course, of deliberate purpose; with them, too, it was an instinct; but may we not suspect that poets would give themselves a better chance of writing works that posterity will not willingly let die, by observing a "close time," a season of summer silence between the April of the soul when sing they must, and the advent of the early autumn days, with auburn tints, meditative haze, and grave tranquil retrospects. Who shall say when the fruits of harvest-time begin to ripen? But this clearly one may affirm, that but for the summer months, when they seem almost to be stationary in colour, they would never ripen at all. We know, I think, as a fact, that Milton commenced writing _Paradise Lost_ some years before the restoration of the Monarchy, but no one can tell how much earlier still it was really commenced. Milton himself could not have told. The children of the Muse are conceived long before they quicken; and even a lyric, apparently born in a moment, was often begotten in the darkness and the silence of the days gone by. Works as colossal as the _Divine Comedy_ and _Paradise Lost_ have deep and distant foundations, and the n.o.blest pa.s.sages of human verse are the unpremeditated outpourings of men who are habitually plunged in meditation. The least serious reflection upon the subject, if coupled with any insight into the methods and operations of imaginative genius, will satisfy anybody that in the very midst of his political controversies and ecclesiastical polemics Milton was in reality already composing _Paradise Lost_. Dante never returned to Florence after he was exiled, and it was in banishment that he wrote the _Divina Commedia_. Yet the "Sa.s.so di Dante,"

the stone on which he used to sit, gazing intently at the Duomo and at Giotto's Campanile, is one of the sacred sights of the profane Tuscan city, and his townsmen had already learnt to speak of him as "One who had seen h.e.l.l." What enabled him to see it so clearly was his familiarity with the ways of men and the uncelestial politics of Florence. It was through Beatrice and the pa.s.sion of Love--_Amor, che il ciel governi_--that he gained access to Paradise, and a knowledge of those things of which he says:

... che ridire N sa n pu qual di la.s.s discende.

But the sadness of Purgatory, and the horrors of h.e.l.l, these he learned from the wrangles of Guelph and Ghibelline, of these he obtained mastery by being, in A.D. 1300, Priore of the fairest, but most mercurial of cities. We have the authority of Shakespeare, who ought to have been well informed on that subject, that the lover and the poet are of imagination all compact, and the brisk air of public policy is the best corrective for the disease of narrow intensity to which both alike are peculiarly subject.

There would be no difficulty, I think, in showing that all the greater men of letters of the eighteenth century were largely indebted for the literary success they attained to the vivid interest they displayed in public affairs. To mention Dryden, Swift, Pope, Addison is to conjure up before the mind chapter upon chapter of English political history. Pope says:

Tories call me Whig, and Whigs a Tory;

and not without some reason, for, like his friend Swift, he cared more for his own career than for either Party in the State. But no one can read the valuable notes appended by Mr. Courthorpe to his edition of the great satirist, without seeing how alive Pope was to the _quidquid agunt homines_ of his generation. As for Swift, he was for a time, as the writer of an admirable paper upon him in the _Quarterly Review_ a.s.serts, the political dictator of Ireland. When Gibbon betook himself to the task of writing that monumental work which, I find, many persons to-day declare to be unreadable, but which, I suspect, will be read when the most popular books of this generation are forgotten, he wisely retired to the studious quietude of Lausanne. But he narrates how the description of the tactics of Roman legions and the victories of Roman Proconsuls was rendered more facile and familiar to him by his previous experience as a Captain of Yeomanry at home, while even his brief tenure of a seat in the British Parliament enabled him to grasp with more alacrity and precision the legislative conduct of the Conscript Fathers.

In the nineteenth century which, despite its many privileges--not the least of which, perhaps, was that of being able to express a very high opinion of itself, without at the time being contradicted--enjoyed no immunity from the general laws of human nature, I think the proposition still holds good that men of letters who aspire to high distinction do well not to disdain altogether the politics of their time. I have already referred to Wordsworth, and ventured to suggest that he suffered in some degree, as a poet, from being nothing but a poet. Byron presents a marked contrast in this respect; and I am still of opinion, which I am comforted to find is shared by most persons who are men of the world, and by men of letters who are something more than men of letters, that Byron is, on the whole, the most considerable English poet since Milton. Art for Art's sake is a creed that has been embraced by too many critics of our time. Do we not find in this circ.u.mstance an explanation of their tendency to extol the quietistic and solitary poets, and, on the other hand, to depreciate the poets who deal with action and the more complex features of life? It is the business of poets to deal with the relation of the individual to himself, to the silent uniform forces of nature, and to other individuals, singly and collectively: in other words, to be dramatic or epic, as well as lyrical or idyllic. All poets of the first rank are both; yet the quietistic and purely introspective critics a.s.sign a place, and a prior place as a rule, in the front rank, to poets who are only second. I cannot think that conclusions reposing on such demonstrably unsound canons of criticism will permanently hold their ground. Byron contrived to crowd into a very short life a vast amount both of poetry and of public activity; acting upon his own recorded opinion that a man was sent into the world to do something more than to write poetry. A writer who, I fancy, belongs to the school, now happily becoming obsolete, whose verdict was that Byron's poetry, though good enough for Scott, Sh.e.l.ley, and Goethe, is only "the apotheosis of common-place," has recently expressed the opinion that "Byron would not have gone to Greece if he had not become tired of the Contessa Guiccioli." As far as she is concerned, I can only say, as one who knew her, and has many letters written by her on the subject of Byron, that if at any time she ever became indifferent to him, her affection for him experienced a marvellous revival. As for the suggestion that he went to Greece because he was tired of his companion, it surely was not necessary for a man to go to Greece to get rid of a woman of whom he was tired, and certainly Byron was not the man to consider the "world well lost" for a woman. But the letters he wrote to his "companion" from Greece attest that his affection for her was still not slight. In any case there is no necessity to cast about one for any reason to explain Byron's going to Greece, beyond the exceedingly simple one that he was a man of action as well as a poet. Had he lived, instead of dying, for Greece, I cannot doubt that English poetry would have reaped a yet more glorious harvest from him, thanks to his incidental experiences as a soldier and a statesman.

The theme is one that easily lends itself to ill.u.s.tration; but enough perhaps has been said to justify the conclusion that it is for the best and highest interests of literature that those who love it before all other things, and cherish it beyond all other considerations, should nevertheless take a large and liberal view of what const.i.tutes life, and should include in the excursions of their experience and in the survey of their contemplation what are called politics, or the business and interests of the State. I do not propose that they should be vestrymen, though I cannot forget that Shakespeare did not disdain to concern himself in the local business of Stratford-upon-Avon. For men of letters to be willing to interest themselves in politics, politics generally, must be interesting. The issues raised must be issues of moment and dignity, issues affecting the greatness of an Empire, the stability of a State, or the general welfare of humanity. In a country like our own, where Party Government prevails, it is not easy, indeed it is impossible, for a man of letters to interest himself in politics without inclining, through sympathy and conviction, to one Party in the State rather than to the other; and there are occasions, no doubt, when Party issues are synonymous with the greatness of the Empire, the stability of the State, and the welfare of mankind. But a wise man of letters will do well to stand more or less aloof from all smaller issues, and to avoid, as degrading to the character and lowering to the imagination, Party wrangles that are mere Party wrangles and nothing more.

There have been seasons in the history of the human race, melancholy seasons for the human mind, the "evil days" spoken of by Milton, when men of letters could not, with any self-respect, mix in politics. How much more highly we should think of Seneca if that literary Stoic had not been a minister of Nero. There was no room for a self-respecting man of letters in French politics during the reign of Napoleon I., none during the earlier years of the reign of Napoleon III., unless he happened to be a sincere admirer of a corrupt and brilliant despotism. There are despotisms that are corrupt, or what is equally bad, vulgar and servile, without being brilliant; and I am not alone in entertaining the fear lest unadulterated Democracy--that is to say, the pa.s.sions, interests, and power of a h.o.m.ogeneous majority, acting without any regard to the pa.s.sions and interests that exist outside of it, and purged of all respect for intellect that does not provide it with specious reasons and feed it with constant adulation--should inflict upon us a despotism under which, again, there will be no room in the domain of politics for men of letters who respect themselves. It is not the business of a man of letters to take his politics either from a Monarch or a Mob, or to push his fortunes--slightly to alter a celebrated phrase--by those services which demagogues render to crowds. If the love and pursuit of literature do not make a man more independent in character, more disinterested in his reasonings, more elevated in his views, they will not have done for him what I should have expected from them. That politicians pure and simple are becoming less imbued with the literary spirit is, I think, certain, and it is to be regretted, because polite Politics are almost as much to be desired as polite Literature, and should be little less imbued with the Horatian sentiment, _Emollit mores, nec sinit esse feros_. Many years ago I heard a prominent politician in the House of Commons reproach Disraeli, then Leader of the House, with servility to the Crown, for no other reason that I could see than that, in explaining certain communications that had pa.s.sed between the Queen and the Prime Minister, he had made use of the customary mode of speaking of the Sovereign. The imperturbability of Disraeli in debate under the strongest provocation was notoriously one of the secrets of his authority and influence. But it was plain on that occasion, when he rose to reply, that he had been irritated by the charge.

But how did he rebut it? "The right honourable gentleman," he said, "has been pleased to accuse me of servility to the Crown. Well, Sir, I appeal to gentlemen on both sides of the House, for they _are_ gentlemen on both sides of the House----" There was a sudden outburst of cheering. He did not finish the sentence, but turned away to another matter. Could there have been a more crus.h.i.+ng yet a more parliamentary and well-bred rebuke?

Mr. Gladstone did not possess the same quiet power of reproval. But his courtesy was uniformly faultless, even when he most indulged in indignant invective. It is told of Guizot, that, when President of the Council in France, on being interrupted by his opponents with unseemly clamour, he observed, "I do not think, gentlemen, the solution of the controversy will be a.s.sisted by shouting; and such clamour, however loud, will never reach the height of my disdain." One does not ask politicians to disarm; but they must use the rapier, not the tomahawk; and it is Literature, and Literature only, that can adequately teach them how to employ with ample effect the seemly weapons of debate. If politicians and even Monarchs are wise, they will respect Literature. After all, Literature has always the last word. "A hundred years hence," said a French poet to a rather saucy beauty, "you will be just as beautiful as I choose to say you were"; and the verses in which he said this have survived. Politicians whom Literature ignores are in the same position. If Literature ignores them they will be forgotten. If Literature condemns them they will stand condemned. But Literature, in turn, should be fair-minded and sincere, not disingenuous, not a partisan. It wields, in the long run, enormous power, and therefore has corresponding responsibilities. If the public taste in any direction, in politics, in letters, or any of the other Arts grows debased, and current critical opinion follows the debas.e.m.e.nt, Literature can only stand apart, or loftily reprehend them. Of all influences, Literature is the most patient, the most persistent, and the most enduring. Unfairness cannot long injure, malevolence cannot permanently damage or depreciate it; for, as I have said, Literature, lofty self-respecting Literature, always has the last word, the final hearing, political partisans.h.i.+p having no power over the final estimation in which it is held. At the beginning of the nineteenth century current Tory criticism strove to belittle men of letters who happened to be Liberals; and, since Toryism was then in the ascendant, it for a time, but only for a time, partially succeeded. In our day, and for some few years past, the influence of Liberalism has been visibly uppermost in current criticism, which has in turn done scant justice to men of letters suspected of holding different views. To the latter, as to the great Liberal poets and other men of letters in the earlier days of the nineteenth century, such patent partisans.h.i.+p can do no lasting injury.

Perhaps men of letters might themselves raise the standard of dispa.s.sionate criticism were they always fair to each other, and not, as I fear sometimes happens, be ungenerous to contemporaries, who for one reason or another are not much favoured by them. There is a curious pa.s.sage in the 11th Canto of the _Purgatorio_ of the _Divina Commedia_, where Dante recognises a certain Oderesi, and compliments him on the talent he showed when on earth as an illuminator or miniature painter.

Oderesi replies that Franco Bolognese was his superior in that art, but that from jealousy he had failed to allow as much, and adds

Di tal superbia qui si paga il fio:

meaning thereby that he was now undergoing punishment for his unworthy jealousy on earth.

Even those to whom an Inferno or Purgatorio is a sheer fiction may be reminded that Time's final court of appeal, when it readjusts balances falsely weighted in days gone by, will not fail to stigmatise those who once belittled what, had they been more candid, they would have better appreciated.

A CONVERSATION WITH SHAKESPEARE IN THE ELYSIAN FIELDS

I am aware that, in these days, when realism is all the rage and true imagination at a discount, people will ask how, not being either an neas or a Dante, I came to be admitted to an actual sight of the Elysian Fields, and will not be fobbed off by any fanciful explanation such as used to satisfy the more unsophisticated reader of former times. I therefore hasten to satisfy their exacting curiosity by saying that I happen to have done a good turn of late to the Pagan G.o.ds--not forgetting the G.o.ddesses, whom one should always have on one's side, since they hold the keys of the position equally on earth, in the air, and underground--and they made their acknowledgments to me by letting me know that I might have my choice of an interview with any one, but only one, of the personages among those who are now disporting themselves in the other world. At first, I was rather tempted to name Eve, in order that I might get an intelligible account from the most trustworthy source of the Tree of Knowledge and the Tree of Good and Evil. But I thought she perhaps would know as little about them as myself; so I thought I would ask for an interview, with either Helen of Troy or with Cleopatra, when it suddenly struck me that I should probably find both one and the other not very unlike women I had already come across here in this upper world. So, anxious to know whether or not there ever was a real flesh-and-blood Shakespeare, and explaining that, if there was not, I had not the smallest desire to have a talk with my Lord Verulam, I said, "Let me have a colloquy with Shakespeare, the wisest, sweetest, wittiest, largest-hearted, biggest-brained of human beings"; and, almost before I had finished the sentence, I found myself in the Elysian Fields.

At first, I forgot what I was there for at all, in my amazement at the place itself. Though I am a tolerably close observer of external Nature, I could not for the life of me surmise what season of the year I was in, and finally perceived that I was in all the four seasons at one and the same time. Primroses and bluebells were to be seen side by side with roses and irises, with meadowsweet and traveller's joy, gra.s.s ready for the scythe not far from swaying wheat and heavily-burred hop-garden; while, well within view, I could see slopes of virgin snow, and folks making ready to go tobogganing on them. It was just the same with bird-life. Stormc.o.c.k, nightingale, cuckoo, corncrake, woodp.e.c.k.e.r, robin redbreast, were all singing together, yet there was no discord in the concert.

"You want to see me, I am told," I heard some one say behind me, and, turning, I at once perceived that it was Shakespeare, not from the striking resemblance to any of the portraits or busts, Droeshout, Chandos, Stratford-on-Avon, or other effigy, but by his seeming to be compounded of them all, with something superadded that I could recall in none of them.

Similarly, he did not seem to be of any particular age, either of youth, early manhood, middle life, or yet elderly, but compounded of all the years, at once young and engaging, in the grand climacteric, and withal full of mellow wisdom. His eye glowed with fine frenzy, withal was tender and melting as that of a boy-lover. I could not fail to observe this extraordinary combination of ages and qualities; yet they did not strike me as in any way incongruous, any more than I had found incongruity in all the seasons being contemporaneous, and blossom and fruit subsisting together. I had expected to be rather embarra.s.sed and somewhat overawed on first coming across this king of men; but his manner was so simple, so frank and friendly, that he put me at my ease at once, and I ventured to inquire if, in the Elysian Fields, they had any knowledge of what was going on in the world they had once inhabited.

"Ample knowledge," he replied, "though we are not troubled with newspapers, nor yet tormented by telegrams or telephones, but confine our regard to what interests us."

"Have you happened to notice," I asked, "that _A Winter's Tale_ has recently been produced at His Majesty's Theatre?"

"Yes, and all the more because that indefatigable manager and all-embracing actor, Mr. Tree, has not taken a part in it. He would have rendered Autolycus very suitably."

"Perhaps," I went on, since I now felt on a footing of the most friendly familiarity with one I had hitherto always thought of at a respectful distance, "perhaps you have observed some of the criticisms on the play."

"To tell the truth," he replied, "I have not. There were few such things in my time, save by the audience; and my recollection of what few there were does not dispose me to read fresh ones. But, if they have said anything instructive or amusing, I shall be most happy to hear it."

"I am afraid," I said, "they are more amusing than instructive."

"Then let me have them by all means. The only thing one is sometimes tempted to find fault with in the Elysian Fields is that its denizens are a trifle too serious for me; being just as much inclined as ever to say, when I find myself in the company of my fellow-creatures, 'With mirth and laughter let me play the fool.'"

Thus encouraged, I said that one critic had p.r.o.nounced the play to be dull as drama, and inferior as poetry; Autolycus to be a bore, yet by no means the only tiresome feature in the play; the plot to be a succession of gaps and puerilities; and that another observed what a pity it was you had made Leontes a lunatic, a raving maniac, and a nuisance. As I recounted these opinions, I could see no sign of annoyance on the face of the playwright, but only a philosophic smile illumining his tranquil features.

"I seem," he said, "to have heard that some time ago some one commented on the meanness of the fable and the extravagant conduct of it, and declared that the comedy caused no mirth, and the serious portion no concernment. I daresay there is truth in the first part of the criticism, but, in regard to the second, I seem to remember that, at the Globe, there was a good deal of mirth at the lighter scenes, and no small attention at the grave ones. But perhaps audiences in my day were different from audiences in yours. I am by no means sure that I wrote the whole of the play; indeed I am pretty certain I did not. My chief share in it was the love-scene between Florizel and Perdita."

"Which I have always thought very beautiful, and the very opposite of 'inferior as poetry.'"

"Very good of you to say so; for I much enjoyed writing it. For the rest, I suspect that a change has come over audiences, and still more over those people whom you call critics. From what I have heard, they appear not to confine themselves to appraising what is offered them, but want authors to offer them something quite different, which is scarcely reasonable.

Moreover, they impute to an author motives he did not entertain, and ends he did not have in view. For instance, I am supposed by them to have been a rather successful delineator of character; overlooking the fact that I over and over again cast character to the winds, in favour of the situation, to which one surrendered oneself only too willingly, because in doing so one was enabled to indulge one's humour and temperament more freely and fully."

"Am I right," I asked, "in thinking that your humour and temperament lay chiefly in a keen enjoyment of rural nature, the delineation of love between men and women, and philosophic reflections on the various pa.s.sions of human beings?"

"You put it rather flatteringly," he said. "But I will not deny that what you say concerning one's disposition is true. The external world is so beautiful, loving and being loved are so delightful, and human beings are so interesting, that it is a writer's own defect if he does not make them appear beautiful, delightful, and interesting to others, no matter in what form he presents them. If he has what you call the way with him, he will make you accept as true almost any story, so long as he is telling it, no matter what you may think of it afterwards. As a famous poet and critic said long ago, _Incredulus odi_. Men naturally turn away from what seems incredible. But what seems somewhat incredible when only read, appears credible enough when acted, if acted well; and Ellen Terry was so attractive and winning in her treatment of Polixenes, that the conjugal jealousy of Leontes becomes, at least, almost intelligible."

"That was exactly what I myself felt the other day, when I went to see the performance," I said. "But I observe you quote Horace, though many persons have maintained that you had little Latin, if any."

"Rather a mistake that, arising, I imagine, from their not knowing what Grammar Schools were like in my time, when we were taught something more than the rudiments of Latin, with the a.s.sistance of prompt corporal chastis.e.m.e.nt if we showed a disinclination to master them. Nowadays, I see, the birch, the ferule, and the cane, have fallen into disfavour, with the result that many English boys, at schools supposed to be very superior in the education they provide, refuse to learn anything except cricket and rowing; two excellent accomplishments, but not quite covering the whole ground of a liberal education."

"May I inquire," I said, "if you, among others, had a liberal application of the cane?"

"My fair share," he said, "but not for refusing to learn, since I enjoyed being taught, and, still more, teaching myself; and a very little learning, though some people have said it is a dangerous thing, goes a long way if you only know how to turn it to account. My thras.h.i.+ngs, which were richly deserved, were given for being behindhand of a morning because I had loitered with some rustic sight or sound that arrested me, and suchlike irregularities of conduct. But what was taught us was taught thoroughly, and I have sometimes thought that men deemed poets may be taught and learn too much, as, for instance, my good friend Ben Jonson, who has been justly compared to a heavy galleon, though a very well trimmed and steered one, but which perhaps would sometimes have benefited by a portion of its dead weight being cast overboard. Still he was a rare poet all the same."

"Who is that, may I ask, with the pointed beard, that has just been joking with a rubicund friar whom I no longer see, and then more gravely with a seemly and tender-looking young woman, also vanished 'into air, into thin air,' while he now stoops to gather daisies from the gra.s.s? I seem to know his face."

"That is a delightful fellow, perhaps of all my companions here the most congenial; the morning star of English song, Geoffrey Chaucer. _He_ could, and did, delineate character consistently if you like. I think it is his cheerful, kindly sense of humour that recommends him so strongly to me.

But a nearer contemporary of mine in the other world whom you see there, wearing an aspect of stately distinction, essentially what English folk call a perfect gentleman, likewise enters much into the study of my imagination. See! Now he turns his face towards you."

"Surely it is Edmund Spenser, is it not?"

"Yes, the Poet's poet. His verse is at once so natural and so n.o.ble, as to be irresistible. I often repeat to myself two exquisitely musical and briefly descriptive lines of his:

A little lowly Hermitage it was, Down in a dale, hard by a forest side.

No amount of elaboration and detail would enable one to see the Hermitage better, or indeed, as well; and the lyrical freedom of the ostensibly iambic verse gives to it an irresistible charm."

"And, over and over again, if I may say so, gives to the blank verse of your dramas the same magical quality that a more stately treatment of it can never confer. But where is Milton?"

"One sees him but seldom," he replied; "and when Chaucer and I do catch sight of him, we behave rather like truant schoolboys, and put on a grave face, especially if he finds us in one of our lighter moods. We are all rather in awe of him, for he never stoops to playfulness; and Chaucer, who is rather irreverent sometimes, says he is so uniformly sublime as now and then to be ridiculous. But, in our hearts, we greatly revere him. To tell the truth, I think he prefers Wordsworth's company to ours; and we find more congenial society from time to time in--look! that handsome youth, who carries his head with unconscious pride, and even here seems half-discontented. The best is never good enough for him, and he cannot be deluded even by his own illusions, poor fellow!"

"It's Byron," I said, "is it not?"

"Yes, there is no mistaking him; part man, part G.o.d, part devil. I believe there was some doubt about admitting him here, lest he should rouse even the Elysian Fields to mutiny, and a question whether he should not have an enclosure all to himself. But he is a man of the world, and knows how to behave himself when he chooses; and, when one of his misanthropic moods comes over him, he wanders about scowling and muttering like a gathering thunderstorm. I am told he breaks bounds sometimes to go in search of Sappho. There would be a pair of them, would there not? What an explosive power there was in him! for in the mind, as in your melanite, force packs small."