Delphi Complete Works of Oscar Wilde (Illustrated) (170 page)

Of course, he is far too close to our own time for us to be able to form any purely artistic judgment about him.  It is impossible not to feel a strong prejudice against a man who might have poisoned Lord Tennyson, or Mr. Gladstone, or the Master of Balliol.  But had the man worn a costume and spoken a language different from our own, had he lived in imperial Rome, or at the time of the Italian Renaissance, or in Spain in the seventeenth century, or in any land or any century but this century and this land, we would be quite able to arrive at a perfectly unprejudiced estimate of his position and value.  I know that there are many historians, or at least writers on historical subjects, who still think it necessary to apply moral judgments to history, and who distribute their praise or blame with the solemn complacency of a successful schoolmaster.  This, however, is a foolish habit, and merely shows that the moral instinct can be brought to such a pitch of perfection that it will make its appearance wherever it is not required.  Nobody with the true historical sense ever dreams of blaming Nero, or scolding Tiberius, or censuring Caesar Borgia.  These personages have become like the puppets of a play.  They may fill us with terror, or horror, or wonder, but they do not harm us.  They are not in immediate relation to us.  We have nothing to fear from them.  They have passed into the sphere of art and science, and neither art nor science knows anything of moral approval or disapproval.  And so it may be some day with Charles Lamb’s friend.  At present I feel that he is just a little too modern to be treated in that fine spirit of disinterested curiosity to which we owe so many charming studies of the great criminals of the Italian Renaissance from the pens of Mr. John Addington Symonds, Miss A. Mary F. Robinson, Miss Vernon Lee, and other distinguished writers.  However, Art has not forgotten him.  He is the hero of Dickens’s
Hunted Down
, the Varney of Bulwer’s
Lucretia
; and it is gratifying to note that fiction has paid some homage to one who was so powerful with ‘pen, pencil and poison.’  To be suggestive for fiction is to be of more importance than a fact.

WITH SOME REMARKS UPON THE IMPORTANCE OF DOING NOTHING

 
 

Part I.  Persons: Gilbert and Ernest.  Scene: the library of a house in Piccadilly, overlooking the Green Park.

GILBERT (at the Piano).  My dear Ernest, what are you laughing at?

ERNEST (looking up).  At a capital story that I have just come across in this volume of Reminiscences that I have found on your table.

GILBERT.  What is the book?  Ah! I see.  I have not read it yet.  Is it good?

ERNEST.  Well, while you have been playing, I have been turning over the pages with some amusement, though, as a rule, I dislike modern memoirs.  They are generally written by people who have either entirely lost their memories, or have never done anything worth remembering; which, however, is, no doubt, the true explanation of their popularity, as the English public always feels perfectly at its ease when a mediocrity is talking to it.

GILBERT.  Yes: the public is wonderfully tolerant.  It forgives everything except genius.  But I must confess that I like all memoirs.  I like them for their form, just as much as for their matter.  In literature mere egotism is delightful.  It is what fascinates us in the letters of personalities so different as Cicero and Balzac, Flaubert and Berlioz, Byron and Madame de Sévigné.  Whenever we come across it, and, strangely enough, it is rather rare, we cannot but welcome it, and do not easily forget it.  Humanity will always love Rousseau for having confessed his sins, not to a priest, but to the world, and the couchant nymphs that Cellini wrought in bronze for the castle of King Francis, the green and gold Perseus, even, that in the open Loggia at Florence shows the moon the dead terror that once turned life to stone, have not given it more pleasure than has that autobiography in which the supreme scoundrel of the Renaissance relates the story of his splendour and his shame.  The opinions, the character, the achievements of the man, matter very little.  He may be a sceptic like the gentle Sieur de Montaigne, or a saint like the bitter son of Monica, but when he tells us his own secrets he can always charm our ears to listening and our lips to silence.  The mode of thought that Cardinal Newman represented — if that can be called a mode of thought which seeks to solve intellectual problems by a denial of the supremacy of the intellect — may not, cannot, I think, survive.  But the world will never weary of watching that troubled soul in its progress from darkness to darkness.  The lonely church at Littlemore, where ‘the breath of the morning is damp, and worshippers are few,’ will always be dear to it, and whenever men see the yellow snapdragon blossoming on the wall of Trinity they will think of that gracious undergraduate who saw in the flower’s sure recurrence a prophecy that he would abide for ever with the Benign Mother of his days — a prophecy that Faith, in her wisdom or her folly, suffered not to be fulfilled.  Yes; autobiography is irresistible.  Poor, silly, conceited Mr. Secretary Pepys has chattered his way into the circle of the Immortals, and, conscious that indiscretion is the better part of valour, bustles about among them in that ‘shaggy purple gown with gold buttons and looped lace’ which he is so fond of describing to us, perfectly at his ease, and prattling, to his own and our infinite pleasure, of the Indian blue petticoat that he bought for his wife, of the ‘good hog’s hars-let,’ and the ‘pleasant French fricassee of veal’ that he loved to eat, of his game of bowls with Will Joyce, and his ‘gadding after beauties,’ and his reciting of
Hamlet
on a Sunday, and his playing of the viol on week days, and other wicked or trivial things.  Even in actual life egotism is not without its attractions.  When people talk to us about others they are usually dull.  When they talk to us about themselves they are nearly always interesting, and if one could shut them up, when they become wearisome, as easily as one can shut up a book of which one has grown wearied, they would be perfect absolutely.

ERNEST.  There is much virtue in that If, as Touchstone would say.  But do you seriously propose that every man should become his own Boswell?  What would become of our industrious compilers of Lives and Recollections in that case?

GILBERT.  What has become of them?  They are the pest of the age, nothing more and nothing less.  Every great man nowadays has his disciples, and it is always Judas who writes the biography.

ERNEST.  My dear fellow!

GILBERT.  I am afraid it is true.  Formerly we used to canonise our heroes.  The modern method is to vulgarise them.  Cheap editions of great books may be delightful, but cheap editions of great men are absolutely detestable.

ERNEST.  May I ask, Gilbert, to whom you allude?

GILBERT.  Oh! to all our second-rate
littérateurs
.  We are overrun by a set of people who, when poet or painter passes away, arrive at the house along with the undertaker, and forget that their one duty is to behave as mutes.  But we won’t talk about them.  They are the mere body-snatchers of literature.  The dust is given to one, and the ashes to another, and the soul is out of their reach.  And now, let me play Chopin to you, or Dvorák?  Shall I play you a fantasy by Dvorák?  He writes passionate, curiously-coloured things.

ERNEST.  No; I don’t want music just at present.  It is far too indefinite.  Besides, I took the Baroness Bernstein down to dinner last night, and, though absolutely charming in every other respect, she insisted on discussing music as if it were actually written in the German language.  Now, whatever music sounds like I am glad to say that it does not sound in the smallest degree like German.  There are forms of patriotism that are really quite degrading.  No; Gilbert, don’t play any more.  Turn round and talk to me.  Talk to me till the white-horned day comes into the room.  There is something in your voice that is wonderful.

GILBERT (rising from the piano).  I am not in a mood for talking to-night.  I really am not.  How horrid of you to smile!  Where are the cigarettes?  Thanks.  How exquisite these single daffodils are!  They seem to be made of amber and cool ivory.  They are like Greek things of the best period.  What was the story in the confessions of the remorseful Academician that made you laugh?  Tell it to me.  After playing Chopin, I feel as if I had been weeping over sins that I had never committed, and mourning over tragedies that were not my own.  Music always seems to me to produce that effect.  It creates for one a past of which one has been ignorant, and fills one with a sense of sorrows that have been hidden from one’s tears.  I can fancy a man who had led a perfectly commonplace life, hearing by chance some curious piece of music, and suddenly discovering that his soul, without his being conscious of it, had passed through terrible experiences, and known fearful joys, or wild romantic loves, or great renunciations.  And so tell me this story, Ernest.  I want to be amused.

ERNEST.  Oh!  I don’t know that it is of any importance.  But I thought it a really admirable illustration of the true value of ordinary art-criticism.  It seems that a lady once gravely asked the remorseful Academician, as you call him, if his celebrated picture of ‘A Spring-Day at Whiteley’s,’ or, ‘Waiting for the Last Omnibus,’ or some subject of that kind, was all painted by hand?

GILBERT.  And was it?

ERNEST.  You are quite incorrigible.  But, seriously speaking, what is the use of art-criticism?  Why cannot the artist be left alone, to create a new world if he wishes it, or, if not, to shadow forth the world which we already know, and of which, I fancy, we would each one of us be wearied if Art, with her fine spirit of choice and delicate instinct of selection, did not, as it were, purify it for us, and give to it a momentary perfection.  It seems to me that the imagination spreads, or should spread, a solitude around it, and works best in silence and in isolation.  Why should the artist be troubled by the shrill clamour of criticism?  Why should those who cannot create take upon themselves to estimate the value of creative work?  What can they know about it?  If a man’s work is easy to understand, an explanation is unnecessary. . . .

GILBERT.  And if his work is incomprehensible, an explanation is wicked.

ERNEST.  I did not say that.

GILBERT.  Ah! but you should have.  Nowadays, we have so few mysteries left to us that we cannot afford to part with one of them.  The members of the Browning Society, like the theologians of the Broad Church Party, or the authors of Mr. Walter Scott’s Great Writers Series, seem to me to spend their time in trying to explain their divinity away.  Where one had hoped that Browning was a mystic they have sought to show that he was simply inarticulate.  Where one had fancied that he had something to conceal, they have proved that he had but little to reveal.  But I speak merely of his incoherent work.  Taken as a whole the man was great.  He did not belong to the Olympians, and had all the incompleteness of the Titan.  He did not survey, and it was but rarely that he could sing.  His work is marred by struggle, violence and effort, and he passed not from emotion to form, but from thought to chaos.  Still, he was great.  He has been called a thinker, and was certainly a man who was always thinking, and always thinking aloud; but it was not thought that fascinated him, but rather the processes by which thought moves.  It was the machine he loved, not what the machine makes.  The method by which the fool arrives at his folly was as dear to him as the ultimate wisdom of the wise.  So much, indeed, did the subtle mechanism of mind fascinate him that he despised language, or looked upon it as an incomplete instrument of expression.  Rhyme, that exquisite echo which in the Muse’s hollow hill creates and answers its own voice; rhyme, which in the hands of the real artist becomes not merely a material element of metrical beauty, but a spiritual element of thought and passion also, waking a new mood, it may be, or stirring a fresh train of ideas, or opening by mere sweetness and suggestion of sound some golden door at which the Imagination itself had knocked in vain; rhyme, which can turn man’s utterance to the speech of gods; rhyme, the one chord we have added to the Greek lyre, became in Robert Browning’s hands a grotesque, misshapen thing, which at times made him masquerade in poetry as a low comedian, and ride Pegasus too often with his tongue in his cheek.  There are moments when he wounds us by monstrous music.  Nay, if he can only get his music by breaking the strings of his lute, he breaks them, and they snap in discord, and no Athenian tettix, making melody from tremulous wings, lights on the ivory horn to make the movement perfect, or the interval less harsh.  Yet, he was great: and though he turned language into ignoble clay, he made from it men and women that live.  He is the most Shakespearian creature since Shakespeare.  If Shakespeare could sing with myriad lips, Browning could stammer through a thousand mouths.  Even now, as I am speaking, and speaking not against him but for him, there glides through the room the pageant of his persons.  There, creeps Fra Lippo Lippi with his cheeks still burning from some girl’s hot kiss.  There, stands dread Saul with the lordly male-sapphires gleaming in his turban.  Mildred Tresham is there, and the Spanish monk, yellow with hatred, and Blougram, and Ben Ezra, and the Bishop of St. Praxed’s.  The spawn of Setebos gibbers in the corner, and Sebald, hearing Pippa pass by, looks on Ottima’s haggard face, and loathes her and his own sin, and himself.  Pale as the white satin of his doublet, the melancholy king watches with dreamy treacherous eyes too loyal Strafford pass forth to his doom, and Andrea shudders as he hears the cousins whistle in the garden, and bids his perfect wife go down.  Yes, Browning was great.  And as what will he be remembered?  As a poet?  Ah, not as a poet!  He will be remembered as a writer of fiction, as the most supreme writer of fiction, it may be, that we have ever had.  His sense of dramatic situation was unrivalled, and, if he could not answer his own problems, he could at least put problems forth, and what more should an artist do?  Considered from the point of view of a creator of character he ranks next to him who made Hamlet.  Had he been articulate, he might have sat beside him.  The only man who can touch the hem of his garment is George Meredith.  Meredith is a prose Browning, and so is Browning. He used poetry as a medium for writing in prose.

ERNEST.  There is something in what you say, but there is not everything in what you say.  In many points you are unjust.

GILBERT.  It is difficult not to be unjust to what one loves.  But let us return to the particular point at issue.  What was it that you said?

ERNEST.  Simply this: that in the best days of art there were no art-critics.

GILBERT.  I seem to have heard that observation before, Ernest.  It has all the vitality of error and all the tediousness of an old friend.

ERNEST.  It is true.  Yes: there is no use your tossing your head in that petulant manner.  It is quite true.  In the best days of art there were no art-critics.  The sculptor hewed from the marble block the great white-limbed Hermes that slept within it.  The waxers and gilders of images gave tone and texture to the statue, and the world, when it saw it, worshipped and was dumb.  He poured the glowing bronze into the mould of sand, and the river of red metal cooled into noble curves and took the impress of the body of a god.  With enamel or polished jewels he gave sight to the sightless eyes.  The hyacinth-like curls grew crisp beneath his graver.  And when, in some dim frescoed fane, or pillared sunlit portico, the child of Leto stood upon his pedestal, those who passed by, ´¹± »±¼ÀÁ¿Ä±Ä¿Å ²±¹½¿½ÄµÂ ±²ÁÉ ±¹¸µÁ¿Â, became conscious of a new influence that had come across their lives, and dreamily, or with a sense of strange and quickening joy, went to their homes or daily labour, or wandered, it may be, through the city gates to that nymph-haunted meadow where young Phaedrus bathed his feet, and, lying there on the soft grass, beneath the tall wind — whispering planes and flowering
agnus castus
, began to think of the wonder of beauty, and grew silent with unaccustomed awe.  In those days the artist was free.  From the river valley he took the fine clay in his fingers, and with a little tool of wood or bone, fashioned it into forms so exquisite that the people gave them to the dead as their playthings, and we find them still in the dusty tombs on the yellow hillside by Tanagra, with the faint gold and the fading crimson still lingering about hair and lips and raiment.  On a wall of fresh plaster, stained with bright sandyx or mixed with milk and saffron, he pictured one who trod with tired feet the purple white-starred fields of asphodel, one ‘in whose eyelids lay the whole of the Trojan War,’ Polyxena, the daughter of Priam; or figured Odysseus, the wise and cunning, bound by tight cords to the mast-step, that he might listen without hurt to the singing of the Sirens, or wandering by the clear river of Acheron, where the ghosts of fishes flitted over the pebbly bed; or showed the Persian in trews and mitre flying before the Greek at Marathon, or the galleys clashing their beaks of brass in the little Salaminian bay.  He drew with silver-point and charcoal upon parchment and prepared cedar.  Upon ivory and rose-coloured terracotta he painted with wax, making the wax fluid with juice of olives, and with heated irons making it firm.  Panel and marble and linen canvas became wonderful as his brush swept across them; and life seeing her own image, was still, and dared not speak.  All life, indeed, was his, from the merchants seated in the market-place to the cloaked shepherd lying on the hill; from the nymph hidden in the laurels and the faun that pipes at noon, to the king whom, in long green-curtained litter, slaves bore upon oil-bright shoulders, and fanned with peacock fans.  Men and women, with pleasure or sorrow in their faces, passed before him.  He watched them, and their secret became his.  Through form and colour he re-created a world.