The Inn of Tranquillity Studies and Essays

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The Inn of Tranquillity

Studies and Essays

by

John Galsworthy

eBooks@Adelaide

2010

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University of Adelaide

South Australia 5005

T ABLE OF CONTENTS

Concerning Life

1. The Inn of Tranquillity

2. Quality

3. Magpie Over the Hill



4. Shee

-She¡ ¢

in£

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¥ luti ¥ n

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7. ¦

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10. My Dist ¡ nt Rel ¡ ti¤ e

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15. ¦

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16. R ¥ m ¡ nce ²¦

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17. Mem¥ ¢

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18. Felicity

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1. A N ¥

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3. Medit ¡ ti¥ n On Fin ¡ lity

4. W ¡ nted ² Sch¥ ¥

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³Je vous dirai que l¶exces est toujours un mal.´

² ANATOLE FRANCE

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7 1

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1

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f eelin@

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produce within one a curious eagerness, a sort of half -philosophical delight. It began

to seem too good, almost too romantic, to be true. To think of the gramophone

wedded to the thin sweet singing of the oliE e leav es in the e v ening wind; to remember

the scent of his rank cigar marr ying with this wild incense; to read that enchanted

name, ³Inn of Tranquillity,´ and hear the bland and affa ble remark of the gentleman

who o wned it ² such were, indeed, phenomena to stimulate souls to speculation. And

all unconsciously one began to justif y them by thoughts of the other incongruities of

existence ² the strange, the passionate incongruities of y outh and age, wealth and

pov erty, lif e and death; the w onderf ul odd bedf ello ws of this w orld; all those lurid

contrasts which haunt a man¶s spirit till sometimes he is ready to cr y out: ³R ather

than li v e where such things can be, let me die!´

Like a wild bird tracking through the air, one¶s meditation w andered on, follo wing

that trail of thought, till the chance encounter became spiritually luminous. That

Italian gentleman of the w orld, with his bo wler hat, his skittle-alley, his gramophone,

who had planted himself do wn in this temple of wild harmony, w as he not Progress

itself ² the blind f igure with the stomach f ull of new meats and the brain of ra w

notions? W as he not the v er y embodiment of the w onderf ul child, Ci v ilisation, so

possessed by a new to y each da y that she has no time to master its use ² nai v e

creature lost amid her o wn discov eries! W as he not the v er y symbol of that which w as

making economists thin, thinkers pale, artists haggard, statesmen bald ² the symbol

of Indigestion Incarnate! Did he not, delicious, gross, unconscious man, personif y

beneath his Americo-Italian polish all those rank and primiti v e instincts, whose

satisfaction necessitated the million miseries of his f ello ws; all those thick rapacities

which stir the hatred of the humane and thin-skinned! And yet, one¶s meditation

could not stop there ² it w as not con v enient to the heart!

A little a bov e us, among the oli v e-trees, tw o blue-clothed peasants, man and w oman,

were gathering the fruit ² from some such couple, no doubt, our friend in the bo wler

hat had sprung; more ³ v irile´ and ad v enturous than his brothers, he had not st a yed in

the home grov es, but had gone forth to drink the w aters of hustle and commerce, and

come back ² what he w as. And he, in turn, w ould beget children, and hav ing made

his pile out of his µ Anglo-American hotel¶ w ould place those children bey ond the

coarser inf luences of lif e, till they became, perhaps, e v en as our sel v es, the salt of the

earth, and despised him. And I thought: ³I do not despise those peasants ² far from

it. I do not despise myself ² no more than reason; why, then, despise my friend in the



bo wler hat, who is, af ter all, but the necessar y link between them and me?´ I did not

despise the oli v e-trees, the w arm sun, the pine scent, all those material things which

had made him so thick and strong; I did not despise the golden, tenuous imaginin gs

which the trees and rocks and sea were starting in my o wn spirit. Why, then, despise

the skittle-alley, the gramophone, those expressions of the spirit of my friend in the

billy-cock hat? To despise them w as ridiculous!

And suddenly I w as v isited by a sensation only to be described as a sort of smiling

certainty, emanating from, and, as it were, still tingling within e v er y nerv e of myself ,

but yet v ibrating harmoniously with the w orld around. It w as as if I had suddenly

seen what w as the truth of things; not perhaps to anybody else, but at all e v ents to

me. And I f elt at once tranquil and elated, as when something is met with which

rouses and fascinates in a man all his faculties.

³For,´ I thought, ³if it is ridiculous in me to despise my friend ² that perf ect marv el of

disharmony ² it is ridiculous in me to despise anything. If he is a little bit of

continuity, as perf ectly logical an expression of a necessar y phase or mood of

existence as I myself am, then, surely, there is nothing in all the w orld that is not a

little bit of continuity, the expression of a little necessar y mood. Yes,´ I thought, ³he

and I, and those oli v e-trees, and this spider on my hand, and e v er ything in the

Uni v erse which has an indi v idual shape, are all f it expressions of the separate moods

of a great underlying Mood or Principle, which must be perf ectly adjusted, vol v ing

and re vol v ing on itself . For if It did not vol v e and re vol v e on Itself , It w ould peter out

at one end or the other, and the image of this petering out no man with his mental

apparatus can concei v e. Therefore, one must conclude It to be perf ectly adjusted and

e v erlasting. But if It is perf ectly adjusted and e v erlasting, we are all little bits of

continuity, and if we are all little bits of continuity it is ridiculous for one of us to

despise another. So,´ I thought, ³I hav e no w prov ed it from my friend in the billy -cock

hat up to the Uni v erse, and from the Uni v erse do wn, back again to my friend.´

And I la y on my back and looked at the sky. It seemed friendly to my thou ght with its

smile, and f ew white clouds, saffron-tinged like the plumes of a white duck in

sunlight. ³And yet,´ I w ondered, ³though my friend and I ma y be equally necessar y, I

am certainly irritated by him, and shall as certainly continue to be irritated, not only

by him, but by a thousand other men and so, with a light heart, y ou ma y go on being

irritated with y our friend in the bo wler hat, y ou ma y go on lov ing those peasants and

this sky and sea. But, since y ou hav e this theor y of lif e, y ou ma y not despise any one

or any thing, not e v en a skittle-alley, for they are all threaded to y ou, and to despise

them w ould be to blaspheme against continuity, and to blaspheme against continuity



w ould be to deny Eternity. Lov e y ou cannot help, and hate y ou cannot help; but

contempt is ² for y ou ² the sov ereign idiocy, the irreligious fancy!´

There w as a bee weighing do wn a blossom of thyme close by, and underneath the

stalk a v er y ugly little centipede. The wild bee, with his little dark body and his busy

bear¶s legs, w as lov ely to me, and the creep y centipede gav e me shudderings; but it

w as a pleasant thing to f eel so sure that he, no less than the bee, w as a little mood

expressing himself out in harmony with Designs tiny thread on the miraculous quilt.

And I looked at him with a sudden zest and curiosity; it seemed to me that in the

myster y of his queer little creepings I w as enjo ying the Supreme Myster y; and I

thought: ³If I knew all a bout that w riggling beast, then, indeed, I might despise him;

but, truly, if I knew all a bout him I should kno w all a bout e v er ything ² Myster y

w ould be gone, and I could not bear to li v e!´

So I stirred him with my f inger and he went a w a y.

³But ho w´² I thought ³a bout such as do not f eel it ridiculous to despise; ho w a bout

those whose temperaments and religions sho w them all things so plainly that they

kno w they are right and others w rong? They must be in a bad w a y!´ And for some

seconds I f elt sorr y for them, and w as discouraged. But then I thought: ³Not at all ²

o b v iously not! For if they do not f ind it ridiculous to f eel contempt, they are perf ectly

right to f eel contempt, it being natural to them; and y ou hav e no business to be sorr y

for them, for that is, af ter all, only y our euphemism for contempt. They are all right,

being the expressions of contemptuous moods, hav ing religions and so forth, suita ble

to these moods; and the religion of y our mood w ould be Greek to them, and pro ba bly

a matter for contempt. But this only makes it the more interesting. For though to y ou,

for instance, it ma y seem impossible to w orship Myster y with one lo be of the brain,

and with the other to explain it, the thought that this ma y not seem impossible to

others should not discourage y ou; it is but another little piece of that Myster y which

makes lif e so w onderf ul and sweet.´

The sun, fallen no w almost to the le v el of the cliff , w as slanting up w ard on to the

burnt-red pine boughs, which had taken to themsel v es a quaint resemblance to the

great bro wn limbs of the wild men Titian drew in his pagan pictures, an d do wn belo w

us the sea-nymphs, still swimming to shore, seemed eager to embrace them in the

enchanted grov es. All w as f used in that golden glo w of the sun going do wn-sea and

land gathered into one transcendent mood of light and colour, as if Myster y desir ed

to bless us by sho wing ho w perf ect w as that w orshipf ul adjustment, whose secret we

could ne v er kno w. And I said to myself : ³None of those thoughts of y ours are new,



and in a vague w a y e v en y ou hav e thought them before; but all the same, they hav e

gi v en y ou some little f eeling of tranquillity.´

And at that w ord of f ear I rose and in v ited my companion to return to w ard the to wn.

But as we stealthy crept by the ³Osteria di Tranquillita,´ our friend in the bo wler hat

came out with a gun ov er his shoulder and w av ed his hand to w ard the Inn.

³Y ou come again in tw o week ² I change all that! And no w,´ he added, ³I go to shoot

little bird or tw o,´ and he disappeared into the golden haze under the oli v e -trees.

A minute later we heard his gun go off , and returned home w ard with a pra yer.

1910.

QUA F IG Y

I knew him from the da ys of my extreme y outh, because he made my father¶s boots;

inha biting with his elder brother tw o little shops let into one, in a small by-street-no w

no more, but then most fashiona bly placed in the West End.

That tenement had a certain quiet distinction; there w as no sign upon its face that he

made for any of the R o y al Family ² merely his o wn German name of Gessler

Brothers; and in the windo w a f ew pairs of boots. I remember that it alw a ys troubled

me to account for those un var ying boots in the windo w, for he made only what w as

ordered, reaching nothing do wn, and it seemed so inconcei va ble that what he made

could e v er hav e failed to f it. Had he bought them to put there? That, too, seemed

inconcei va ble. He w ould ne v er hav e tolerated in his house leather on which he had

not w orked himself . Besides, they were too beautif ul ² the pair of pumps, soinexpressibly slim, the patent leathers with cloth tops, making w ater come into one¶s

mouth, the tall bro wn riding boots with marv ellous sooty glo w, as if , though new,

they had been w orn a hundred years. Those pairs could only hav e been made by one

who sa w before him the Soul of Boot ² so truly were they prototy pes incarnating the

v er y spirit of all foot-gear. These thoughts, of course, came to me later, though e v en

when I w as promoted to him, at the age of perhaps fourteen, some inkling haunted

me of the dignity of himself and brother. For to make boots ² such boots as he made

² seemed to me then, and still seems to me, mysterious and w onderf ul.

I remember well my shy remark, one da y, while stretching out to him my y outhf ul

foot:

³Isn¶t it a w f ully hard to do, Mr. Gessler?´

And his answer, gi v en with a sudden smile from out of the sardonic redness of his

beard: ³Id is an A rdt!´



Himself , he w as a little as if made from leather, with his yello w crinkly face, and

crinkly reddish hair and beard; and neat folds slanting do wn his cheeks to the corners

of his mouth, and his guttural and one-toned voice; for leather is a sardonic

substance, and stiff and slo w of purpose. And that w as the character of his face, sav e

that his eyes, which were grey-blue, had in them the simple grav ity of one secretly

possessed by the Ideal. His elder brother w as so v er y like him ² though w ater y, paler

in e v er y w a y, with a great industr y ² that sometimes in early da ys I w as not quite

sure of him until the interv iew w as ov er. Then I knew that it w as he, if the w ords, ³I

will ask my brudder,´ had not been spoken; and that, if they had, it w as his elder

brother.

When one grew old and wild and ran up bills, one someho w ne v er ran them up with

Gessler Brothers. It w ould not hav e seemed becoming to go in there and stretch out

one¶s foot to that blue iron-spectacled glance, o wing him for more than ² sa y ² tw o

pairs, just the comforta ble reassurance that one w as still his client.

For it w as not possible to go to him v er y of ten ² his boots lasted terribly, hav ing

something bey ond the temporar y ² some, as it were, essence of boot stitched into

them.

One went in, not as into most shops, in the mood of : ³Please serv e me, and let me go!´

but restf ully, as one enters a church; and, sitting on the single w ooden chair, w aited

² for there w as ne v er anybody there. Soon, ov er the top edge of that sort of well ²

rather dark, and smelling soothingly of leather ² which formed the shop, there w ould

be seen his face, or that of his elder brother, peering do wn. A guttural sound, and the

tip-tap of bast slippers beating the narro w w ooden stairs, and he w ould stand before

one without coat, a little bent, in leather apron, with slee v es turned back, blinking ²

as if a w akened from some dream of boots, or like an o wl surprised in da ylight and

anno yed at this interruption.

And I w ould sa y: ³Ho w do y ou do, Mr. Gessler? Could y ou make me a pair of Russia

leather boots?´

Without a w ord he w ould leav e me, retiring whence he came, or into the other portion

of the shop, and I w ould, continue to rest in the w ooden chair, inhaling the incense of

his trade. Soon he w ould come back, holding in his thin, v eined hand a piece of gold-

bro wn leather. With eyes f ixed on it, he w ould remark: ³What a beaudif ul biece!´

When I, too, had admired it, he w ould speak again. ³When do y ou w and dem?´ And I

w ould answer: ³Oh! As soon as y ou con v eniently can.´ And he w ould sa y: ³To-

morro w fordnighd?´ Or if he were his elder brother: ³I will ask my brudder!´



Then I w ould murmur: ³Thank y ou! Good-morning, Mr. Gessler.´ ³Goot-morning!´

he w ould reply, still looking at the leather in his hand. And as I mov ed to the door, I

w ould hear the tip-tap of his bast slippers restoring him, up the stairs, to his dream of

boots. But if it were some new kind of foot-gear that he had not yet made me, then

indeed he w ould o bserv e ceremony ² di v esting me of my boot and holding it long in

his hand, looking at it with eyes at once critical and lov ing, as if recalling the glo w

with which he had created it, and rebuking the w a y in which one had disorganized

this masterpiece. Then, placing my foot on a piece of paper, he w ould tw o or three

times tickle the outer edges with a pencil and pass his nervous f ingers ov er my toes,

f eeling himself into the heart of my requirements.

I cannot forget that da y on which I had occasion to sa y to him; ³Mr. Gessler, that last

pair of to wn w alking-boots creaked, y ou kno w.´

He looked at me for a time without replying, as if expecting me to withdra w or qualif y

the statement, then said:

³Id shouldn¶d µav e greaked.´

³It did, I¶m afraid.´

³Y ou goddem wed before dey found demsel v es?´

³I don¶t think so.´

At that he lo wered his eyes, as if hunting for memor y of those boots, and I f elt sorr y I

had mentioned this grav e thing.

³Zend dem back!´ he said; ³I will look at dem.´

A f eeling of compassion for my creaking boots surged up in me, so well could I

imagine the sorro w f ul long curiosity of regard which he w ould bend on them.

³Zome boods,´ he said slo wly, ³are bad from birdt. If I can do noding wid dem, I dake

dem off y our bill.´

Once (once only) I went a bsent-mindedly into his shop in a pair of boots bought in an

emergency at some large f irm¶s. He took my order without sho wing me any leather,

and I could f eel his eyes penetrating the inf erior integument of my foot. At last he

said:

³Dose are nod my boods.´

The tone w as not one of anger, nor of sorro w, not e v en of contempt, but there w as in

it something quiet that froze the blood. He put his hand do wn and pressed a f inger on

the place where the lef t boot, endeavouring to be fashiona ble, w as not quite

comforta ble.



³Id µurds y ou dere,´, he said. ³Dose big v irms µav e no self -respect. Drash!´ And then,

as if something had gi v en w a y within him, he spoke long and bitterly. It w as the only

time I e v er heard him discuss the conditions and hardships of his trade.

³Dey get id all,´ he said, ³dey get id by ad v erdisement, nod by w ork. Dey dake it a w a y

from us, who lof e our boods. Id gomes to this ² bresently I haf no w ork. E v er y year id

gets less y ou will see. ́ And looking at his lined face I sa w things I had ne v er noticed

before, bitter things and bitter struggle ² and what a lot of grey hairs there seemed

suddenly in his red beard!

As best I could, I explained the circumstances of the purchase of those ill-omened

boots. But his face and voice made so deep impression that during the next f ew

minutes I ordered many pairs. Nemesis f ell! They lasted more terribly than e v er. And

I w as not a ble conscientiously to go to him for nearly tw o years.

When at last I went I w as surprised to f ind that outside one of the tw o little windo ws

of his shop another name w as painted, also that of a bootmaker-making, of course,

for the R o y al Family. The old familiar boots, no longer in dignif ied isolation, were

huddled in the single windo w. Inside, the no w contracted well of the one little shop

w as more scented and darker than e v er. And it w as longer than usual, too, before a

face peered do wn, and the tip-tap of the bast slippers began. At last he stood before

me, and, gazing through those rusty iron spectacles, said:

³Mr.²²-, isn¶d it?´

³Ah! Mr. Gessler,´ I stammered, ³but y our boots are really too good, y ou kno w! See,

these are quite decent still!´ And I stretched out to him my foot. He looked at it.

³Yes,´ he said, ³beople do nod w and good hoods, id seems.´

To get a w a y from his reproachf ul eyes and voice I hastily remarked: ³What hav e y ou

done to y our shop?´

He answered quietly: ³Id w as too exbensif . Do y ou w and some boods?´

I ordered three pairs, though I had only w anted tw o, and quickly lef t. I had, I do not

kno w quite what f eeling of being part, in his mind, of a conspiracy against him; or not

perhaps so much against him as against his idea of boot. One does not, I suppose,

care to f eel like that; for it w as again many months before my next v isit to his shop,

paid, I remember, with the f eeling: ³Oh! well, I can¶t leav e the old bo y ² so here goes!

Perhaps it¶ll be his elder brother!´

For his elder brother, I knew, had not character enough to reproach me, e v en dumbly.

And, to my relief , in the shop there did appear to be his elder brother, handling a

piece of leather.

³Well, Mr. Gessler,´ I said, ³ho w are y ou?´



He came close, and peered at me.

³I am breddy well,´ he said slo wly ³but my elder brudder is dead.´

And I sa w that it w as indeed himself ² but ho w aged and w an! And ne v er before had

I heard him mention his brother. Much shocked; I murmured: ³Oh! I am sorr y!´

³Yes,´ he answered, ³he w as a good man, he made a good bood; but he is dead.´ And

he touched the top of his head, where the hair had suddenly gone as thin as it had

been on that of his poor brother, to indicate, I suppose, the cause of death. ³He could

nod ged ov er losing de oder shop. Do y ou w and any hoods?´ And he held up the

leather in his hand: ³Id¶s a beaudif ul biece.´

I ordered se v eral pairs. It w as v er y long before they came ² but they were better than

e v er. One simply could not wear them out. And soon af ter that I went a broad.

It w as ov er a year before I w as again in London. And the f irst shop I went to w as my

old friend¶s. I had lef t a man of sixty, I came back to one of se v enty-f i v e, pinched and

w orn and tremulous, who genuinely, this time, did not at f irst kno w me.

³Oh! Mr. Gessler,´ I said, sick at heart; ³ho w splendid y our boots are! See, I¶ v e been

wearing this pair nearly all the time I¶ v e been a broad; and they¶re not half w orn out,

are they?´

He looked long at my boots ² a pair of Russia leather, and his face seemed to regain

steadiness. Putting his hand on my instep, he said:

³Do dey v id y ou here? I µad drouble wid dat bair, I remember.´

I assured him that they had f itted beautif ully.

³Do y ou w and any boods?´ he said. ³I can make dem quickly; id is a slack dime.´

I answered: ³Please, please! I w ant boots all round ² e v er y kind!´

³I will make a vresh model. Y our food must be bigger.´ And with utter slo wness, he

traced round my foot, and f elt my toes, only once looking up to sa y:

³Did I dell y ou my brudder w as dead?´

To w atch him w as painf ul, so f eeble had he gro wn; I w as glad to get a w a y.

I had gi v en those boots up, when one e v ening they came. Opening the parcel, I set the

four pairs out in a ro w. Then one by one I tried them on. There w as no doubt a bout it.

In shape and f it, in f inish and quality of leather, they were the best he had e v er made

me. And in the mouth of one of the To wn w alking -boots I found his bill.

The amount w as the same as usual, but it gav e me quite a shock. He had ne v er before

sent it in till quarter da y. I f lew do wn-stairs, and w rote a cheque, and posted it at once

with my o wn hand.

A week later, passing the little street, I thought I w ould go in and tell him ho w

splendidly the new boots f itted. But when I came to where his shop had been, his



name w as gone. Still there, in the windo w, were the slim pumps, the patent leathers

with cloth tops, the sooty riding boots.

I went in, v er y much distur bed. In the tw o little shops ² again made into one ² w as a

y oung man with an English face.

³Mr. Gessler in?´ I said.

He gav e me a strange, ingratiating look.

³No, sir,´ he said, ³no. But we can attend to anything with pleasure. We¶ v e taken the

shop ov er. Y ou¶ v e seen our name, no doubt, next door. We make for some v er y good

people.´

³Yes, Yes,´ I said; ³but Mr. Gessler?´

³Oh!´ he answered; ³dead.´

³Dead! But I only recei v ed these boots from him last Wednesda y week.´

³Ah!´ he said; ³a shockin¶ go. Poor old man starv ed µimself .´

³Good God!´

³Slo w starvation, the doctor called it! Y ou see he went to w ork in such a w a y! W ould

keep the shop on; w ouldn¶t hav e a soul touch his boots except himself . When he got

an order, it took him such a time. People w on¶t w ait. He lost e v er ybody. And there

he¶d sit, goin¶ on and on ² I will sa y that for him not a man in London made a better

boot! But look at the competition! He ne v er ad v ertised! W ould µav e the best leather,

too, and do it all µimself . Well, there it is. What could y ou expect with his ideas?´

³But starvation ²²!´

³That ma y be a bit f lo wer y, as the sa yin¶ is ² but I kno w myself he w as sittin¶ ov er his

boots da y and night, to the v er y last. Y ou see I used to w atch him. Ne v er gav e µimself

time to eat; ne v er had a penny in the house. All went in rent and leather. Ho w he

li v ed so long I don¶t kno w. He regular let his f ire go out. He w as a character. But he

made good boots.´

³Yes,´ I said, ³he made good boots.´

And I turned and went out quickly, for I did not w ant that y outh to kno w that I could

hardly see.

1911

M A H PIE O VER I HE HIP P

I la y of ten that summer on a slope of sand and coarse grass, close to the Cornish sea,

tr ying to catch thoughts; and I w as tr ying v er y hard when I sa w them coming hand in

hand.



She w as dressed in blue linen, and a little cloud of honey-coloured hair; her small face

had serious eyes the colour of the chicor y f lo wers she w as holding up to sniff at ² a

clean so ber little maid, with a v er y touching up w ard look of trust. Her companion w as

a strong, acti v e bo y of perhaps fourteen, and he, too, w as serious ² his deep-set,

blacklashed eyes looked do wn at her with a queer protecti v e w onder; the while he

explained in a sof t voice broken up between tw o ages, that exact process which bees

adopt to dra w honey out of f lo wers. Once or twice this hoarse but charming voice

became quite f erv ent, when she had e v idently failed to follo w; it w as as if he w ould

hav e been impatient, only he knew he must not, because she w as a lady and y ounger

than himself , and he lov ed her.

They sat do wn just belo w my nook, and began to count the petals of a chicor y f lo wer,

and slo wly she nestled in to him, and he put his arm round her. Ne v er did I see such

sedate, sweet lov ering, so trusting on her part, so guardianlike on his. They were like,

in miniature ²-though more dewy,² those so ber couples who hav e long li v ed

together, yet whom one still catches looking at each other with conf idential

tenderness, and in whom, one f eels, passion is atrophied from ne v er hav ing been in

use.

Long I sat w atching them in their cool communion, half -embraced, talking a little,

smiling a little, ne v er once kissing. They did not seem shy of that; it w as rather as if

they were too much each other¶s to think of such a thing. And then her head slid

lo wer and lo wer do wn his shoulder, and sleep buttoned the lids ov er those chicor y-

blue eyes. Ho w caref ul he w as, then, not to w ake her, though I could see his arm w as

getting stiff ! He still sat, good as gold, holding her, till it began quite to hurt me to see

his shoulder thus in chancer y. But presently I sa w him dra w his arm a w a y e v er so

caref ully, la y her head do wn on the grass, and lean for w ard to stare at something.

Straight in front of them w as a magpie, balancing itself on a stripped twig of thorn-

tree. The agitating bird, painted of night and da y, w as making a queer noise and

f lirting one wing, as if tr ying to attract attention. Rising from the twig, it circled, v i v id

and stealthy, twice round the tree, and f lew to another a dozen paces off . The bo y

rose; he looked at his little mate, looked at the bird, and began quietly to mov e

to w ard it; but uttering again its queer call, the bird glided on to a third thorn-tree.

The bo y hesitated then ² but once more the bird f lew on, and suddenly dipped ov er

the hill. I sa w the bo y break into a run; and getting up quickly, I ran too.

When I reached the crest there w as the black and white bird f lying lo w into a dell, and

there the bo y, with hair streaming back, w as rushing helter-skelter do wn the hill. He

reached the bottom and vanished into the dell. I, too, ran do wn the hill. For all that I



w as pr ying and must not be seen by bird or bo y, I crept w arily in among the trees to

the edge of a pool that could kno w but little sunlight, so thickly arched w as it by

willo ws, birch-trees, and wild hazel. There, in a swing of boughs a bov e the w ater, w as

perched no pied bird, but a y oung, dark-haired girl with, dangling, bare, bro wn legs.

And on the brink of the black w ater goldened, with fallen leav es, the bo y w as

crouching, gazing up at her with all his soul. She swung just out of reach and looked

do wn at him across the pool. Ho w old w as she, with her bro wn limbs, and her

gleaming, slanting eyes? Or w as she only the spirit of the dell, this elf -thing swinging

there, entwined with boughs and the dark w ater, and cov ered with a shif t of wet birch

leav es. So strange a face she had, wild, almost wicked, yet so tender; a face that I

could not take my eyes from. Her bare toes just touched the pool, and f licked up

drops of w ater that f ell on the bo y¶s face.

From him all the so ber steadfastness w as gone; already he looked as wild as she, and

his arms were stretched out tr ying to reach her f eet. I w anted to cr y to him: ³Go back,

bo y, go back!´ but could not; her elf eyes held me dumb-they looked so lost in their

tender wildness.

And then my heart stood still, for he had slipped and w as struggling in deep w ater

beneath her f eet. What a gaze w as that he w as turning up to her ² not frightened, but

so longing, so desperate; and hers ho w triumphant, and ho w happ y!

And then he clutched her foot, and clung, and climbed; and bending d o wn, she drew

him up to her, all wet, and clasped him in the swing of boughs.

I took a long breath then. An orange gleam of sunlight had f lamed in among the

shado ws and f ell round those tw o where they swung ov er the dark w ater, with lips

close together and spirits lost in one another¶s, and in their eyes such dro wning

ecstasy! And then they kissed! All round me pool, and leav es, and air seemed

suddenly to swirl and melt ² I could see nothing plain! . . . What time passed ² I do

not kno w ² before their faces slo wly again became v isible! His face the so ber bo y¶s ²

w as turned a w a y from her, and he w as listening; for a bov e the whispering of leav es a

sound of weeping came from ov er the hill. It w as to that he listened.

And e v en as I looked he slid do wn from out of her arms; back into the pool, and

began struggling to gain the edge. What grief and longing in her wild face then! But

she did not w ail. She did not tr y to pull him back; that elf ish heart of dignity could

reach out to what w as coming, it could not drag at what w as gone. Unmov ing as the

boughs and w ater, she w atched him a bandon her.

Slo wly the struggling bo y gained land, and la y there, breathless. And still that sound

of lonely weeping came from ov er the hill.



Listening, but looking at those wild, mourning eyes that ne v er mov ed from him, he

la y. Once he turned back to w ard the w ater, but f ire had died within him; his hands

dropped, nerv eless ² his y oung face w as all bewilderment.

And the quiet darkness of the pool w aited, and the trees, and those lost eyes of hers,

and my heart. And e v er from ov er the hill came the little fair maiden¶s lonely

weeping.

Then, slo wly dragging his f eet, stumbling, half -blinded, turning and turning to look

back, the bo y groped his w a y out through the trees to w ard that sound; and, as he

went, that dark spirit-elf , a bandoned, clasping her o wn lithe body with her arms,

ne v er mov ed her gaze from him.

I, too, crept a w a y, and when I w as saf e outside in the pale e v ening sunlight, peered

back into the dell. There under the dark trees she w as no longer, but round and round

that cage of passion, f luttering and w ailing through the leav es, ov er the black w ater,

w as the magpie, f lighting on its twilight wings.

I turned and ran and ran till I came ov er the hill and sa w the bo y and the little fair,

so ber maiden sitting together once more on the open slope, under the high blue

heav en. She w as nestling her tear-stained face against his shoulder and speaking

already of indiff erent things. And he ² he w as holding her with his arm and w atching

ov er her with eyes that seemed to see something else.

And so I la y, hearing their so ber talk and gazing at their so ber little f igures, till I

a w oke and knew I had dreamed all that little allegor y of sacred and profane lov e, and

from it had returned to reason, kno wing no more than e v er which w as which.

191 Q .

SHEEP-SHEARIR S

From early morning there had been bleating of sheep in the y ard, so that one knew

the creatures were being sheared, and to w ard e v ening I went along to see. Thirty or

forty naked-looking ghosts of sheep were penned against the barn, and perhaps a

dozen still inha biting their coats. Into the w ool of one of these bulky ewes the

farmer¶s small, yello w-haired daughter w as twisting her f ist, hustling it to w ard Fate;

though pulled almost off her f eet by the frightened, stubborn creature, she ne v er let

go, till, with a despairing cough, the ewe had passed ov er the threshold and w as fast

in the hands of a shearer. At the far end of the barn, close by the doors, I stood a

minute or tw o before shif ting up to w atch the shearing. Into that dim, beautif ul home

of age, with its great raf ters and mello w stone archw a ys, the June sunlight shone

through loopholes and chinks, in thin glamour, po wdering with its v er y strangeness



the dark cathedraled air, where, high up, clung a fog of old grey co bwebs so thick as

e v er were the stalactites of a huge cav e. At this end the scent of sheep and w ool and

men had not yet routed that home essence of the barn, like the savour of acorns and

withering beech leav es.

They were shearing by hand this year, nine of them, counting the postman, who,

though farm-bred, ³did¶n putt much to the shearin¶,´ but had come to round the

sheep up and gi v e general aid.

Sitting on the creatures, or with a leg f irmly crooked ov er their heads, each shearer,

e v en the tw o bo ys, had an air of going at it in his o wn w a y. In their white can vas

shearing suits they w orked v er y steadily, almost in silence, as if dro wsed by the ³click-

clip, click-clip´ of the shears. And the sheep, but for an occasional w riggle of legs or

head, la y quiet enough, hav ing an inborn sense perhaps of the f itness of things, e v en

when, once in a w a y, they lost more than w ool; glad too, ma yhap, to be rid of their

matted v estments. From time to time the little damsel off ered each shearer a jug and

glass, but no man drank till he had f inished his sheep; then he w ould get up, stretch

his cramped muscles, drink deep, and almost instantly sit do wn again on a fresh

beast. And alw a ys there w as the buzz of f lies sw arming in the sunlight of the open

door w a y, the dr y rustle of the pollarded lime-trees in the sharp wind outside, the

bleating of some released ewe, upset at her o wn nakedness, the scrape and shuff le of

heels and sheep¶s limbs on the f loor, together with the ³click-clip, click-clip´ of the

shears.

As each ewe, f inished with, struggled up, helped by a friendly shov e, and bolted out

dazedly into the pen, I could not help w ondering what w as passing in her head ² in

the heads of all those unceremoniously treated creatures; and, mov ing nearer to the

postman, I said:

³They¶re really v er y good, on the whole.´

He looked at me, I thought, queerly.

³Y aas,´ he answered; ³Mr. Molton¶s the best of them.´

I looked ask ance at Mr. Molton; but, with his knee crooked round a y oung ewe, he

w as shearing calmly.

³Yes,´ I admitted, ³he is certainly good.´

³Y aas,´ replied the postman.

Edging back into the darkness, a w a y from that uncomprehending y outh, I escaped

into the air, and passing the remains of last year¶s stacks under the tall, toppling elms,

sat do wn in a f ield under the bank. It seemed to me that I had food for thought. In

that little misunderstanding between me and the postman w as all the essence of the



diff erence between that state of ci v ilisation in which sheep could prompt a sentiment,

and that state in which sheep could not.

The heat from the dropping sun, not far no w a bov e the moorline, struck f ull into the

f erns and long grass of the bank where I w as sitting, and the midges rioted on me in

this last w armth. The wind w as barred out, so that one had the f ull sweetness of the

clov er, fast becoming ha y, ov er which the sw allo ws were wheeling and sw ooping af ter

f lies. And far up, as it were the cro wn of Nature¶s beautif ul de vouring circle, a buzzard

ha wk, almost stationar y on the air, f loated, intent on something pleasant belo w him.

A number of little hens crept through the gate one by one, and came round me. It

seemed to them that I w as there to f eed them; and they held their neat red or yello w

heads to one side and the other, inquiring with their beady eyes, surprised at my

stillness. They were pretty with their speckled f eathers, and as it seemed to me,

plump and y oung, so that I w ondered ho w many of them w ould in time f eed me.

Finding, ho we v er, that I gav e them nothing to eat, they went a w a y, and there arose, in

place of their clucking, the thin singing of air passing through some long tube. I knew

it for the whining of my dog, who had nosed me out, but could not get through the

padlocked gate. And as I lif ted him ov er, I w as glad the postman could not see me ²

for I f elt that to lif t a dog ov er a gate w ould be against the principles of one for whom

the connection of sheep with good behav iour had been too strange a thought. And it

suddenly rushed into my mind that the time w ould no doubt come when the conduct

of apples, being plucked from the mother tree, w ould inspire us, and we should sa y:

³They¶re really v er y good!´ And I w ondered, were those f uture w atchers of apple-

gathering farther from me than I, w atching sheep-shearing, from the postman? I

thought, too, of the pretty dreams being dreamt a bout the land, and of the people who

dreamed them. And I looked at that land, cov ered with the sweet pinkish-green of the

clov er, and considered ho w much of it, through the medium of sheep, w ould f ind its

w a y into me, to ena ble me to come out here and be eaten by midges, and speculate

a bout things, and concei v e the sentiment of ho w good the sheep were. And it all

seemed queer. I thought, too, of a w orld entirely composed of people who could see

the sheen rippling on that clov er, and f eel a sort of sweet elation at the scent of it, and

I w ondered ho w much clov er w ould be so wn then? Many things I thought of , sitting

there, till the sun sank belo w the moor line, the wind died off the clov er, and the

midges slept. Here and there in the iris-coloured sky a star crept out; the sof t-hooting

o wls a w oke. But still I lingered, w atching ho w, one af ter another, shapes and colours

died into twilight; and I w ondered what the postman thought of twilight, that

incon v enient state, when things were neither dark nor light; and I w ondered what the



sheep were thinking this f irst night without their coats. Then, slinking along the

hedge, noiseless, unheard by my sleeping spaniel, I sa w a ta wny dog stealing by. He

passed without seeing us, licking his lean chops.

³Yes, friend,´ I thought, ³y ou hav e been af ter something v er y unholy; y ou hav e been

digging up buried lamb, or some desira ble person of that kind!´

Sneaking past, in this sweet night, which stirred in one such sentiment, that ghoulish

cur w as like the omni vorousness of Nature. And it came to me, ho w w onderf ul and

queer w as a w orld which embraced within it, not only this red gloating dog, fresh

from his f east on the deca ying f lesh of lamb, but all those hundreds of beings in

whom the sight of a f ly with one leg shortened produced a qui v er of compassion. For

in this savage, slinking shado w, I knew that I had beheld a manif estation of di v inity

no less than in the smile of the sky, each minute gro wing more starr y. With what

Harmony ² I thought ² can these tw o be enw rapped in this round w orld so fast that

it cannot be mov ed! What secret, marv ellous, all-pervading Principle can harmonise

these things! And the old w ords µgood¶ and µe v il¶ seemed to me more than e v er quaint.

It w as almost dark, and the dew falling fast; I roused my spaniel to go in.

O v er the high-w alled y ard, the barns, the moon-white porch, dusk had brushed its

v el v et. Through an open windo w came a roaring sound. Mr. Molton w as singing ³The

Happ y W arrior,´ to celebrate the f inish of the shearing. The big doors into the garden,

passed through, cut off the f ull sweetness of that song; for there the o wls were already

masters of night with their music.

On the dew-whitened grass of the la wn, we came on a little dark beast. My spaniel,

liking its savour, stood with his nose at point; but, being called off , I could f eel him

o bedient, still qui v ering, under my hand.

In the f ield, a w an huddle in the blackness, the dismantled sheep la y under a holly

hedge. The wind had died; it w as mist-w arm.

1910

E VOT UU IOV

Coming out of the theatre, we found it utterly impossible to get a taxica b; and, though

it w as raining slightly, w alked through Leicester Square in the hope of picking one up

as it returned do wn Piccadilly. Numbers of hansoms and four-wheelers passed, or

stood by the cur b, hailing us f eebly, or not e v en attempting to attract our attention,

but e v er y taxi seemed to hav e its load. At Piccadilly Circus, losing patience, we

beck oned to a four-wheeler and resigned oursel v es to a long, slo w journey. A sou¶-

westerly air blew through the open windo ws, and there w as in it the scent of change,



that wet scent which v isits e v en the hearts of to wns and inspires the w atcher of their

my riad acti v ities with thought of the restless Force that fore v er cries: ³On, on!´ But

gradually the steady patter of the horse¶s hoof s, the rattling of the windo ws, the slo w

thudding of the wheels, pressed on us so dro wsily that when, at last, we reached home

we were more than half asleep. The fare w as tw o shillings, and, standing in the

lamplight to make sure the coin w as a half -cro wn before handing it to the dri v er, we

happened to look up. This ca bman appeared to be a man of a bout sixty, with a long,

thin face, whose chin and drooping grey moustaches seemed in permanent repose on

the up-turned collar of his old blue ov ercoat. But the remark a ble f eatures of his face

were the tw o f urro ws do wn his cheeks, so deep and hollo w that it seemed as though

that face were a collection of bones without coherent f lesh, among which the eyes

were sunk back so far that they had lost their lustre. He sat quite motionless, gazing

at the tail of his horse. And, almost unconsciously, one added the rest of one¶s sil v er

to that half -cro wn. He took the coins without speaking; but, as we were turning into

the garden gate, we heard him sa y:

³Thank y ou; y ou¶ v e sav ed my lif e.´

Not kno wing, either of us, what to reply to such a curious speech, we closed the gate

again and came back to the ca b.

³A re things so v er y bad?´

³They are,´ replied the ca bman. ³It¶s done with ² is this jo b. We¶re not w anted no w.´

And, taking up his whip, he prepared to dri v e a w a y.

³Ho w long hav e they been as bad as this?´

The ca bman dropped his hand again, as though glad to rest it, and answered

incoherently:

³Thirty-f i v e year I¶ v e been dri v in¶ a ca b.´

And, sunk again in contemplation of his horse¶s tail, he could only be roused by many

questions to express himself , hav ing, as it seemed, no kno wledge of the ha bit.

³I don¶t blame the taxis, I don¶t blame no body. It¶s come on us, that¶s what it has. I

lef t the wif e this morning with nothing in the house. She w as sa ying to me only

yesterda y: µ What hav e y ou brought home the last four months?¶ µPut it at six shillings

a week,¶ I said. µNo,¶ she said, µse v en.¶ Well, that¶s right ² she enters it all do wn in her

book.´

³Y ou are really going short of food?´

The ca bman smiled; and that smile between those tw o deep hollo ws w as surely as

strange as e v er shone on a human face.



³Y ou ma y sa y that,´ he said. ³Well, what does it amount to? Before I picked y ou up, I

had one eighteen-penny fare toda y; and yesterda y I took f i v e shillings. And I¶ v e got

se v en bo b a da y to pa y for the ca b, and that¶s lo w, too. There¶s many and many a

proprietor that¶s broke and gone ² e v er y bit as bad as us. They let us do wn as easy as

e v er they can; y ou can¶t get blood from a stone, can y ou?´ Once again he smiled. ³I¶m

sorr y for them, too, and I¶m sorr y for the horses, though they come out best of the

three of us, I do belie v e.´

One of us muttered something a bout the Public.

The ca bman turned his face and stared do wn through the darkness.

³The Public?´ he said, and his voice had in it a faint surprise. ³Well, they all w ant the

taxis. It¶s natural. They get a bout faster in them, and time¶s money. I w as se v en hours

before I picked y ou up. And then y ou w as lookin¶ for a taxi. Them as take us because

they can¶t get better, they¶re not in a good temper, as a rule. And there¶s a f ew old

ladies that¶s frightened of the motors, but old ladies aren¶t ne v er v er y free with their

money ² can¶t afford to be, the most of them, I expect.´

³E v er ybody¶s sorr y for y ou; one w ould hav e thought that ²²´

He interrupted quietly: ³Sorro w don¶t buy bread . . . . I ne v er had no body ask me

a bout things before.´ And, slo wly mov ing his long face from side to side, he added:

³Besides, what could people do? They can¶t be expected to support y ou; and if they

started askin¶ y ou questions they¶d f eel it v er y a wkw ard. They kno w that, I suspect. Of

course, there¶s such a lot of us; the hansoms are pretty nigh as bad off as we are. Well,

we¶re gettin¶ f ewer e v er y da y, that¶s one thing.´

Not kno wing whether or no to manif est sympathy with this extinction, we

approached the horse. It w as a horse that ³stood ov er´ a good deal at the knee, and in

the darkness seemed to hav e innumera ble ribs. And suddenly one of us said: ³Many

people w ant to see nothing but taxis on the streets, if only for the sake of the horses.´

The ca bman nodded.

³This old f ello w,´ he said, ³ne v er carried a deal of f lesh. His grub don¶t put spirit into

him no w ada ys; it¶s not up to much in quality, but he gets enough of i t.´

³And y ou don¶t?´

The ca bman again took up his whip.

³I don¶t suppose,´ he said without emotion, ³any one could e v er f ind another jo b for

me no w. I¶ v e been at this too long. It¶ll be the w orkhouse, if it¶s not the other thing.´

And hearing us mutter that it seemed cruel, he smiled for the third time.

³Yes,´ he said slo wly, ³it¶s a bit µard on us, because we¶ v e done nothing to deserv e it.

But things are like that, so far as I can see. One thing comes pushin¶ out another, and



so y ou go on. I¶ v e thought a bout it ² y ou get to thinkin¶ and w orr yin¶ a bout the rights

o¶ things, sittin¶ up here all da y. No, I don¶t see anything for it. It¶ll soon be the end of

us no w ² can¶t last much longer. And I don¶t kno w that I¶ll be sorr y to hav e done with

it. It¶s pretty well broke my spirit.´

³There w as a f und got up.´

³Yes, it helped a f ew of us to learn the motor-dri v in¶; but what¶s the good of that to

me, at my time of lif e? Sixty, that¶s my age; I¶m not the only one ² there¶s hundreds

like me. We¶re not f it for it, that¶s the fact; we hav en¶t got the nerv e no w. It¶d w ant a

mint of money to help us. And what y ou sa y¶s the truth ² people w ant to see the end

of us. They w ant the taxis ² our da y¶s ov er. I¶m not complaining; y ou asked me a bout

it y ourself .´

And for the third time he raised his whip.

³Tell me what y ou w ould hav e done if y ou had been gi v en y our fare and just sixpence

ov er?´

The ca bman stared do wnw ard, as though puzzled by that question.

³Done? Why, nothing. What could I hav e done?´

³But y ou said that it had sav ed y our lif e.´

³Yes, I said that,´ he answered slo wly; ³I w as f eelin¶ a bit lo w. Y ou can¶t help it

sometimes; it¶s the thing comin¶ on y ou, and no w a y out of it ² that¶s what gets ov er

y ou. We tr y not to think a bout it, as a rule.´

And this time, with a ³Thank y ou, kindly!´ he touched his horse¶s f lank with the whip.

Like a thing aroused from sleep the forgotten creature started and began to dra w the

ca bman a w a y from us. Ver y slo wly they trav elled do wn the road among the shado ws

of the trees broken by lamplight. Abov e us, white ships of cloud were sailing rapidly

across the dark ri v er of sky on the wind which smelled of change. And, af ter the ca b

w as lost to sight, that wind still brought to us the dying sound of the slo w wheels.

1910.

R IDIW X

IW MIST

Wet and hot, hav ing her winter coat, the mare exactly matched the drenched fox-

coloured beech-leaf drif ts. As w as her w ont on such misty da ys, she danced along

with head held high, her neck a little arched, her ears pricked, pretending that things

were not what they seemed, and no w and then v igorously tr ying to leav e me planted

on the air. Stones which had rolled out of the lane banks were her especial go blins, for

one such had maltreated her nerv es before she came into this ball-room w orld, and

she had not forgotten.



There w as no wind that da y. On the beech-trees were still just enough of copper y

leav es to look like f ires lighted high-up to air the eeriness; but most of the twigs,

pearled with w ater, were patterned v er y naked against uni v ersal grey. Berries were

f ew, except the pink spindle one, so far the most beautif ul, of which there were more

than Earth generally vouchsaf es. There w as no sound in the deep lanes, none of that

sweet, ov erhead sighing of yesterda y at the same hour, but there w as a quality of

silence ² a dumb mist murmuration. We passed a tree with a proud pigeon sitting on

its top spire, quite too heav y for the twig delicacy belo w; undistur bed by the mare¶s

hoof s or the creaking of saddle leather, he let us pass, a bsor bed in his w orld of

tranquil turtledov es. The mist had thickened to a white, inf initesimal rain-dust, and

in it the trees began to look strange, as though they had lost one another. The w orld

seemed inha bited only by quick, soundless w raiths as one trotted past.

Close to a farm-house the mare stood still with that extreme suddenness peculiar to

her at times, and four black pigs scuttled by and at once became white air. By no w we

were both hot and inclined to cling closely together and take liberties with each other;

I telling her a bout her nature, name, and appearance, together with comments on her

manners; and she gi v ing forth that sterterous, sweet snuff le, which begins under the

star on her forehead. On such da ys she did not sneeze, reserv ing those expressions of

her jo y for sunny da ys and the crisp winds. At a forking of the w a ys we came suddenly

on one grey and three bro wn ponies, who shied round and f lung a w a y in front of us, a

v ision of pretty heads and haunches tangled in the thin lane, till, conscious that they

were bey ond their beat, they faced the bank and, one by one, scrambled ov er to join

the other ghosts out on the dim common.

Dipping do wn no w ov er the road, we passed hounds going home. Pied, dumb-footed

shapes, padding along in that sof t-eyed, remote w orld of theirs, with a tall riding

splash of red in front, and a tall splash of riding red behind. Then through a gate we

came on to the moor, amongst whitened f urze. The mist thickened. A curlew w as

whistling on its in v isible w a y, far up; and that wistf ul, wild calling seemed the v er y

voice of the da y. K eeping in v iew the glint of the road, we galloped; rejoicing, both of

us, to be free of the jog jog of the lanes.

And f irst the voice of the curlew died; then the glint of the road vanished; and we

were quite alone. E v en the f urze w as gone; no shape of anything lef t, only the black,

peaty ground, and the thickening mist. We might as well hav e been that lonely bird

crossing up there in the blind white nothingness, like a human spirit w andering on

the undiscov ered moor of its o wn f uture.



The mare jumped a pile of stones, which appeared, as it were, af ter we had passed

ov er; and it came into my mind that, if we happened to strike one of the old quarr y

pits, we should infallibly be killed. Someho w, there w as pleasure in this thought, that

we might, or might not, strike that old quarr y pit. The blood in us being hot, we had

pure jo y in charging its white, impalpa ble solidity, which made w a y, and at once

closed in behind us. There w as great f un in this y ard-by-y ard discov er y that we were

not yet dead, this f lying, shelterless challenge to whate v er might lie out there, f i v e

y ards in front. We f elt supremely a bov e the wish to kno w that our necks were saf e; we

were happ y, panting in the vapour that beat against our faces from the sheer speed of

our galloping. Suddenly the ground grew lump y and made up -hill. The mare

slackened pace; we stopped. Before us, behind, to right and lef t, white vapour. No

sky, no distance, barely the earth. No wind in our faces, no wind anywhere. At f irst we

just got our breath, thought nothing, talked a little. Then came a chillness, a faint

clutching ov er the heart. The mare snuff led; we turned and made do wn-hill. And still

the mist thickened, and seemed to darken e v er so little; we went slo wly, suddenly

doubtf ul of all that w as in front. There came into our minds v isions, so distant in that

darkening vapour, of a w arm stall and manger of oats; of tea and a log f ire. The mist

seemed to hav e f ingers no w, long, dark white, cra wling f ingers; it seemed, too, to

hav e in its sheer silence a sort of muttered menace, a shudder y lurkingness, as if from

out of it that spirit of the unkno wn, which in hot blood we had just no w so gleef ully

mocked, were creeping up at us, intent on its v engeance. Since the ground no longer

sloped, we could not go do wn-hill; there were no means lef t of telling in what

direction we were mov ing, and we stopped to listen. There w as no sound, not one tiny

noise of w ater, wind in trees, or man; not e v en of birds or the moor ponies. And the

mist darkened. The mare reached her head do wn and w alked on, smelling at the

heather; e v er y time she sniff ed, one¶s heart qui v ered, hoping she had found the w a y.

She threw up her head, snorted, and stood still; and there passed just in front of us a

pony and her foal, shapes of scampering dusk, whisked like blurred shado ws across a

sheet. Hoof -silent in the long heather ² as e v er were v isiting ghosts ² they were gone

in a f lash. The mare plunged for w ard, follo wing. But, in the f eel of her gallop, and the

f eel of my heart, there w as no more that ecstasy of facing the unkno wn; there w as

only the cold, hasty dread of loneliness. Far asunder as the poles were those tw o

sensations, e voked by this same motion. The mare swerv ed v iolently and stopped.

There, passing within three y ards, from the same direction as before, the soundless

shapes of the pony and her foal f lew by again, more intangible, less dusky no w against

the darker screen. Were we, then, to be haunted by those bewildering uncanny ones,



f litting past e v er from the same direction? This time the mare did not follo w, but

stood still; kno wing as well as I that direction w as quite lost. Soon, with a whimper,

she picked her w a y on again, smelling at the heather. And the mist darkened!

Then, out of the heart of that dusky whiteness, came a tiny sound; we stood, not

breathing, turning our heads. I could see the mare¶s eye f ixed and straining at the

vapour. The tiny sound grew till it became the muttering of wheels. The mare dashed

for w ard. The muttering ceased untimely; but she did not stop; turning a bruptly to the

lef t, she slid, scrambled, and dropped into a trot. The mist seemed whiter belo w us;

we were on the road. And in voluntarily there came from me a sound, not quite a

shout, not quite an oath. I sa w the mare¶s eye turn back, faintly derisi v e, as who

should sa y: Alone I did it! Then slo wly, comforta bly, a little ashamed, we jogged on,

in the mood of men and horses when danger is ov er. So pleasant it seemed no w, in

one short half -hour, to hav e passed through the circle-swing of the emotions, from

the ecstasy of hot recklessness to the clutching of chill f ear. But the meeting-point of

those tw o sensations we had lef t out there on the mysterious moor! Why, at one

moment, had we thought it f iner than anything on earth to risk the breaking of our

necks; and the next, shuddered at being lost in the darkening mist with winter night

fast coming on?

And v er y luxuriously we turned once more into the lanes, enjo ying the past, scenting

the f uture. Close to home, the f irst little eddy of wind stirred, and the song of dripping

twigs began; an o wl hooted, honey-sof t, in the fog. We came on tw o farm hands

mending the lane at the turn of the av enue, and, curled on the top of the bank, their

cosy red collie pup, w aiting for them to f inish w ork for the da y. He raised his sharp

nose and looked at us dewily. We turned do wn, padding sof tly in the wet fox-red

drif ts under the beechtrees, whereon the last leav es still f lickered out in the darkening

whiteness, that no w seemed so little eerie. We passed the grey-green skeleton of the

farm-y ard gate. A hen ran across us, clucking, into the dusk. The maze drew her long,

home-coming snuff le, and stood still.

1910.

THE PROCESSIOY

In one of those corners of our land canopied by the f umes of blind industr y, there

w as, on that da y, a lull in darkness. A fresh wind had split the customar y heav en, or

roof of hell; w as sweeping long drif ts of creamy clouds across a blue still pallid with

reek. The sun e v en shone ² a sun whose face seemed white and w ondering. And

under that rare sun all the little to wn, among its slag heaps and f ew tall chimneys,



had an air of li v ing faster. In those continuous courts and alleys, where the w omen

w orked, smoke from each little forge rose and dispersed into the wind with strange

alacrity; amongst the w omen, too, there w as that same eagerness, for the sunshine

had crept in and w as making pale all those dark -raf tered, sooted ceilings which

cov ered them in, together with their immortal comrades, the small open f urnaces.

About their w ork they had been busy since se v en o¶clock; their f eet pressing the

leather lungs which fanned the conical heaps of glo wing f uel, their hands poking into

the glo w a thin iron rod till the end could be curv ed into a f ier y hook; snapping it with

a mallet; threading it with tongs on to the chain; hammering, closing the link; and;

without a second¶s pause, thrusting the iron rod again into the glo w. And while they

w orked they chattered, laughed sometimes, no w and then sighed. They seemed of all

ages and all ty pes; from her who looked like a peasant of Prov ence, broad, bro wn, and

strong, to the weariest white consumpti v e wisp; from old w omen of se v enty, with

straggling grey hair, to f if teen-year-old girls. In the cottage forges there w ould be but

one w orker, or tw o at most; in the shop forges four, or e v en f i v e, little glo wing heaps;

four or f i v e of the grimy, pale lung-bello ws; and ne v er a moment without a f ier y hook

a bout to take its place on the gro wing chains, ne v er a second when the thin smoke of

the forges, and of those li v es consuming slo wly in front of them, did not escape from

out of the ding y, whitew ashed spaces past the dark raf ters, a w a y to freedom.

But there had been in the air that morning something more than the white sunlight.

There had been anticipation. And at tw o o¶clock began f ulf ilment. The forges were

stilled, and from court and alley forth came the w omen. In their ragged w orking

clothes, in their best clothes ² so little diff erent; in bonnets, in hats, bareheaded;

with ba bies born and unborn, they sw armed into the high street and formed across it

behind the band. A strange, magpie, ja y-like f lock; black, white, patched with bro wn

and green and blue, shif ting, chattering, laughing, seeming unconscious of any

purpose. A thousand and more of them, with faces twisted and scored by those

my riad deformings which a desperate to wn-toiling and little food fasten on human

v isages; yet with hardly a single e v il or brutal face. Seemingly it w as not easy to be e v il

or brutal on a w age that scarcely bound soul and body. A thousand and more of the

poorest-paid and hardest-w orked human beings in the w orld.

On the pav ement alongside this strange, acquiescing assembly of re volt, a bout to

march in protest against the conditions of their li v es, stood a y oung w oman with out a

hat and in poor clothes, but with a sort of beauty in her rough-haired, high cheek-

boned, dark-eyed face. She w as not one of them; yet, by a stroke of Nature¶s irony,

there w as grav en on her face alone of all those faces, the true look of rebellion; a



haughty, almost f ierce, uneasy look ² an untamed look. On all the other thousand

faces one could see no bitterness, no f ierceness, not e v en enthusiasm; only a half -

stolid, half - v i vacious patience and eagerness as of children going to a party.

The band pla yed; and they began to march.

Laughing, talking, w av ing f lags, tr ying to keep step; with the same expression slo wly

but surely coming ov er e v er y face; the f uture w as not; only the present ² this happ y

present of marching behind the discordance of a brass band; this strange present of

cro wded mov ement and laughter in open air.

We others ² some dozen accidentals like myself , and the tall, grey-haired lady

interested in ³the people,´ together with those f ew kind spirits in charge of ³the

sho w´² marched too, a little self -conscious, desiring with a vague militar y sensation

to hold our heads up, but not too much, under the eyes of the curious bystanders.

These ² nearly all men ² were well-wishers, it w as said, though their faces, pale from

their o wn w ork in shop or f urnace, expressed nothing but apathy. They wished well,

v er y dumbly, in the presence of this new thing, as if they found it queer that w omen

should be doing something for themsel v es; queer and rather dangerous. A f ew,

indeed, shuff led along between the column and the little hopeless shops and grimy

factor y sheds, and one or tw o accompanied their w omen, carr ying the ba by. No w and

then there passed us some better-to-do citizen-a housewif e, or la wyer¶s clerk, or

ironmonger, with lips pressed rather tightly together and an air of taking no notice of

this distur bance of traff ic, as though the whole thing were a rather poor joke which

they had already heard too of ten.

So, with laughter and a continual crack of voices our ja y-like crew swung on, sw a ying

and thumping in the strange ecstasy of irref lection, happ y to be mov ing they knew

not where, nor greatly why, under the v isiting sun, to the sound of murdered music.

Whene v er the band stopped pla ying, discipline became as tatterdemalion as the v er y

f lags and garments; but ne v er once did they lose that look of essential order, as if

indeed they knew that, being the w orst-serv ed creatures in the Christian w orld, they

were the chief guardians of the inherent dignity of man.

Hatless, in the v er y front ro w, marched a tall slip of a girl, arro w-straight, and so thin,

with dirty fair hair, in a blouse and skirt gaping behind, e v er turning her pretty face

on its pretty slim neck from side to side, so that one could see her blue eyes sweeping

here, there, e v er ywhere, with a sort of f lo wer-like wildness, as if a secret embracing of

each moment for bade her to let them rest on anything and break this pleasure of just

marching. It seemed that in the ne v er-still eyes of that anaemic, happ y girl the spirit

of our march had elected to enshrine itself and to make thence its little excursions to



each ecstatic follo wer. Just behind her marched a little old w oman ² a maker of

chains, they said, for forty years ² whose black slits of eyes were sparkling, who

f luttered a bit of ribbon, and reeled with her sense of the exquisite humour of the

w orld. E v er y no w and then she w ould make a rush at one of her leaders to

demonstrate ho w immoderately glorious w as lif e. And each time she spoke the

w oman next to her, laden with a heav y ba by, went off into squeals of laughter. Behind

her, again, marched one who beat time with her head and w av ed a little bit of stick,

intoxicated by this no ble music.

For an hour the pageant w ound through the dejected street, pursuing neither method

nor set route, till it came to a deserted slag-heap, selected for the speech-making.

Slo wly the motley regiment swung into that grim amphitheatre under the pale

sunshine; and, as I w atched, a strange fancy v isited my brain. I seemed to see ov er

e v er y ragged head of those marching w omen a little yello w f lame, a thin, f lickering

gleam, spiring up w ard and blo wn back by the wind. A trick of the sunlight, ma ybe?

Or w as it that the lif e in their hearts, the inextinguisha ble breath of happiness, had

for a moment escaped prison, and w as f luttering at the pleasure of the breeze?

Silent no w, just enjo ying the sound of the w ords thro wn do wn to them, they stood,

unimagina bly patient, with that happiness of they knew not what gilding the air

a bov e them between the patchw ork ribands of their poor f lags. If they could not tell

v er y much why they had come, nor belie v e v er y much that they w ould gain anything

by coming; if their demonstration did not mean to the w orld quite all that orator y

w ould hav e them think; if they themsel v es were but the poorest, humblest, least

learned w omen in the land ² for all that, it seemed to me that in those tattered,

wistf ul f igures, so still, so trustf ul, I w as looking on such beauty as I had ne v er beheld.

All the ela borated glor y of things made, the perf ected dreams of aesthetes, the

embroideries of romance, seemed as nothing beside this sudden v ision of the wild

goodness nati v e in humble hearts.

1910.

A CHRISTIA ̀

One da y that summer, I came a w a y from a luncheon in company of an old College

chum. Alw a ys exciting to meet those one hasn¶t seen for years; and as we w alked

across the Park together I kept looking at him ask ance. He had altered a good deal.

Lean he alw a ys w as, but no w v er y lean, and so upright that his parson¶s coat w as

ov erhung by the back of his long and narro w head, with its dark grizzled hair, which

thought had not yet loosened on his forehead. His clean-shorn face, so thin and



o blong, w as remark a ble only for the eyes: dark-bro wed and lashed, and coloured like

bright steel, they had a f ixity in them, a sort of a bsence, on one couldn¶t tell what

business. They made me think of torture. And his mouth alw a ys gently smiling, as if

its pinched curly sweetness had been commanded, w as the mouth of a man crucif ied

² yes, crucif ied!

Tramping silently ov er the parched grass, I f elt that if we talked, we must infallibly

disagree; his straight-up, narro w forehead so suggested a nature di v ided within itself

into compartments of iron.

It w as hot that da y, and we rested presently beside the Serpentine. On its bright

w aters were the usual y oung men, sculling themsel v es to and fro with their usual sad

energ y, the usual promenaders loitering and w atching them, the usual dog that sw am

when it did not bark, and barked when it did not swim; and my friend sat smiling,

twisting between his thin f ingers the little gold cross on his silk v est.

Then all of a sudden we did begin to talk; and not of those matters of which the well-

bred naturally con v erse ² the ha bits of the rarer kinds of ducks, and the careers of

our College friends, but of something ne v er mentioned in polite society.

At lunch our hostess had told me the sad stor y of an unhapp y marriage, and I had

itched spiritually to f ind out what my friend, who seemed so far a w a y from me, f elt

a bout such things. And no w I determined to f ind out.

³Tell me,´ I asked him, ³which do y ou consider most important ² the letter or the

spirit of Christ¶s teachings?´

³My dear f ello w,´ he answered gently, ³what a question! Ho w can y ou separate

them?´

³Well, is it not the essence of His doctrine that the spirit is all important, and the

forms of little value? Does not that run through all the Sermon on the Mount?´

³Certainly.´

³If , then,´ I said, ³Christ¶s teaching is concerned with the spirit, do y ou consider that

Christians are justif ied in holding others bound by formal rules of conduct, without

ref erence to what is passing in their spirits?´

³If it is for their good.´

³What ena bles y ou to decide what is for their good?´

³Surely, we are told.´

³Not to judge, that ye be not judged.´

³Oh! but we do not, oursel v es, judge; we are but impersonal ministers of the rules of

God.´



³Ah! Do general rules of conduct take account of the variations of the indi v idual

spirit?´

He looked at me hard, as if he began to scent heresy.

³Y ou had better explain y ourself more f ully,´ he said. ³I really don¶t follo w.´

³Well, let us take a concrete instance. We kno w Christ¶s sa ying of the married that

they are one f lesh! But we kno w also that there are wi v es who continue to li v e the

married lif e with dreadf ul f eelings of spiritual re volt wi v es who hav e found out that,

in spite of all their efforts, they hav e no spiritual aff inity with their husbands. Is that

in accordance with the spirit of Christ¶s teaching, or is it not?´

³We are told ²²´ he began.

³I hav e admitted the def inite commandment: µThey tw ain shall be one f lesh.¶ There

could not be, seemingly, any more rigid la w laid do wn; ho w do y ou reconcile it with

the essence of Christ¶s teaching? Frankly, I w ant to kno w: Is there or is there not a

spiritual coherence in Christianity, or is it only a gathering of la ws and precepts, with

no inherent connected spiritual philosophy?´

³Of course,´ he said, in his long-suff ering voice, ³we don¶t look at things like that ²

for us there is no questioning.´

³But ho w do y ou reconcile such marriages as I speak of , with the spirit of Christ¶s

teaching? I think y ou ought to answer me.´

³Oh! I can, perf ectly,´ he answered; ³the reconciliation is through suff ering. What a

poor w oman in such a case must suff er makes for the sal vation of her spirit. That is

the spiritual f ulf ilment, and in such a case the justif ication of the la w.´

³So then,´ I said, ³sacrif ice or suff ering is the coherent thread of Christian

philosophy?´

³Suff ering cheerf ully borne,´ he answered.

³Y ou do not think,´ I said, ³that there is a touch of extravagance in that? W ould y ou

sa y, for example, that an unhapp y marriage is a more Christian thing than a happ y

one, where there is no suff ering, but only lov e?´

A line came between his bro ws. ³Well!´ he said at last, ³I w ould sa y, I think, that a

w oman who crucif ies her f lesh with a cheerf ul spirit in o bedience to God¶s la w, stands

higher in the eyes of God than one who undergoes no such sacrif ice in her married

lif e.´ And I had the f eeling that his stare w as passing through me, on its w a y to an

unseen goal.

³Y ou w ould desire, then, I suppose, suff ering as the greatest blessing for y ourself ?´

³Humbly, ́he said, ³I w ould tr y to.´

³And naturally, for others?´



³God for bid!´

³But surely that is inconsistent.´

He murmured: ³Y ou see, I hav e suff ered.´

We were silent. At last I said: ³Yes, that makes much which w as dark quite clear to

me.´

³Oh?´ he asked.

I answered slo wly: ³Not many men, y ou kno w, e v en in y our prof ession, hav e really

suff ered. That is why they do not f eel the diff iculty which y ou f eel in desiring suff ering

for others.´

He threw up his head exactly as if I had hit him on the ja w: ³It¶s weakness in me, I

kno w,´ he said.

³I should hav e rather called it weakness in them. But suppose y ou are right, and that

it¶s weakness not to be a ble to desire promiscuous suff ering for others, w ould y ou go

f urther and sa y that it is Christian for those, who hav e not experienced a certain kind

of suff ering, to force that particular kind on others?´

He sat silent for a f ull minute, tr ying e v idently to reach to the bottom of my thought.

³Surely not,´ he said at last, ³except as ministers of God¶s la ws.´

³Y ou do not then think that it is Christian for the husband of such a w oman to keep

her in that state of suff ering ² not being, of course, a minister of God?´

He began stammering at that: ³I² I²²´ he said. ³No; that is, I think not -not

Christian. No, certainly.´

³Then, such a marriage, if persisted in, makes of the wif e indeed a Christian, but of

the husband ² the re v erse.´

³The answer to that is clear,´ he said quietly: ³The husband must a bstain.´

³Yes, that is, perhaps, coherently Christian, on y our theor y: They w ould then both

suff er. But the marriage, of course, has become no marriage. They are no longer one

f lesh.´

He looked at me, almost impatiently as if to sa y: Do not compel me to enforce silence

on y ou!

³But, suppose,´ I went on, ³and this, y ou kno w; is the more frequent case, the man

ref uses to a bstain. W ould y ou then sa y it w as more Christian to allo w him to become

daily less Christian through his unchristian conduct, than to relie v e the w oman of her

suff ering at the expense of the spiritual benef it she thence deri v es? Why, in fact, do

y ou favour one case more than the other?´

³All question of relief ,´ he replied, ³is a matter for Caesar; it cannot concern me.´



There had come into his face a rigidity ² as if I might hit it with my questions till my

tongue w as tired, and it be no more mov ed than the bench on which we were sitting.

³One more question,´ I said, ³and I hav e done. Since the Christian teaching is

concerned with the spirit and not forms, and the thread in it which binds all together

and makes it coherent, is that of suff ering ²²´

³Redemption by suff ering,´ he put in.

³If y ou will ² in one w ord, self -crucif ixion ² I must ask y ou, and don¶t take it

personally, because of what y ou told me of y ourself : In lif e generally, one does not

accept from people any teaching that is not the result of f irsthand experience on their

parts. Do y ou belie v e that this Christian teaching of y ours is valid from the mouths of

those who hav e not themsel v es suff ered ² who hav e not themsel v es, as it were, been

crucif ied?´

He did not answer for a minute; then he said, with painf ul slo wness: ³Christ laid

hands on his apostles and sent them forth; and they in turn, and so on, to our da y.´

³Do y ou sa y, then, that this guarantees that they hav e themsel v es suff ered, so that in

spirit they are identif ied with their teaching?´

He answered brav ely: ³No ² I do not ² I cannot sa y that in fact it is alw a ys so.´

³Is not then their teaching born of forms, and not of the spirit?´

He rose; and with a sort of deep sorro w at my stubbornness said: ³We are not

permitted to kno w the w a y of this; it is so ordained; we must hav e faith.´

As he stood there, turned from me, with his hat off , and his neck painf ully f lushed

under the sharp outcurv e of his dark head, a f eeling of pity surged up in me, as if I

had taken an unfair ad vantage.

³Reason ² coherence ² philosophy,´ he said suddenly. ³Y ou don¶t understand. All

that is nothing to me ² nothing ² nothing!´

1911

W I a D Ia THE R OCKS

Though dew-dark when we set forth, there w as stealing into the frozen air an in v isible

white host of the w an-winged light ² born bey ond the mountains, and already, like a

drif t of dov es, har bouring grey-white high up on the sno wy skycav es of Monte

Cristallo; and within us, tramping ov er the valley meado ws, w as the incredible elation

of those who set out before the sun has risen; e v er y minute of the precious da y before

us ² we had not lost one!

At the mouth of that enchanted chine, across which for a million years the ho wdahed

rock elephant has marched, but ne v er yet passed from sight, we crossed the stream,



and among the trees began our ascent. Ver y far a w a y the f irst co wbells chimed; and,

ov er the dark heights, we sa w the thin, sinking moon, looking like the white horns of

some de votional beast w atching and w aiting up there for the god of light. That god

came slo wly, stalking across far ov er our heads from top to top; then, of a sudden, his

f lame-white form w as seen standing in a gap of the valley w alls; the trees f lung

themsel v es along the ground before him, and censers of pine gum began swinging in

the dark aisles, releasing their perf umed steam. Throughout these happ y rav ines

where no man li v es, he sho ws himself naked and unashamed, the colour of pale

honey; on his golden hair such shining as one has not elsewhere seen; his eyes like

old wine on f ire. And already he had swept his hand across the in v isible strings, for

there had arisen, the music of uncurling leav es and f litting things.

A legend runs, that, dri v en from land to land by Christians, A pollo hid himself in

Lo wer Austria, but those who e v er they sa w him there in the thirteenth centur y were

w rong; it w as to these enchanted chines, frequented only by the mountain shepherds,

that he certainly came.

And as we were lying on the grass, of the f irst alp, with the star gentians ² those

fallen drops of the sky ² and the burnt-bro wn dandelions, and scattered shrubs of

alpen-rose round us, we were v isited by one of these v er y shepherds, passing with his

f lock ² the f iercest-looking man who e v er, spoke in a gentle voice; six f eet high, with

an orange cloak, bare knees; burnt as the v er y dandelions, a beard blacker than black,

and eyes more glorious than if sun and night had di v ed and were lying imprisoned in

their depths. He spoke in an unkno wn tongue, and could certainly not understand

any w ord of ours; but he smelled of the good earth, and only through intermina ble

w atches under sun and stars could so great a gentleman hav e been perf ected.

Presently, while we rested outside that Alpine hut which faces the three sphinx-like

mountains, there came back, from climbing the smallest and most dangerous of those

peaks, one, pale from heat, and trembling with fatigue; a tall man, with long bro wn

hands, and a long, thin, bearded face. And, as he sipped cautiously of red wine and

w ater, he looked at his little conquered mountain. His kindly, screwed-up eyes, his

kindly, bearded lips, e v en his limbs seemed smiling; and not for the w orld w ould we

hav e jarred with w ords that rapt, smiling man, enjo ying the sacred hour of him who

has just prov ed himself . In silence we w atched, in silence lef t him smiling, kno wing

someho w that we should remember him all our da ys. For there w as in his smile the

glamour of ad v enture just for the sake of danger; all that high instinct which takes a

man out of his chair to brav e what he need not.



Between that hut and the three mountains lies a saddle ² astride of all beauty and all

colour, master of a titanic chaos of deep clef ts, ta wny heights, red domes, far sno w,

and the purple of long shado ws; and, standing there, we comprehended a little of

what Earth had been through in her time, to hav e made this pla y ground for most

glorious demons. Mother Earth! What travail undergone, what long heroic throes,

had brought on her face such ma jesty!

Herea bout edelweiss w as clinging to smoothed-out rubble; but a little higher, e v en

the e v erlasting plant w as lost, there w as no more lif e. And presently we la y do wn on

the mountain side, rather far apart. Up here a bov e trees and pasture the wind had a

strange, bare voice, free from all outer inf luence, sweeping along with a cold, whiff ing

sound. On the w arm stones, in f ull sunlight, uplif ted ov er all the beauty of Italy, one

f elt at f irst only delight in space and wild lov eliness, in the unkno wn valleys, and the

strength of the sun. It w as so good to be ali v e; so ineffa bly good to be li v ing in this

most w onderf ul w orld, drinking air nectar.

Behind us, from the three mountains, came the frequent thud and scuff le of falling

rocks, loosened by rains. The wind, mist, and winter sno w had ground the po wder y

stones on which we la y to a pleasant bed, but once on a time they, too, had clung up

there. And v er y slo wly, one could not sa y ho w or when, the sense of jo y began

changing to a sense of f ear. The a w f ul impersonality of those great rock-creatures, the

terrible impartiality of that cold, clinging wind which swept by, ne v er an inch lif ted

a bov e ground! Not one tiny soul, the size of a midge or rock f lo wer, li v ed here. Not

one little ³I´ breathed here, and lov ed!

And we, too, some da y w ould no longer lov e, hav ing become part of this monstrous,

lov ely earth, of that cold, whiff ling air. To be no longer a ble to lov e! It seeme d

incredible, too grim to bear; yet it w as true! To become po wder, and the wind; no

more to f eel the sunlight; to be lov ed no more! To become a whiff ling noise, cold,

without one¶s self ! To drif t on the breath of that noise, homeless! Up here, there were

not e v en those little v el v et, grey-white f lo wer-comrades we had plucked. No lif e!

Nothing but the creeping wind, and those great rocky heights, whence came the

sound of falling-symbols of that cold, untimely state into which we, too, must pass.

Ne v er more to lov e, nor to be lov ed! One could but turn to the earth, and press one¶s

face to it, a w a y from the wild lov eliness. Of what use lov eliness that must be lost; of

what use lov eliness when one could not lov e? The earth w as w arm and f irm beneath

the palms of the hands; but there still came the sound of the impartial wind, and the

careless roar of the stories falling.



Belo w, in those valleys amongst the li v ing trees and grass, w as the comradeship of

unnumbered lif e, so that to pass out into Peace, to step bey ond, to die, seemed but a

brotherly act, amongst all those others; but up here, where no creature breathed, we

sa w the heart of the desert that stretches before each little human soul. Up here, it

froze the spirit; e v en Peace seemed mocking ² hard as a stone. Yet, to tr y and hide, to

tuck one¶s head under one¶s o wn wing, w as not possible in this air so cr ystal clear, so

far a bov e incense and the narcotics of set creeds, and the f e v ered breath of pra yers

and protestations. E v en to kno w that between organic and inorganic matter there is

no gulf f ixed, w as of no peculiar comfort. The jealous wind came creeping ov er the

lif eless limestone, remov ing e v en the poor solace of its w armth; one turned from it,

desperate, to look up at the sky, the blue, burning, wide, ineffa ble, far sky.

Then slo wly, without reason, that icy f ear passed into a f eeling, not of jo y, not of

peace, but as if Lif e and Death were exalted into what w as neither lif e nor death, a

strange and motionless v ibration, in which one had been merged, and rested, utterly

content, equipoised, di v ested of desire, endo wed with lif e and death.

But since this moment had come before its time, we got up, and, close together,

marched on rather silently, in the hot sun.

1910.

M Y DIST A b T R Ec A TIVE

Though I had not seen my distant relati v e for years ² not, in fact, since he w as

o bliged to gi v e V ancou v er Island up as a bad jo b ² I knew him at once, when, with head a little on one side, and tea-cup held high, as if , to conf er a blessing, he said:

³Hallo!´ across the Club smoking-room.

Thin as a lath ² not one ounce heav ier ² tall, and v er y upright, with his pale

forehead, and pale eyes, and pale beard, he had the air of a ghost of a man. He had

alw a ys had that air. And his voice ² that matter-of -fact and slightly nasal voice, with

its thin, pragmatical tone ² w as like a w raith of optimism, issuing between pale lips. I

noticed; too, that his to wn ha biliments still had their unspeak a ble pale neatness, as if ,

poor things, they were tr ying to stare the da ylight out of countenance.

He brought his tea across to my ba y windo w, with that wistf ul socia bility of his, as of

a man who cannot alw a ys f ind a listener.

³But what are y ou doing in to wn?´ I said. ³I thought y ou were in Y orkshire with y our

aunt.´

O v er his round, light eyes, f ixed on something in the street, the lids f ell quickly twice,

as the f ilm falls ov er the eyes of a parrot.



³I¶m af ter a jo b,´ he answered. ³Must be on the spot just no w.´

And it seemed to me that I had heard those w ords from him before.

³Ah, yes,´ I said, ³and do y ou think y ou¶ll get it?´

But e v en as I spoke I f elt sorr y, remembering ho w many jo bs he had been af ter in his

time, and ho w soon they ended when he had got them.

He answered:

³Oh, yes! They ought to gi v e it me,´ then added rather suddenly: ³Y ou ne v er kno w,

though. People are so f unny!´

And crossing his thin legs, he went on to tell me, with quaint impersonality, a number

of instances of ho w people had been f unny in connection with jo bs he had not been

gi v en.

³Y ou see,´ he ended, ³the countr y¶s in such a state ² capital going out of it e v er y da y.

Enterprise being killed all ov er the place. There¶s practically nothing to be had!´

³Ah!´ I said, ³y ou think it¶s w orse, then, than it used to be?´

He smiled; in that smile there w as a shade of patronage.

³We¶re going do wn-hill as fast as e v er we can. National character¶s losing all its

backbone. No w onder, with all this molly-coddling going on!´

³Oh!´ I murmured, ³molly-coddling? Isn¶t that excessi v e?´

³Well! Look at the w a y e v er ything¶s being done for them! The w orking classes are

losing their, self -respect as fast as e v er they can. Their independence is gone already!´

³Y ou think?´

³Sure of it! I¶ll gi v e y ou an instance ²²´ and he went on to describe to me the

degeneracy of certain w orking men emplo yed by his aunt and his eldest brother

Claud and his y oungest brother Alan.

³They don¶t do a stroke more than they¶re o bliged,´ he ended; ³they kno w jolly well

they¶ v e got their Unions, and their pensions, and this Insurance, to fall back on.´

It w as e v idently a subject on which he f elt strongly.

³Yes,´ he muttered, ³the nation is being rotted do wn.´

And a faint thrill of surprise passed through me. For the affairs of the nation mov ed

him so much more strongly than his o wn. His voice already had a diff erent ring, his

eyes a diff erent look. He eagerly leaned for w ard, and his long, straight backbone

looked longer and straighter than e v er. He w as less the ghost of a man. A faint f lush

e v en had come into his pale cheeks, and he mov ed his well-kept hands emphatically.

³Oh, yes!´ he said: ³The countr y is going to the dogs, right enough; but y ou can¶t get

them to see it. They go on sapping and sapping the independence of the people. If the



w orking man¶s to be looked af ter, whate v er he does ² what on earth¶s to become of

his go, and foresight, and perse v erance?´

In his rising voice a certain piquancy w as lef t to its accent of the ruling class by that

faint tw ang, which came, I remembered, from some slight def ect in his tonsils.

³Mark my w ords! So long as we¶re on these lines, we shall do nothing. It¶s going

against e volution. They sa y Dar win¶s getting old-fashioned; all I kno w is, he¶s good

enough for me. Competition is the only thing.´

³But competition,´ I said, ³is bitter cruel, and some people can¶t stand against it!´ And

I looked at him rather hard: ³Do y ou o bject to putting any sort of f loor under the f eet

of people like that?´

He let his voice drop a little, as if in def erence to my scruples.

³Ah!´ he said; ³but if y ou once begin this sort of thing, there¶s no end to it. It¶s so

insidious. The more they hav e, the more they w ant; and all the time they¶re losing

f ighting po wer. I¶ v e thought pretty deeply a bout this. It¶s shortsighted; it really

doesn¶t do!´

³But,´ I said, ³surely y ou¶re not against sav ing people from being knocked out of time

by old age, and accidents like illness, and the f luctuations of trade?´

³Oh!´ he said, ³I¶m not a bit against charity. Aunt Emma¶s splendid a bout that. And

Claud¶s a w f ully good. I do what I can, myself .´ He looked at me, so queerly

deprecating, that I quite liked him at that moment. At heart ² I f elt he w as a good

f ello w. ³All I think is,´ he went on, ³that to gi v e them something that they can rely on

as a matter of course, apart from their o wn exertions, is the w rong principle

altogether,´ and suddenly his voice began to rise again, and his eyes to stare. ³I¶m

con v inced that all this doing things for other people, and bolstering up the weak, is

rotten. It stands to reason that it must be.´

He had risen to his f eet, so preoccupied with the w rongness of that principle that he

seemed to hav e forgotten my presence. And as he stood there in the windo w the light

w as too strong for him. All the thin incapacity of that shado wy f igure w as pitilessly

displa yed; the desperate narro wness in that long, pale face; the w ambling look of

those pale, well-kept hands ² all that made him such a ghost of a man. But his nasal,

dogmatic voice rose and rose.

³There¶s nothing for it but bracing up! We must cut a w a y all this State support; we

must teach them to rely on themsel v es. It¶s all sheer pauperisation.´

And suddenly there shot through me the f ear that he might burst one of those little

blue v eins in his pale forehead, so v ehement had he become; and hastily I changed

the subject.



³Do y ou like li v ing up there with y our aunt?´ I asked: ³Isn¶t it a bit quiet?´

He turned, as if I had a w akened him from a dream.

³Oh, well!´ he said, ³it¶s only till I get this jo b.´

³Let me see ² ho w long is it since y ou ²²?´

³Four years. She¶s v er y glad to hav e me, of course.´

³And ho w¶s y our brother Claud?´

³Oh! All right, thanks; a bit w orried with the estate. The poor old gov ¶nor lef t it in

rather a mess, y ou kno w.´

³Ah! Yes. Does he do other w ork?´

³Oh! Alw a ys busy in the parish.´

³And y our brother Richard?´

³He¶s all right. Came home this year. Got just enough to li v e on, with his pension ²

hasn¶t sav ed a rap, of course.´

³And Willie? Is he still delicate?´

³Yes.´

³I¶m sorr y.´

³Easy jo b, his, y ou kno w. And e v en if his health does gi v e out, his college pals will

alw a ys f ind him some sort of sinecure. So jolly popular, old Willie!´

³And Alan? I hav en¶t heard anything of him since his Peru v ian thing came to grief . He

married, didn¶t he?´

³R ather! One of the Burleys. Nice girl ² heiress; lot of property in Hampshire. He

looks af ter it for her no w.´

³Doesn¶t do anything else, I suppose?´

³K eeps up his antiquarianism.´

I had exhausted the members of his family.

Then, as though by eliciting the good fortunes of his brothers I had cast some slur

upon himself , he said suddenly: ³If the railw a y had come, as it ought to hav e, while I

w as out there, I should hav e done quite well with my fruit farm.´

³Of course,´ I agreed; ³it w as bad luck. But af ter all, y ou¶re sure to get a jo b soon, and

² so long as y ou can li v e up there with y our aunt ² y ou can afford to w ait, and not

bother.´

³Yes,´ he murmured. And I got up.

³Well, it¶s been v er y jolly to hear a bout y ou all!´

He follo wed me out.

³Aw f ully glad, old man,´ he said, ³to hav e seen y ou, and had this talk. I w as f eeling

rather lo w. W aiting to kno w whether I get that jo b ² it¶s not li v ely.´



He came do wn the Club steps with me. By the door of my ca b a loaf er w as standing; a

tall tatterdemalion with a pale, bearded face. My distant relati v e f ended him a w a y,

and leaning through the windo w, murmured: ³Aw f ul lot of these chaps a bout no w!´

For the lif e of me I could not help looking at him v er y straight. But no f licker of

apprehension crossed his face.

³Well, good-by again!´ he said: ³Y ou¶ v e cheered me up a lot!´

I glanced back from my mov ing ca b. Some mon etar y transaction w as passing between

him and the loaf er, but, short-sighted as I am, I found it diff icult to decide which of

those tall, pale, bearded f igures w as gi v ing the other one a penny. And by some

strange freak an a w f ul v ision shot up before me ² of myself , and my distant relati v e,

and Claud, and Richard, and Willie, and Alan, all suddenly relying on oursel v es. I

took out my handkerchief to mop my bro w; but a thought struck me, and I put it

back. W as it possible for me, and my distant relati v es, and their distant relati v es, and

so on to inf inity of those who be longed to a class prov ided by birth with a certain

position, raised by Prov idence on to a platform made up of money inherited, of

interest, of education f itting us for certain pri v ileged pursuits, of friends similarly

endo wed, of substantial homes, and substantial relati v es of some sort or other, on

whom we could fall back ² w as it possible for any of us e v er to be in the position of

hav ing to rely a bsolutely on oursel v es? For se v eral minutes I pondered that question;

and slo wly I came to the conclusion that, short of crime, or that unlikely e v ent,

marooning, it w as not possible. Ne v er, ne v er ² tr y as we might ² could any single

one of us be quite in the position of one of those whose approaching pauperisation

my distant relati v e had so v ehemently deplored. We were already pauperised. If we

serv ed our countr y, we were pensioned.... If we inherited land, it could not be taken

from us. If we went into the Church, we were there for lif e, whether we were suita ble

or no. If we attempted the more hazardous occupations of the la w, medicine, the arts,

or business, there were alw a ys those homes, those relations, those friends of ours to

fall back on, if we failed. No! We could ne v er hav e to rely entirely on oursel v es; we

could ne v er be pauperised more than we were already! And a light burst in on me.

That explained why my distant relati v e f elt so keenly. It bit him, for he sa w, of course,

ho w dreadf ul it w ould be for these poor people of the w orking classes when

legislation had succeeded in placing them in the humiliating position in which we

already were ² the dreadf ul position of hav ing something to depend on apart from

our o wn exertions, some sort of security in our li v es. I sa w it no w. It w as his secret

pride, gna wing at him all the time, that made him so ra bid on the point. He w as

longing, doubtless, da y and night, not to hav e had a father who had land, and had lef t



a sister well enough off to keep him while he w as w aiting for his jo b. He must be

f eeling ho w horribly degrading w as the position of Claud ² inheriting that land; and

of Richard, who, just because he had serv ed in the Indian Ci v il Serv ice, had got to li v e

on a pension all the rest of his da ys; and of Willie, who w as in danger at any moment,

if his health ² alw a ys delicate ² gav e out, of hav ing a sinecure found for him by his

college friends; and of Alan, whose educated charm had ena bled him to marr y an

heiress and li v e by managing her estates. All, all sapped of go and foresight and

perse v erance by a cruel Prov idence! That w as what he w as really f eeling, and

concealing, be cause he w as too well-bred to sho w his secret grief . And I f elt suddenly

quite w arm to w ard him, no w that I sa w ho w he w as suff ering. I understood ho w

bound he f elt in honour to combat with all his force this attempt to place others in his

o wn distressing situation. At the same time I w as honest enough to conf ess to myself

sitting there in the ca b ² that I did not personally share that pride of his, or f eel that I

w as being rotted by my o wn position; I e v en f elt some dim gratitude that if my

po wers gav e out at any time, and I had not sav ed anything, I should still not be lef t

destitute to face the prospect of a bleak and impov erished old age; and I could not

help a weak pleasure in the thought that a certain relati v e security w as being

guaranteed to those people of the w orking classes who had ne v er had it before. At the

same moment I quite sa w that to a prouder and stronger heart it must indeed be

bitter to hav e to sit still under y our o wn security, and e v en more bitter to hav e to

w atch that pauperising security coming closer and closer to others ² for the generous

soul is alw a ys more concerned for others than for himself . No doubt, I thought, if

truth were kno wn, my distant relati v e is consumed with longing to change places with

that loaf er who tried to open the door of my ca b ² for surely he must see, as I do, that

that is just what he himself ² hav ing failed to stand the pressure of competition in his

lif e ² w ould be doing if it were not for the accident of his birth, which has so

lamenta bly insured him against coming to that.

³Yes,´ I thought, ³y ou hav e learnt something toda y; it does not do, y ou see, hastily to

despise those distant relati v es of y ours, who talk a bout pauperising and molly-

coddling the lo wer classes. No, no! One must look deeper than that! One must hav e

generosity!´

And with that I stopped the ca b and got out for I w anted a breath of air.

1911

THEd

e A CK f ODMOTHER



Sitting out on the la wn at tea with our friend and his retrie v er, we had been

discussing those massacres of the helpless which had of late occurred, and w ondering

that they should hav e been committed by the soldier y of so ci v ilised a State, when, in

a momentar y pause of our astonishment, our friend, who h ad been listening in

silence, crumpling the drooping sof t ear of his dog, looked up and said, ³The cause of

atrocities is generally the v iolence of Fear. Panic¶s at the back of most crimes and

follies.´

K no wing that his philosophical statements were alw a ys the result of concrete

instance, and that he w ould not tell us what that instance w as if we asked him ² such

being his nature ² we were caref ul not to agree.

He gav e us a look out of those eyes of his, so like the eyes of a mild eagle, and said

a bruptly: ³What do y ou sa y to this, then?..... I w as out in the dog-da ys last year with

this f ello w of mine, looking for Osmunda, and sta yed some da ys in a v illage ² ne v er

mind the name. Coming back one e v ening from my tramp, I sa w some bo ys stoning a

mealy-coloured dog. I went up and told the y oung de v ils to stop it. They only looked

at me in the injured w a y bo ys do, and one of them called out, µIt¶s mad, gu v ¶nor!¶ I

told them to clear off , and they took to their heels. The dog follo wed me. It w as a

y oung, legg y, mild looking mongrel, cross ² I should sa y ² between a bro wn

retrie v er and an Irish terrier. There w as froth a bout its lips, and its eyes were w ater y;

it looked indeed as if it might be in distemper. I w as afraid of inf ection for this f ello w

of mine, and whene v er it came too close shooed it a w a y, till at last it slunk off

altogether. Well, a bout nine o¶clock, when I w as settling do wn to w rite by the open

windo w of my sitting-room ² still da ylight, and v er y quiet and w arm ² there began

that most maddening sound, the barking of an unhapp y dog. I could do nothing with

that continual µ Y ap y ap!¶ going on, and it w as too hot to shut the windo w; so I went

out to see if I could stop it. The men were all at the pub, and the w omen just f inished

with their gossip; there w as no sound at all but the continual barking of this dog,

somewhere a w a y out in the f ields. I trav elled by ear across three meado ws, till I came

on a ha y-stack by a pool of w ater. There w as the dog sure enough ² the same mealy-

coloured mongrel, tied to a stake, y apping, and making frantic little runs on a bit of

rusty chain; whirling round and round the stake, then standing quite still, and

shi v ering. I went up and spoke to it, but it backed into the ha y-stack, and there it

sta yed shrinking a w a y from me, with its tongue hanging out. It had been heav ily

struck by something on the head; the cheek w as cut, one eye half -closed, and an ear

badly sw ollen. I tried to get hold of it, but the poor thing w as beside itself with f ear. It

snapped and f lew round so that I had to gi v e it up, and sit do wn with this f ello w here



beside me, to tr y and quiet it ² a strange dog, y ou kno w, will generally form his

estimate of y ou from the w a y it sees y ou treat another dog. I had to sit there quite half

an hour before it w ould let me go up to it, pull the stake out, and lead it a w a y. The

poor beast, though it w as so f eeble from the blo ws it had recei v ed, w as still half -

frantic, and I didn¶t dare to touch it; and all the time I took good care that this f ello w

here didn¶t come too near. Then came the question what w as to be done. There w as

no v et, of course, and I¶d no place to put it except my sitting-room, which didn¶t

belong to me. But, looking at its battered head, and its half -mad eyes, I thought: µNo

trusting y ou with these bumpkins; y ou¶ll hav e to come in here for the night!¶ Well, I

got it in, and heaped tw o or three of those hair y little red rugs landladies are so fond

of , up in a corner; and got it on to them, and put do wn my bread and milk. But it

w ouldn¶t eat ² its sense of proportion w as all gone, fairly destro yed by terror. It la y

there moaning, and e v er y no w and then it raised its head with a µ y ap¶ of sheer fright,

dreadf ul to hear, and bit the air, as if its enemies were on it again; and this f ello w of

mine la y in the opposite corner, with his head on his pa w, w atching it. I sat up for a

long time with that poor beast, sick enough, and w ondering ho w it had come to be

stoned and kicked and battered into this state; and next da y I made it my business to

f ind out.´

Our friend paused, scanned us a little angrily, and then went on: ³It had made its f irst

appearance, it seems, follo wing a bicyclist. There are men, y ou kno w ² sav e the mark

² who, when their beasts get ill or too expensi v e, jump on their bicycles and take

them for a quick run, taking care ne v er to look behind them. When they get back

home they sa y: µHallo! where¶s Fido?¶ Fido is no where, and there¶s an end! Well, this

poor pupp y gav e up just as it got to our v illage; and, roaming shout in search of w ater,

attached itself to a farm la bourer. The man with excellent intentions ² as he told me

himself ² tried to take hold of it, but too a bruptly, so that it w as startled, and

snapped at him. Whereon he kicked it for a dangerous cur, and it went drif ting back

to w ard the v illage, and f ell in with the bo ys coming home from school. It thought, no

doubt, that they were going to kick it too, and nipped one of them who took it by the

collar. Thereupon they hulla balooed and stoned it do wn the road to where I found

them. Then I put in my little bit of torture, and drov e it a w a y, through f ear of

inf ection to my o wn dog. A f ter that it seems to hav e fallen in with a man who told me:

µ Well, y ou see, he came sneakin¶ round my house, with the children pla yin¶, and

snapped at them when they went to stroke him, so that they came running in to their

mother, an¶ she¶ called to me in a f ine takin¶ a bout a mad dog. I ran out with a shov el

and gav e ¶im one, and drov e him out. I¶m sorr y if he w asn¶t mad, he looked it right





³And what became of the poor dog?´ one of us asked at last.

³When,´ said our friend slo wly, ³I¶d had my f ill of w atching, I cov ered it with a rug,

took this f ello w a w a y with me, and went to bed. There w as nothing else to do. At

da wn I w as a w akened by three dreadf ul cries ² not like a dog¶s at all. I hurried do wn.

There w as the poor beast ² w riggled out from under the rug-stretched on its side,

dead. This f ello w of mine had follo wed me in, and he went and sat do wn by the body.

When I spoke to him he just looked round, and w agged his tail along the ground, but

w ould not come a w a y; and there he sat till it w as buried, v er y interested, but not sorr y

at all.´

Our friend w as silent, looking angrily at something in the distance.

And we, too, were silent, seeing in spirit that v igil of early morning: The thin, lif eless,

sandy-coloured body, stretched on those red mats; and this black creature ² no w

lying at our f eet ² propped on its haunches like the dog in ³The Death of Procris,´

patient, curious, ungrie v ed, staring do wn at it with his bright, interested eyes.

191 g .

THE h RA i Dp

URY ² I i T W O P A i Eq S A i D A r

RA ME

Read that piece of paper, which summoned me to sit on the Grand Jur y at the

approaching Sessions, lying in a scoop of the shore close to the great rollers of the sea

² that span of eternal freedom, depri v ed just there of too great liberty by the w ord

³Atlantic.´ And I remember thinking, as I read, that in each breaking w av e w as some

particle which had v isited e v er y shore in all the w orld ² that in each sparkle of hot sunlight stealing that bright w ater up into the sky, w as the microcosm of all change,

and of all unity.

P A s

Et

I

In answer to that piece of paper, I presented myself at the proper place in due course

and with a certain trepidation. What w as it that I w as a bout to do? For I had no

experience of these things. And, being too early, I w alked a little to and fro, looking at

all those my partners in this matter of the purif ication of Society. Prosecutors,

witnesses, off icials, policemen, detecti v es, undetected, pressmen, barristers, loaf ers,

clerks, cadgers, jur ymen. And I remember hav ing something of the f eeling that one

has when one looks into a sink without holding one¶s nose. There w as such uneasy

hurr y, so strange a disenchanted look, a sort of spiritual dirt, a bout all that place, and

there were ² faces! And I thought: To them my face must seem as their faces seem to

me!



Soon I w as taken with my accomplices to hav e my name called, and to be sw orn. I do

not remember much a bout that process, too occupied with w ondering what these

companions of mine were like; but presently we all came to a long room with a long

ta ble, where nineteen lists of indictments and nineteen pieces of blotting paper were

set alongside nineteen pens. We did not, I recollect, speak much to one another, but

sat do wn, and studied those nineteen lists. We had eighty-se v en cases on which to

pronounce whether the bill w as true or no; and the clerk assured us we should get

through them in tw o da ys at most. O v er the top of these indictments I regarded my

eighteen f ello ws. There w as in me a hunger of inquir y, as to what they thought a bout

this business; and a sort of sorro w f ul aff ection for them, as if we were all a ship¶s

company bound on some strange and a wkw ard expedition. I w ondered, till I thought

my w onder must be coming through my eyes, whether they had the same curious

sensation that I w as f eeling, of doing something illegitimate, which I had not been

born to do, together with a sense of self -importance, a sort of unholy interest in thus

dealing with the li v es of my f ello w men. And slo wly, w atching them, I came to the

conclusion that I need not w onder. All with the exception perhaps of tw o, a painter

and a Jew looked such good citizens. I became gradually sure that they were not

troubled with the lap and w ash of speculation; unclogged by any de vastating sense of

unity; pure of doubt, and undef iled by an uneasy conscience.

But no w they began to bring us in the e v idence. They brought it quickly. And at f irst

we looked at it, whate v er it w as, with a sort of solemn excitement. Were we not

ar biters of men¶s fates, purif iers of Society, more important by far than Judge or

Common Jur y? For if we did not bring in a true bill there w as an end; the accused

w ould be discharged.

We set to w ork, slo wly at f irst, then faster and still faster, bringing in true bills; and

af ter e v er y one making a mark in our lists so that we might kno w where we were. We

brought in true bills for burglar y, and false pretences, larceny, and fraud; we brought

them in for manslaughter, rape, and arson. When we had ten or so, tw o of us w ould

get up and bear them a w a y do wn to the Court belo w and la y them before the Judge.

³Thank y ou, gentlemen!´ he w ould sa y, or w ords to that eff ect; and we w ould go up

again, and go on bringing in true bills. I noticed tha t at the e v idence of each fresh bill

we looked with a little less excitement, and a little less solemnity, making e v er y time a

shorter tick and a shorter note in the margin of our lists. All the bills we had ² f if ty-

se v en ² we brought in true. And the morning and the af ternoon made that da y, till

we rested and went to our homes.



Next da y we were all back in our places at the appointed hour, and, not greeting each

other much, at once began to bring in bills. We brought them in, not quite so fast, as

though some lurking megrim, some micro be of dissatisfaction with oursel v es w as at

w ork within us. It w as as if we w anted to thro w one out, as if we f elt our w ork too

perf ect. And presently it came. A case of defrauding one Sophie Liebermann, or

Laubermann, or some such foreign name, by gi v ing her one of those f i v e-pound

Christmas-card banknotes just then in fashion, and recei v ing from her, as she alleged,

three real sov ereigns change. There w as a certain piquancy a bout the matter, and I

well remember noticing ho w we sat a little for w ard and turned in our seats when they

brought in the prosecutrix to gi v e e v idence. Pale, self -possessed, dressed in black, and

rather comely, neither brazen nor f urti v e, speaking but poor English, her broad,

matter-of -fact face, with its wide-set grey eyes and thickish nose and lips, made on

me, I recollect, an impression of rather stupid honesty. I do not think they had told us

in so many w ords what her calling w as, nor do I remember whether she actually

disclosed it, but by our demeanour I could tell that we had all realized what w as the

nature of the serv ice rendered to the accused, in return for which he had gi v en her

this w orthless note. In her rather guttural but pleasant voice she answered all our

questions ² not v er y far from tears, I think, but sav ed by nati v e stolidity, and perhaps

a little by the f ear that purif iers of Society might not be the proper audience for

emotion. When she had lef t us we recalled the detecti v e, and still, as it were, touching

the delicate matter with the tips of our tongues, so as not, being men of the w orld, to

seem biassed against anything, we def initely elicited from him her prof ession and

these w ords: ³If she¶s speaking the truth, gentlemen; but, as y ou kno w, these w omen,

they don¶t alw a ys, specially the foreign ones!´ When he, too, had gone, we looked at

each other in unw onted silence. None of us quite liked, it seemed, to be f irst to speak.

Then our foreman said: ³There¶s no doubt, I think, that he gav e her the note ² mean

trick, of course, but we can¶t hav e him on that alone ² bit too irregular ² no

consideration in la w, I take it.´

He smiled a little at our smiles, and then went on: ³The question, gentlemen, really

seems to be, are we to take her w ord that she actually gav e him change?´ A gain, for

quite half a minute; we were silent, and then, the fattest one of us said, suddenly:

³Ver y dangerous ² goin¶ on the w ord of these w omen.´

And at once, as if he had released something in our souls, we all (sav e tw o or three)

broke out. It w ouldn¶t do! It w asn¶t saf e! Seeing what these w omen were! It w as

exactly as if , without w ord said, we had each been swearing the other to some secret

compact to protect Society. As if we had been whispering to each other something like



this: ³These w omen ² of course, we need them, but for all that we can¶t possibly

recognise them as within the La w; we can¶t do that without endangering the saf ety of

e v er y one of us. In this matter we are trustees for all men ² indeed, e v en for

oursel v es, for who kno ws at what moment we might n ot oursel v es require their

serv ices, and it w ould be exceedingly a wkw ard if their w ord were considered the

equal of our o wn!´ Not one of us, certainly said anything so crude as this; none the

less did many of us f eel it. Then the foreman, looking slo wly round the ta ble, said:

³Well, gentlemen, I think we are all agreed to thro w out this bill´; and all, except the

painter, the Jew, and one other, murmured: ³Yes.´ And, as though, in thro wing out

this bill we had cast some trouble off our minds, we went on with the greater speed,

bringing in true bills. About tw o o¶clock we f inished, and trooped do wn to the Court

to be released. On the stair w a y the Jew came close, and, hav ing examined me a little

sharply with his v el v ety slits of eyes, as if to see that he w as not making a mistake,

said: ³Ith fonny ² we bring in eighty thix bills true, and one we thro w out, and the

one we thro w out we kno w it to be true, and the dirtieth jo b of the whole lot. Ith

fonny!´ ³Yes,´ I answered him, ³our sense of respecta bility does seem excessi v e.´ But

just then we reached the Court, where, in his red ro be and grey wig, with his clear-

cut, handsome face, the judge seemed to shine and radiate, like sun through gloom. ³I

thank y ou, gentlemen,´ he said, in a voice courteous and a little mocking, as though

he had somewhere seen us before: ³I thank y ou for the w a y in which y ou hav e

performed y our duties. I hav e not the pleasure of assigning to y ou anything for y our

serv ices except the pri v ilege of going ov er a prison, where y ou will be a ble to see what

sort of existence a w aits many of those to whose cases y ou hav e de voted so much of

y our valua ble time. Y ou are released, gentlemen.´

Looking at each, other a little hurriedly, and not taking too much farewell, for f ear of

hav ing to meet again, we separated.

I w as, then, free ² free of the injunction of that piece of paper reposing in my pocket.

Yet its inf luence w as still upon me. I did not hurr y a w a y, but lingered in the courts,

fascinated by the notion that the fate of each prisoner had f irst passed through my

hands. At last I made an effort, and went out into the corridor. There I passed a

w oman whose f igure seemed familiar. She w as sitting with her hands in her lap

looking straight before her, pale-faced and not uncomely, with thickish mouth and

nose ² the w oman whose bill we had thro wn out. Why w as she sitting there? Had she

not then realised that we had quashed her claim; or w as she, like myself , kept here by

mere attraction of the La w? Follo wing I kno w not what impulse, I said: ³Y our case

w as dismissed, w asn¶t it?´ She looked up at me stolidly, and a tear, which had



e v idently been long gathering, dropped at the mov ement. ³I do nod kno w; I w aid to

see,´ she said in her thick voice; ³I tink there has been mistake.´ My face, no doubt,

betra yed something of my sentiments a bout her case, for the thick tears began rolling

fast do wn her pasty cheeks, and her pent-up f eeling suddenly f lo wed forth in w ords:

³I w ork µard; Gott! ho w I w ork hard! And there gomes dis liddle beastly man, and ro b

me. And they sa y: µ Ah! yes; but y ou are a bad w oman, we don¶ trust y ou ² y ou speak

lie.¶ But I speak druth, I am nod a bad w oman ² I gome from Hamburg.´ ³Yes, yes,´ I

murmured; ³yes, yes.´ ³I do not kno w this countr y well, sir. I speak bad English. Is

that why they do not drust my w ord?´ She w as silent for a moment, searching my

face, then broke out again: ³It is all µard w ork in my prof ession, I make v er y liddle, I

cannot afford to be ro b. Without the men I cannod make my li v ing, I must drust them

² and they ro b me like this, it is too µard.´ And the slo w tears rolled faster and faster

from her eyes on to her hands and her black lap. Then quietly, and looking for a

moment singularly like a big, unhapp y child, she asked: ³Will y ou blease dell me, sir,

why they will not gi v e me the la w of that dirty little man?´

I knew ² and too well; but I could not tell her.

³Y ou see,´ I said, ³it¶s just a case of y our w ord against his.´ ³Oh! no; but,´ she said

eagerly, ³he gi v e me the note ² I w ould not hav e taken it if I µad not thought it good,

w ould I? That is sure, isn¶t it? But f i v e pounds it is not my price. It must that I gi v e

¶im change! Those gentlemen that heard my case, they are men of business, they must

kno w that it is not my price. If I could tell the judge ² I think he is a man of business

too he w ould kno w that too, for sure. I am not so y oung. I am not so v eree beautif ul as

all that; he must see, mustn¶t he, sir?´

At my wits¶ end ho w to answer that most strange question, I stammered out: ³But,

y ou kno w, y our prof ession is outside the la w.´

At that a slo w anger dyed her face. She looked do wn; then, suddenly lif ting one of her

dirty, unglov ed hands, she laid it on her breast with the gesture of one baring to me

the truth in her heart. ³I am not a bad w oman,´ she said: ³Dat beastly little man, he

do the same as me ² I am free-w oman, I am not a slav e bound to do the same

tomorro w night, no more than he. Such like him make me what I am; he hav e all the

pleasure, I hav e all the w ork. He gi v e me noding ² he ro b my poor money, and he

make me seem to strangers a bad w oman. Oh, dear! I am not happ y!´

The impulse I had been hav ing to press on her the money, died within me; I f elt

suddenly it w ould be another insult. From the mov ement of her f ingers a bout her

heart I could not but see that this grief of hers w as not a bout the money. It w as the

inarticulate outburst of a bitter sense of deep injustice; of all the dumb w ondering at



her o wn fate that went a bout with her behind that broad stolid face and bosom. This

loss of the money w as but a symbol of the f urti v e, hopeless insecurity she li v ed with

da y and night, no w forced into the light, for herself and all the w orld to see. She f elt it

suddenly a bitter, unfair thing. This beastly little man did not share her insecurity.

None of us shared it ² none of us, who had brought her do wn to this. And, quite

una ble to explain to her ho w natural and proper it all w as, I only murmured: ³I am

sorr y, a w f ully sorr y,´ and f led a w a y.

P A u

Ev

II

It w as just a week later when, hav ing for passport my Grand Jur y summons, I

presented myself at that prison where we had the pri v ilege of seeing the existence to

which we had assisted so many of the eighty-six.

³I¶m afraid,´ I said to the guardian of the gate, ³that I am rather late in availing myself

² the others, no doubt ²²?´

³Not at all, sir,´ he said, smiling. ³Y ou¶re the f irst, and if y ou¶ll excuse me, I think

y ou¶ll be the last. Will y ou w ait in here while I send for the chief w arder to take y ou

ov er?´

He sho wed me then to what he called the W arder¶s Librar y ² an iron-barred room,

more bare and bro wn than any I had seen since I lef t school. While I stood there

w aiting and staring out into the prison court-y ard, there came, rolling and rumbling

in, a Black Maria. It drew up with a clatter, and I sa w through the barred door the

single prisoner ² a y oung girl of perhaps eighteen ² dressed in rusty black. She w as

resting her forehead against a bar and looking out, her quick, narro w dark eyes taking

in her new surroundings with a sort of sharp, restless indiff erence; and her pale, thin-

upped, oval face quite expressionless. Behind those bars she seemed to me for all the

w orld like a little animal of the cat tribe being brought in to her Zoo. Me she did not

see, but if she had I f elt she w ould not shrink ² only gi v e me the same sharp,

indiff erent look she w as gi v ing all else. The policeman on the step behind had

disappeared at once, and the dri v er no w got do wn from his perch and, coming round,

began to gossip with her. I sa w her slink her eyes and smile at him, and he smiled

back; a large man; not unkindly. Then he returned to his horses, and she sta yed as

before, with her forehead against the bars, just staring out. W atching her like that,

unseen, I seemed to be a ble to see right through that tight-lipped, lynx-eyed mask. I

seemed to kno w that little creature through and through, as one kno ws anything that

one surprises off its guard, sunk in its most pri vate moods. I seemed to see her little

restless, f urti v e, utterly unmoral soul, so stripped of all def ence, as if she had taken it



from her heart and handed it out to me. I sa w that she w as one of those whose hands

slip as indiff erently into others¶ pockets as into their o wn; incapa ble of f idelity, and

incapa ble of trusting; quick as cats, and as de void of application; ready to scratch,

ready to purr, ready to scratch again; quick to change, and secretly as unchangea ble

as a little pebble. And I thought: ³Here we are, taking her to the Zoo (by no means for

the f irst time, if demeanour be any guide), and we shall put her in a cage, and make

her sew, and gi v e her good books which she will not read; and she will sew, and w alk

up and do wn, until we let her out; then she will return to her old haunts, and at once

go pro wling and do exactly the same again, what e v er it w as, until we catch her and

lock her up once more. And in this w a y we shall go on purif ying Society until she

dies.´ And I thought: If indeed she had been created cat in body as well as in soul, we

should not hav e treated her thus, but should hav e said: µGo on, little cat, y ou scratch

us sometimes, y ou steal of ten, y ou are as sensual as the night. All this we cannot help.

It is y our nature. So were y ou made ² we kno w y ou cannot change ² y ou amuse us!

Go on, little cat!¶ W ould it not then be better, and less savour y of humbug if we said

the same to her whose cat-soul has chanced into this human shape? For assuredly she

will but pilf er, and scratch a little, and be mildly v icious, in her little lif e, and do no

desperate harm, hav ing but poor capacity for e v il behind that petty, thin-upped mask.

What is the good of all this padlock business for such as she; are we not making

mountains out of her mole hills? Where is our sense of proportion, and our sense of

humour? Why tr y to alter the make and shape of Nature with our petty chisels? Or, if

we must take care of her, to sav e oursel v es, in the name of Heav en let us do it in a

better w a y than this! And suddenly I remembered that I w as a Grand Jur yman, a

purif ier of Society, who had brought her bill in true; and, that I might not think th ese

thoughts unw orthy of a good citizen, I turned my eyes a w a y from her and took up my

list of indictments. Yes, there she w as, at least so I decided: Number 42, ³Pilson,

Jenny: Larceny, pocket-picking.´ And I turned my memor y back to the e v idence

a bout her case, but I could not remember a single w ord. In the margin I had noted:

³Incorrigible from a child up; bad surroundings.´ And a mad impulse came ov er me

to go back to my windo w and call through the bars to her: ³Jenny Pilson! Jenny

Pilson! It w as I who bred y ou and surrounded y ou with e v il! It w as I who caught y ou

for being what I made y ou! I brought y our bill in true! I judged y ou, and I caged y ou!

Jenny Pilson! Jenny Pilson!´ But just as I reached the windo w, the door of my

w aiting-room w as fortunately opened, and a voice said: ³No w, sir; at y our serv ice!´...

I sat again in that scoop of the shore by the long rolling seas, bur ying in the sand the

piece of paper which had summoned me a w a y to my Grand Jur y; and the same



thoughts came to me with the breaking of the w av es that had come to me before:

Ho w, in e v er y w av e w as a particle that had kno wn the shore of e v er y land; and in

each sparkle of the hot sunlight stealing up that bright w ater into the sky, the

microcosm of all change and of all unity!

1912.

GOw E

Not possible to concei v e of rarer beauty than that which clung a bout the summer da y

three years ago when f irst we had the news of the poor Herds. Lov eliness w as a net of

golden f ilaments in which the w orld w as caught. It w as grav ity itself , so tranquil; and

it w as a sort of intoxicating laughter. From the top f ield that we crossed to go do wn to

their cottage, all the far sweep of those outstretched wings of beauty could be seen.

Ver y w onderf ul w as the poise of the sacred bird, that mov ed no where but in our

hearts. The lime-tree scent w as just stealing out into air for some da ys already beref t

of the scent of ha y; and the sun w as falling to his e v ening home behind our pines and

beeches. It w as no more than radiant w arm. And, as we went, we w ondered why we

had not been told before that Mrs. Herd w as so v er y ill. It w as foolish to w onder ²

these people do not speak of suff ering till it is late. To speak, when it means what this

meant loss of wif e and mother ² w as to f latter reality too much. To be healthy, or ²

die! That is their creed. To go on till they drop ² then v er y soon pass a w a y! What

room for states between ² on their poor w age, in their poor cottages?

We crossed the mill-stream in the hollo w ² to their white, thatched dwelling; silent, already a wed, almost resentf ul of this so- var ying Scheme of Things. At the gatew a y

Herd himself w as standing, just in from his w ork. For w ork in the countr y does not

w ait on illness ² e v en death claims from its onlookers but a f ew hours, birth none at

all, and it is as well; for what must be must, and in w ork alone man rests from grief .

Sorro w and anxiety had made strange alteration already in Herd¶s face. Through

e v er y cre v ice of the rough, stolid mask the spirit w as peeping, a sort of qui v ering

suppliant, that seemed to ask all the time: ³Is it true?´ A regular cottager¶s f igure, this

of Herd¶s ² a la bourer of these parts ² strong, slo w, but acti v e, with just a touch of

the untamed somewhere, a bout the swing and carriage of him, a bout the strong ja w,

and wide thick-lipped mouth; just that something independent, which, in great

variety, clings to the nati v es of these still remote, half -pagan valleys by the moor.

We all mov ed silently to the lee of the outer w all, so that our voices might not carr y up

to the sick w oman lying there under the eav es, almost within hand reach. ³Yes, sir.´

³No, sir.´ ³Yes, ma¶am.´ This, and the constant, unforgetta ble supplication of his eyes,



w as all that came from him; yet he seemed loath to let us go, as though he thought we

had some mysterious po wer to help him ² the magic, perhaps, of money, to those

who hav e none. Gratef ul at our promise of another doctor, a specialist, he yet seemed

with his eyes to sa y that he knew that such were only embroideries of Fate. And when

we had w rung his hand and gone, we heard him coming af ter us: His wif e had said

she w ould like to see us, please. W ould we come up?

An old w oman and Mrs. Herd¶s sister were in the sitting-room; they sho wed us to the

craz y, narro w stair w a y. Though we li v ed distant but four hundred y ards of a cro w¶s

f light, we had ne v er seen Mrs. Herd before, for that is the w a y of things in this land of

minding one¶s o wn business ² a slight, dark, girlish-looking w oman, almost quite

ref ined a w a y, and with those eyes of the dying, where the spirit is coming through, as

it only does when it kno ws that all is ov er except just the passing. She la y in a double

bed, with clean white sheets. A white-w ashed room, so lo w that the ceiling almost

touched our heads, some f lo wers in a bo wl, the small lattice windo w open. Though it

w as hot in there, it w as better far than the rooms of most families in to wns, li v ing on

a w age of twice as much; for here w as no sign of def eat in decency or cleanliness. In

her face, as in poor Herd¶s, w as that same strange mingling of resigned despair and

almost eager appeal, so terrible to disappoint. Yet, tr ying not to disappoint it, one f elt

guilty of treacher y: What w as the good, the kindness, in making this poor bird f lutter

still with hope against the bars, when fast prison had so surely closed in round her?

But what else could we do? We could not gi v e her those glib assurances that nai v e

souls make so easily to others concerning their af ter state.

Secretly, I think, we knew that her philosophy of calm reality, that queer and

unbidden gro wing tranquillity which precedes death, w as nearer to our o wn belief ,

than w ould be any gilt-edged orthodoxy; but ne v ertheless (such is the strength of

what is expected), we f elt it dreadf ul that we could not console her with the ordinar y

presumptions.

³Y ou mustn¶t gi v e up hope,´ we kept on sa ying: ³The new doctor will do a lot for y ou;

he¶s a specialist ² a v er y cle v er man.´

And she kept on answering: ³Yes, sir.´ ³Yes, ma¶am.´ But still her eyes went on asking,

as if there were something else she w anted. And then to one of us came an

inspiration:

³Y ou mustn¶t let y our husband w orr y a bout expense. That will be all right.´

She smiled then, as if the chief cloud on her soul had been the thought of the arrears

her illness and death w ould leav e weighing on him with whom she had shared this



bed ten years and more. And with that smile w arming the memor y of those spirit-

haunted eyes, we crept do wn-stairs again, and out into the f ields.

It w as more beautif ul than e v er, just touched already with e v ening myster y ² it w as

better than e v er to be ali v e. And the immortal w onder that has haunted man since

f irst he became man, and haunts, I think, e v en the animals ² the unanswera ble

question,² why jo y and beauty must e v er be w alking hand in hand with ugliness and

pain haunted us across those f ields of lif e and lov eliness. It w as all right, no doubt,

e v en reasona ble, since without dark there is no light. It w as part of that unending

sum whose answer is not gi v en; the merest little swing of the great pendulum! And

yet ²²! To accept this v iolent contrast without a sigh of re volt, without a question!

No sirs, it w as not so jolly as all that! That she should be dying there at thirty, of a

creeping malady which she might hav e checked, perhaps, if she had not had too man y

things to do for the children and husband, to do anything for herself ² if she had not

been forced to hold the creed: Be healthy, or die! This w as no doubt perf ectly

explica ble and in accordance with the Supreme Equation; yet we, enjo ying lif e, and

health, and ease of money, f elt horror and re volt on, this e v ening of such beauty. Nor

at the moment did we deri v e great comfort from the thought that lif e slips in and out

of sheath, like sun-sparks on w ater, and that of all the cloud of summer midges

dancing in the last gleam, not one w ould be ali v e tomorro w.

It w as three e v enings later that we heard uncertain footfalls on the f lagstones of the

v erandah, then a sort of brushing sound against the w ood of the long, open windo w.

Dra wing aside the curtain, one of us looked out. Herd w as standing there in the

bright moonlight, bareheaded, with roughened hair. He came in, and seeming not to

kno w quite where he went, took stand by the hearth, and putting up his dark hand,

gripped the mantelshelf . Then, as if recollecting himself , he said: ³Gude e v enin¶, sir;

beg pardon, M¶m.´ No more for a f ull minute; but his hand, taking some little china

thing, turned it ov er and ov er without ceasing, and do wn his broken face tears ran.

Then, v er y suddenly, he said: ³She¶s gone.´ And his hand turned ov er and ov er that

little china thing, and the tears went on rolling do wn. Then, stumbling, and sw a ying

like a man in drink, he made his w a y out again into the moonlight. We w atched him

across the la wn and path, and through the gate, till his footfalls died out there in the

f ield, and his f igure w as lost in the black shado w of the holly hedge.

And the night w as so beautif ul, so utterly, glamourously beautif ul, with its star-

f lo wers, and its silence, and its trees clothed in moonlight. All w as tranquil as a dream

of sleep. But it w as long before our hearts, w andering with poor Herd, w ould let us

remember that she had slipped a w a y into so beautif ul a dream.



The dead do not suff er from their rest in beauty. But the li v ing ²-!

1911.

THRESHIx G

When the drone of the thresher breaks through the autumn sighing of trees and wind, or through that stillness of the f irst frost, I get restless and more restless, till,

thro wing do wn my pen, I hav e gone out to see. For there is nothing like the sight of

threshing for making one f eel good ² not in the sense of comfort, but at heart. There,

under the pines and the already leaf less elms and beech-trees, close to the great

stacks, is the big, busy creature, with its small black puff ing engine astern; and there,

all around it, is that conglomeration of unsentimental la bour which in v ests all the

crises of farm w ork with such fascination. The crew of the farm is only f i v e all told,

but toda y they are f if teen, and none strangers, sav e the o wners of the trav elling

thresher.

They are w orking without respite and with little speech, not at all as if they had been

brought together for the benef it of some one else¶s corn, but as though they, one and

all, had a pri vate grudge against Time and a personal pleasure in f inishing this jo b,

which, while it lasts, is bringing them extra pa y and most excellent free f eeding. Just

as af ter a dilator y vo y age a crew will brace themsel v es for the run in, recording with

sudden energ y their consciousness of triumph ov er the elements, so on a farm the

harv ests of ha y and corn, sheep-shearing, and threshing will bring out in all a

common sentiment, a kind of sporting energ y, a def iant spurt, as it were, to score off Nature; for it is only a philosopher here and there among them, I think, who sees that

Nature is eager to be scored off in this fashion, being anxious that some one should

eat her kindly fruits.

With ceremonial as grav e as that which is at w ork within the thresher itself , the tasks

hav e been di v ided. At the root of all things, pitchforking from the stack, stands ² the

farmer, moustached, and alw a ys upright w as he not in the Yeomanr y?² dignif ied in a

hard black hat, no w aistcoat, and his w orking coat so ragged that it w ould ne v er cling

to him but for pure aff ection. Between him and the body of the machine are f i v e more

pitch forks, directing the pale f lood of ra w material. There, amongst them, is poor

Herd, still so sad from his summer loss, plodding doggedly a w a y. To w atch him e v en

no w makes one f eel ho w terrible is that dumb grief which has ne v er learned to moan.

And there is George Yeoford, almost too so ber; and Murdon plying his pitchfork with

a supernatural regularity that cannot quite dim his queer brigand¶s face of dark, sof t

gloom shot with sudden humours, his sof t, dark corduro ys and battered hat.



Occasionally he stops, and taking off that hat, wipes his corrugated bro w under black

hair, and seems to brood ov er his o wn regularity.

Do wn here, too, where I stand, each separate f unction of the thresher has its

appointed slav e. Here Cedric rakes the chaff pouring from the side do wn into the

chaff -shed. Carting the stra w that streams from the thresher bo ws, are Michelmore

and Neck ² the little man who cannot read, but can milk and whistle the hearts out of

his co ws till they follo w him like dogs. At the thresher¶s stern is Morris, the dri v er,

selected because of that utter relia bility which radiates from his broad, handsome

face. His part is to attend the sacking of the three kinds of grain for e v er sie v ing out.

He murmurs: ³Busy w ork, sir!´ and opens a little door to sho w me ho w ³the

machiner y does it all,´ holding a sack between his knees and some string in his white

teeth. Then a w a y goes the sack ² four bushels, one hundred and sixty pounds of

³genuines, seconds, or seed´² wheeled by Cedric on a little trolley thing, to where

George-the-Gaul or Jim-the-Early-Saxon is w aiting to bear it on his back up the stone

steps into the corn-chamber.

It has been raining in the night; the ground is a churn of stra w and mud, and the trees

still drip; but no w there is sunlight, a sweet air, and clear sky, wine-coloured through

the red, naked, beechtwigs tipped with white untimely buds. Nothing can be more

lov ely than this late autumn da y, so still, sav e for the droning of the thresher and the

constant tinny chuckle of the grey, thin-headed Guinea-fo wl, dri v en by this business

a w a y from their usual haunts.

And soon the, f eeling that I knew w ould come begins creeping ov er me, the sense of

an extraordinar y sanity in this ne v er-ceasing harmonious la bour pursued in the

autumn air faintly perf umed with w ood-smoke, with the scent of chaff , and whiff s

from that black puff ing-Billy; the sense that there is nothing between this clean toil ²

not too hard but hard enough ² and the clean consumption of its clean results; the

sense that no body except myself is in the least conscious of ho w sane it all is. The

brains of these sane ones are all too busy with the real affairs of lif e, the disposition of

their w ages, anticipation of dinner, some girl, some junketing, some w ager, the last

rif le match, and, more than all, with that pleasant rhythmic nothingness, companion

of the busy swing and pla y of muscles, which of all states is secretly most akin to the

deep unconsciousness of lif e itself . Thus to w ork in the free air for the good of all and

the hurt of none, without w orr y or the breath of acrimony ² surely no phase of

human lif e so nears the lif e of the truly ci v ilised community ² the lif e of a hi v e of

bees. Not one of these w orking so sanely ² unless it be Morris, who will spend his

Sunda y af ternoon on some high rock just w atching sunlight and shado w drif ting on



the moors ² not one, I think, is distraught by perception of his o wn sanity, by

kno wledge of ho w near he is to Harmony, not e v en by appreciation of the still

radiance of this da y, or its innumera ble f ine shades of colour. It is all w ork, and no

moody consciousness ² all w ork, and will end in sleep.

I leav e them soon, and make my w a y up the stone steps to the ³corn chamber,´ where

tranquillity is cro wned. In the whitew ashed room the corn lies in drif ts and ridges,

three to four f eet deep, all sil v er y-dun, like some remote sand desert, lif eless beneath

the moon. Here it lies, and into it, staggering under the sacks, George-the-Gaul and

Jim-the-Early Saxon tramp up to their knees, spill the sacks ov er their heads, and out

again; and a bov e where their f eet hav e plunged the patient surface closes again,

smooth. And as I stand there in the door w a y, looking at that sil v er y corn drif t, I think

of the whole process, from seed so wn to the last sie v ing into this tranquil resting-

place. I think of the slo w, dogged ploughman, with the cro ws a bov e him on the wind;

of the swing of the so wer¶s arm, dark up against grey sky on the steep f ield. I think of

the seed snug-burro wing for saf ety, and its mysterious f erment under the w arm

Spring rain, of the sof t green shoots tapering up so shyly to w ard the f irst sun, and

hardening in air to thin wir y stalk. I think of the unnumera ble tiny beasts that hav e

jangled in that pale forest; of the winged blue jewels of butterf ly risen from it to hov er

on the wild-rustling blades; of that continual music pla yed there by the wind; of the

chicor y and popp y f lo wers that hav e been its lights-o¶ lov e, as it grew ta wny and f ull of

lif e, before the appointed date when it should return to its capti v ity. I think of that

slo w-trav elling hum and swish which laid it lo w, of the gathering to stack, and the

long w aiting under the rustle and drip of the sheltering trees, until yesterda y the hoot

of the thresher blew, and there began the falling into this dun sil v er y peace. Here it

will lie with the pale sun narro wly f iltering in on it, and by night the pale moon, till

slo wly, week by week, it is stolen a w a y, and its ridges and drif ts sink and sink, and the

beasts hav e eaten it all....

When the dusk is falling, I go out to them again. They hav e nearly f inished no w; the

chaff in the chaff -shed is mounting hillock-high; only the little barley stack remains

unthreshed. Mrs. George-the-Gaul is standing with a jug to gi v e drink to the tired

ones. Some stars are already netted in the branches of the pines; the Guinea-fo wl are

silent. But still the harmonious thresher hums and sho wers from three sides the

stra w, the chaff , the corn; and the men fork, and rake, and cart, and carr y, sleep

gro wing in their muscles, silence on their tongues, and the tranquillity of the long da y

nearly ended in their souls. They will go on till it is quite dark.

1911.



THA T O y D-TIME P y A CE

³Yes, suh ² here we are at that old-time place!´ And our dark dri v er drew up his little

v ictoria gently.

Through the open door w a y, into a dim, cav ernous, ruined house of New Orleans we

passed. The mildew and dirt, the dark denuded dankness of that old hostel, rotting

do wn with damp and time!

And our guide, the tall, thin, grey-haired dame, who came for w ard with such nati v e

ease and mov ed before us, touching this f ungused w all, that rusting stair w a y, and

telling, as it were, no one in her sof t, slo w speech, things that any one could see ²

what a strange and f itting f igure!

Before the smell of the deserted, oozing rooms, before that old creature leading us on

and on, negligent of all our questions, and talking to the air, as though we were not,

we f elt such discomfort that we soon made to go out again into such freshness as

there w as on that da y of dismal heat. Then realising, it seemed, that she w as losing us,

our old guide turned; for the f irst time looking in our faces, she smiled, and said in

her sweet, weak voice, like the sound from the strings of a spinet long unpla yed on:

³Don¶ y ou w ahnd to see the dome-room: an¶ all the other rooms right here, of this

old-time place?´

A gain those w ords! We had not the hearts to disappoint her. And as we follo wed on

and on, along the mouldering corridors and rooms where the black peeling papers

hung like stalactites, the dominance of our senses gradually dropped from us, and

with our souls we sa w its soul ² the soul of this old-time place; this mustering house

of the old South, beref t of all but ghosts and the grey pigeons niched in the rotting

galler y round a narro w courty ard open to the sky.

³This is the dome-room, suh and lady; right ov er the slav e -market it is. Here they did

the business of the State ² sure; old-time heroes up therein the roof ² W ashington,

Hamilton, Jeff erson, Dav is, Lee ² there they are! All gone ² no w! Yes, suh!´

A f ine ² yea, e v en a splendid room, of great height, and carv ed grandeur, with hand -

w rought bronze sconces and a band of metal bordering, all blackened with o bli v ion.

And the faces of those old heroes encircling that domed ceiling were blackened too,

and scarred with damp, bey ond recognition. Here, beneath their gaze, men had

banqueted and danced and ruled. The pride and might and v i v id strength of things

still f luttered their uneasy f lags of spirit, mov ed disherited wings! Those old-time

f easts and grav e discussions ² we seemed to see them printed on the thick air,

imprisoned in this great chamber built a bov e their dark foundations. The pride and

the might and the v i v id strength of things ² gone, all gone!



We became conscious again of that sof t, weak voice.

³Not hearing v er y well, suh, I hav e it all printed, lady ² beautif ully told here ² yes,

indeed!´

She w as putting cards into our hands; then, impassi v e, maintaining e v er her

impersonal chant, the guardian of past glor y led us on.

³No w we shall see the slav e-market ² do wnstairs, underneath! It¶s wet for the lady

the w ater comes in no w yes, suh!´

On the crumbling black and white mar ble f loorings the w ater indeed w as trickling

into pools. And do wn in the halls there came to us w andering ² strangest thing that

e v er stra yed through deserted grandeur ² a bro wn, broken horse, lean, with a sore

f lank and a head of tremendous age. It stopped and gazed at us, as though we might

be going to gi v e it things to eat, then passed on, stumbling ov er the ruined mar bles.

For a moment we had thought him ghost ² one of the many. But he w as not, since his

hoof s sounded. The scrambling clatter of them had died out into silence before we

came to that dark, cr y pt-like chamber whose mar ble columns were ringed in iron,

v erita ble pillars of foundation. And then we sa w that our old guide¶s hands were f ull

of newspapers. She struck a match; they caught f ire and blazed. Holding high that

torch, she said: ³See! Up there¶s his name, a bov e where he stood. The auctioneer. Oh

yes, indeed! Here¶s where they sold them!´

Belo w that name, deca ying on the w all, we had the slo w, uncanny f eeling of some one

standing there in the gleam and f licker from that paper torch. For a moment the

whole shado wy room seemed f ull of forms and faces. Then the torch lied out, and our

old guide, pointing through an archw a y with the blackened stump of it, said:

³¶T w as here they kept them indeed, yes!´

We sa w before us a sort of vault, stone-built, and lo w, and long. The light there w as

too dim for us to make out anything but w alls and heaps of rusting scrap-iron cast

a w a y there and mouldering o wn. But tr ying to pierce that darkness we became

conscious, as it seemed, of innumera ble eyes gazing, not at us, but t hrough the

archw a y where we stood; innumera ble white eyeballs gleaming out of blackness.

From behind us came a little laugh. It f loated past through the archw a y, to w ard those

eyes. Who w as that? Who laughed in there? The old South itself ² that incredible,

f ine, lost soul! That ³old-time´ thing of old ideals, blindfolded by its o wn histor y! That

queer proud blend of simple chi valr y and ty ranny, of piety and the a bhorrent thing!

Who w as it laughed there in the old slav e-market ² laughed at these white eyeballs

glaring from out of the blackness of their dark cattle-pen? What poor departed soul in



this House of Melancholy? But there w as no ghost when we turned to look ² only our

old guide with her sweet smile.

³Yes, suh. Here they all came ²¶tw as the f inest hotel ² before the w ar-time; old

Southern families ² buyin¶ an¶ sellin¶ their property. Yes, ma¶am, v er y interesting!

This w a y! And here were the bells to all the rooms. Broken, y ou see ² all broken!´

And rather quickly we passed a w a y, out of that ³old-time place´; where something

had laughed, and the drip, drip, drip of w ater do wn the w alls w as as the sound of a

spirit grie v ing.

1912.

R OM A CE ² THREEGLEA MS

I

On that New Year¶s morning when I drew up the blind it w as still nearly dark, but for

the faintest pink f lush glancing out there on the horizon of black w ater. The far shore

of the ri v er¶s mouth w as just sof t dusk; and the dim trees belo w me were in perf ect

stillness. There w as no lap of w ater. And then ² I sa w her, drif ting in on the tide-the

little ship, passaging belo w me, a happ y ghost. Like no thing of this w orld she came,

ending her f light, with sail-wings closing and her glo wing lantern eyes. There w as I

kno w not what of stealthy jo y a bout her thus creeping in to the unexpecting land. And

I wished she w ould ne v er pass, but go on gliding by do wn there for e v er with her dark

ropes, and her bright lanterns, and her mysterious f elicity, so that I might hav e for

e v er in my heart the blessed f eeling she brought me, coming like this out of that great

myster y the sea. If only she need not change to solidity, but e v er be this v isitor from

the unkno wn, this sacred bird, telling with her half -seen, trailing-do wn plume ² sails

the stor y of uncharted w onder. If only I might go on trembling, as I w as, with the

rapture of all I did not kno w and could not see, yet f elt pressing against me and

touching my face with its lips! To think of her at anchor in cold light w as like f linging-

to a door in the face of happiness. And just then she struck her bell; the faint sil v er y

far-do wn sound f led a w a y before her, and to e v er y side, out into the utter hush, to

discov er echo. But nothing answered, as if f earing to break the spell of her coming, to

brush with reality the dark sea dew from her sail-wings. But within me, in response,

there began the song of all unkno wn things; the song so tenuous, so ecstatic, that

seems to sweep and qui v er across such thin golden strings, and like an eager dream

dies too soon. The song of the secret-kno wing wind that has peered through so great

forests and ov er such wild sea; blo wn on so many faces, and in the jungles of the grass

the song of all that the wind has seen and f elt. The song of li v es that I should ne v er



li v e; of the lov es that I should ne v er lov e singlng to me as though I should! And

suddenly I f elt that I could not bear my little ship of dreams to gro w hard and grey,

her bright lanterns dro wned in the cold light, her dark ropes spider y and taut, her

sea-w an sails all f urled, and she no more en chanted; and turning a w a y I let fall the

curtain.

II

Then what happens to the moon? She, who, shy and v eiled, slips out before dusk to

take the air of heav en, w andering timidly among the columned clouds, and f ugiti v e

from the staring of the sun; she, who, when dusk has come, rules the sentient night

with such chaste and icy spell ² whither and ho w does she retreat?

I came on her one morning ² I surprised her. She w as stealing into a dark wintr y

w ood, and f i v e little stars were chasing her. She w as orange-hooded, a light-o¶-lov e

dismissed ² unashamed and unfatigued, hav ing taken ² all. And she w as looking

back with her almond eyes, across her dark-i vor y shoulder, at Night where he still la y

dro wned in the sleep she had brought him. What a strange, slo w, mocking look! So

might A phrodite herself hav e looked back at some wear y lov er, remembering the f ire

of his f irst embrace. Insatiate, smiling creature, slipping do wn to the rim of the w orld

to her bath in the sweet w aters of da wn, whence emerging, pure as a w ater lily, she

w ould f loat in the cool sky till e v ening came again! And just then she sa w me looking,

and hid behind a holm-oak tree; but I could still see the gleam of one shoulder and

her long narro w eyes pursuing me. I went up to the tree and parted its dark boughs to

take her; but she had slipped behind another. I called to her to stand, if only for one

moment. But she smiled and went slip ping on, and I ran thrusting through the wet

bushes, leaping the fallen trunks. The scent of rotting leav es distur bed by my f eet

leaped out into the darkness, and birds, surprised, f luttered a w a y. And still I ran ²

she slipping e v er f urther into the grov e, and e v er looking back at me. And I thought:

But I will catch y ou yet, y ou nymph of perdition! The w ood will soon be passed, y ou

will hav e no cov er then! And from her eyes, and the scanty gleam of her f lying limbs, I

ne v er looked a w a y, not e v en when I stumbled or ran against tree trunks in my blind

haste. And at e v er y clearing I f lew more f uriously, thinking to seize all of her with my

gaze before she could cross the glade; but e v er she found some little lo w tree, some

bush of birch ungro wn, or the far top branches of the next grov e to screen her f lying

body and preserv e allurement. And all the time she w as dipping, dipping to the rim of

the w orld. And then I tripped; but, as I rose, I sa w that she had lingered for me; her

long sliding eyes were f ull, it seemed to me, of pity, as if she w ould hav e liked for me



to hav e enjo yed the sight of her. I stood still, breathless, thinking that at last she

w ould consent; but f linging back, up into the air, one dark -i vor y arm, she sighed and

vanished. And the breath of her sigh stirred all the birch-tree twigs just coloured with

the da wn. Long I stood in that thicket gazing at the spot where she had leapt from me

ov er the edge of the w orld-my heart qui v ering.

III

We embarked on the estuar y steamer that winter morning just as da ylight came f ull.

The sun w as on the wing scattering little white clouds, as an eagle might scatter

dov es. They scurried up before him with their broken f eathers tipped and tinged with

gold. In the air w as a touch of frost, and a smoky mist-drif t clung here and there

a bov e the reeds, blurring the shores of the lagoon so that we seemed to be steaming

across boundless w ater, till some clump of trees w ould f ling its top out of the fog,

then fall back into whiteness.

And then, in that thick vapour, rounding I suppose some curv e, we came suddenly

into we knew not what ² all white and mov ing it w as, as if the mist were crazed;

murmuring, too, with a sort of restless beating. We seemed to be passing through a

ghost ² the ghost of all the lif e that had sprung from this w ater and its, shores; we

seemed to hav e lef t reality, to be trav elling through li v e w onder.

And the fantastic thought sprang into my mind: I hav e died. This is the vo y age of my

soul in the wild. I am in the f inal wilderness of spirits ² lost in the ghost ro be that

w raps the earth. There seemed in all this white murmuration to be millions of tiny

hands stretching out to me, millions of whispering voices, of wistf ul eyes. I had no

f ear, but a curious baked eagerness, the strangest f eeling of hav ing lost myself and

become part of this around me; exactly as if my o wn hands and voice and eyes had

lef t me and were groping, and whispering, and gazing out there in the eeriness. I w as

no longer a man on an estuar y steamer, but part of sentient ghostliness. Nor did I f eel

unhapp y; it seemed as though I had ne v er been anything but this Bedouin spirit

w andering.

We passed through again into the stillness of plain mist, and all those eerie sensations

went, leav ing nothing but curiosity to kno w what this w as that we had trav ersed.

Then suddenly the sun came f laring out, and we sa w behind us thousands and

thousands of white gulls dipping, wheeling, brushing the w ater with their wings,

bewitched with sun and mist. That w as all. And yet that white-winged legion through

whom we had ploughed our w a y were not, could ne v er be, to me just gulls ² there



w as more than mere sun-glamour gilding their misty plumes; there w as the wizardr y

of my past w onder, the enchantment of romance.

1912.

MEMORIES

We set out to meet him at W aterloo Station on a dull da y of Februar y ² I, who had

o wned his impetuous mother, kno wing a little what to expect, while to my companion

he w ould be all original. We stood there w aiting (for the Salisbur y train w as late), and

w ondering with a w arm, half -f earf ul eagerness what sort of new thread Lif e w as going

to twine into our skein. I think our chief dread w as that he might hav e light eyes ²

those yello w Chinese eyes of the common, parti-coloured spaniel. And each new

minute of the train¶s tardiness increased our anxious compassion: His f irst journey;

his f irst separation from his mother; this black tw o-months¶ ba by! Then the train ran

in, and we hastened to look for him. ³Hav e y ou a dog for us?´

³A dog! Not in this van. Ask the rearguard.´

³Hav e y ou a dog for us?´

³That¶s right. From Salisbur y. Here¶s y our wild beast, Sir!´

From behind a w ooden crate we sa w a long black muzzled nose poking round at us,

and heard a faint hoarse whimpering.

I remember my f irst thought:

³Isn¶t his nose too long?´

But to my companion¶s heart it went at once, because it w as sw ollen from cr ying and being pressed against things that he could not see through. We took him out ² sof t,

w o bbly, tearf ul; set him do wn on his four, as yet not quite simultaneous legs, and

regarded him. Or, rather, my companion did, hav ing her head on one side, and a

quav ering smile; and I regarded her, kno wing that I should thereby get a truer

impression of him.

He w andered a little round our legs, neither w agging his tail nor licking at our hands;

then he looked up, and my companion said: ³He¶s an angel!´

I w as not so certain. He seemed hammer-headed, with no eyes at all, and little

connection between his head, his body, and his legs. His ears were v er y long, as long

as his poor nose; and gleaming do wn in the blackness of him I could see the same

white star that disgraced his mother¶s chest.

Picking him up, we carried him to a four-wheeled ca b, and took his muzzle off . His

little dark-bro wn eyes were resolutely f ixed on distance, and by his ref usal to e v en

smell the biscuits we had brought to make him happ y, we knew that the human being



had not yet come into a lif e that had contained so far only a mother, a w ood -shed, and

four other sof t, w o bbly, black, hammer-headed angels, smelling of themsel v es, and

w armth, and w ood shav ings. It w as pleasant to f eel that to us he w ould surrender an

untouched lov e, that is, if he w ould surrender anything. Suppose he did not take to

us!

And just then something must hav e stirred in him, for he turned up his sw ollen nose

and stared at my companion, and a little later rubbed the dr y pinkness of his tongue

against my thumb. In that look, and that unconscious restless lick; he w as tr ying hard

to leav e unhappiness behind, tr ying hard to f eel that these new creatures with

stroking pa ws and queer scents, were his mother; yet all the time he knew, I am sure,

that they were something bigger, more permanently, desperately, his. The f irst sense

of being o wned, perhaps (who kno ws) of o wning, had stirred in him. He w ould ne v er

again be quite the same unconscious creature.

A little w a y from the end of our journey we got out and dismissed the ca b. He could

not too soon kno w the scents and pav ements of this London where the chief of his lif e

must pass. I can see no w his f irst bumble do wn that wide, back-w ater of a street, ho w

continually and suddenly he sat do wn to make sure of his o wn legs, ho w continually

he lost our heels. He sho wed us then in f ull perf ection what w as af ter w ards to be an

incon v enient ² if endearing ² characteristic: At any call or whistle he w ould look in

precisely the opposite direction. Ho w many times all through his lif e hav e I not seen

him, at my whistle, start v iolently and turn his tail to me, then, with nose thro wn

searchingly from side to side, begin to canter to w ard the horizon.

In that f irst w alk, we met, fortunately, but one v ehicle, a brewer¶s dra y; he chose that

moment to attend to the more serious affairs of lif e, sitting quietly before the horses¶

f eet and requiring to be mov ed by hand. From the beginning he had his dignity, and

w as extremely diff icult to lif t, o wing to the length of his middle distance.

What strange f eelings must hav e stirred in his little white soul when he f irst smelled

carpet! But it w as all so strange to him that da y ² I doubt if he f elt more than I did

when I f irst trav elled to my pri vate school, reading ³Tales of a Grandfather,´ and plied

with tracts and sherr y by my µfather¶s man of business.

That night, indeed, for se v eral nights, he slept with me, keeping me too w arm do wn

my back, and w aking me no w and then with quaint sleep y whimperings. Indeed, all

through his lif e he f lew a good deal in his sleep, f ighting dogs and seeing ghosts,

running af ter ra bbits and thro wn sticks; and to the last one ne v er quite knew whether

or no to rouse him when his four black f eet began to jerk and qui v er. His dream s were



like our dreams, both good and bad; happ y sometimes, sometimes tragic to weeping

point.

He ceased to sleep with me the da y we discov ered that he w as a perf ect little colony,

whose settlers were of an acti v e species which I hav e ne v er seen again. A f ter that he

had many beds, for circumstance ordained that his lif e should be nomadic, and it is to

this I trace that philosophic indiff erence to place or property, which marked him out

from most of his o wn kind. He learned early that for a black dog with lo ng silky ears,

a f eathered tail, and head of great dignity, there w as no home whatsoe v er, a w a y from

those creatures with special scents, who took liberties with his name, and alone of all

created things were pri v ileged to smack him with a slipper. He w ould sleep anywhere,

so long as it w as in their room, or so close outside it as to make no matter, for it w as

with him a principle that what he did not smell did not exist. I w ould I could hear

again those long rubber-lipped snuff lings of recognition underneath the door, with

which each morning he w ould regale and reassure a spirit that grew with age more

and more nervous and delicate a bout this matter of propinquity! For he w as a dog of

f ixed ideas, things stamped on his mind were indelible; as, for example, his duty

to w ard cats, for whom he had really a perv erse aff ection, which had led to that f irst

disastrous moment of his lif e, when he w as brought up, poor bewildered pupp y, from

a brief excursion to the kitchen, with one eye closed and his cheek torn! He bore to

his grav e that jagged scratch across the eye. It w as in dread of a repetition of this

tragedy that he w as instructed at the w ord ³Cats´ to rush for w ard with a special ³to w-

ro w-ro wing,´ which he ne v er used to w ard any other form of creature. To the end he

cherished a hope that he w ould reach the cat; but ne v er did; and if he had, we knew

he w ould only hav e stood and w agged his tail; but I well remember once, when he

returned, important, from some such sally, ho w dreadf ully my companion startled a

cat-lov ing friend by murmuring in her most honeyed voice: ³Well, my darling, hav e

y ou been killing pussies in the garden?´

His eye and nose were impecca ble in their sense of form; indeed, he w as v er y English

in that matter: People must be just so; things smell properly; and affairs go on in the

one right w a y. He could tolerate neither creatures in ragged clothes, nor children on

their hands and knees, nor postmen, because, with their bags, they swelled-up on one

side, and carried lanterns on their stomachs. He w ould ne v er let the harmless

creatures pass without religious barks. Naturally a belie v er in authority and routine,

and distrusting spiritual ad v enture, he yet had curious fads that seemed to hav e

nested in him, quite outside of all principle. He w ould, for instance, follo w neither

carriages nor horses, and if we tried to make him, at once lef t for home, where he



w ould sit with nose raised to Heav en, emitting through it a most lugubrious, shrill

noise. Then again, one must not place a stick, a slipper, a glov e, or anything with

which he could pla y, upon one¶s head ² since such an action reduced him at once to

frenz y. For so conservati v e a dog, his en v ironment w as sadly anarchistic. He ne v er

complained in w ords of our shif ting ha bits, but curled his head round ov er his lef t

pa w and pressed his chin v er y hard against the ground whene v er he smelled packing.

What necessity, he seemed continually to be sa ying, what real necessity is there for

change of any kind whate v er? Here we were all together, and one da y w as like

another, so that I knew where I w as ² and no w y ou only kno w what will happen next;

and I² I can¶t tell y ou whether I shall be with y ou when it happens! What strange,

grie v ing minutes a dog passes at such times in the underground of his

subconsciousness, ref using realisation, yet all the time only too well di v ining. Some

careless w ord, some unmuted compassion in voice, the stealthy w rapping of a pair of

boots, the unaccustomed shutting of a door that ought to be open, the removal from a

do wn-stair room of an o bject alw a ys there ² one tiny thing, and he kno ws for certain

that he is not going too. He f ights against the kno wledge just as we do against what

we cannot bear; he gi v es up hope, but not effort, protesting in the only w a y he kno ws

of , and no w and then heav ing a great sigh. Those sighs of a dog! They go to the heart

so much more deeply than the sighs of our o wn kind, because they are utterly

unintended, regardless of eff ect, emerging from one who, heav ing them, kno ws not

that they hav e escaped him!

The w ords: ³Yes ² going too!´ spoken in a certain tone, w ould call up in his eyes a

still-questioning half -happiness, and from his tail a quiet f lutter, but did not quite

serv e to put to rest either his doubt or his f eeling that it w as all unnecessar y ² until

the ca b arri v ed. Then he w ould pour himself out of door or windo w, and be found in

the bottom of the v ehicle, looking se v erely a w a y from an admiring ca bman. Once

settled on our f eet he trav elled with philosophy, but no digestion.

I think no dog w as e v er more indiff erent to an outside w orld of human creatures; yet

f ew dogs hav e made more conquests ² especially among strange w omen, through

whom, ho we v er, he had a ha bit of looking ² v er y discouraging. He had, natheless,

one or tw o particular friends, such as him to whom this book is dedicated, and a f ew

persons whom he knew he had seen before, but, broadly speaking, there were in his

w orld of men, only his mistress, and ² the almighty.

Each August, till he w as six, he w as sent for health, and the assuagement of his

hereditar y instincts, up to a Scotch shooting, where he carried many birds in a v er y

tender manner. Once he w as compelled by Fate to remain there nearly a year; and we



went up oursel v es to f etch him home. Do wn the long av enue to w ard the keeper¶s

cottage we w alked: It w as high autumn; there had been frost already, for the ground

w as f ine with red and yello w leav es; and presently we sa w himself coming;

prof essionally questing among those leav es, and preceding his dear keeper with the

businesslike self -containment of a sportsman; not too fat, glossy as a rav en¶s wing,

swinging his ears and sporran like a little Highlander. We approached him silently.

Suddenly his nose went up from its imagined trail, and he came rushing at our legs.

From him, as a garment drops from a man, dropped all his strange so berness; he

became in a single instant one f luttering eagerness. He leaped from lif e to lif e in one

bound, without hesitation, without regret. Not one sigh, not one look back, not the

faintest token of gratitude or regret at leav ing those good people who had tended him

for a whole year, buttered oat-cake for him, allo wed him to choose each night exactly

where he w ould sleep. No, he just marched out beside us, as close as e v er he could

get, dra wing us on in spirit, and not e v en attending to the scents, until the lodge gates

were passed.

It w as strictly in accordance with the perv ersity of things, and something in the

nature of calamity that he had not been ours one year, when there came ov er me a

dreadf ul but ov ermastering av ersion from killing those birds and creatures of which

he w as so fond as soon as they were dead. And so I ne v er knew him as a sportsman;

for during that f irst year he w as only an unbroken pupp y, tied to my w aist for f ear of

accidents, and caref ully pulling me off e v er y shot. They tell me he de v eloped a lov ely

nose and perf ect mouth, large enough to hold gingerly the biggest hare. I well belie v e

it, remembering the qualities of his mother, whose character, ho we v er, in sta bility he

far surpassed. But, as he grew e v er y year more de voted to dead grouse and birds and

ra bbits, I liked them more and more ali v e; it w as the only real breach between us, and

we kept it out of sight. Ah! well; it is consoling to ref lect that I should infallibly hav e

ruined his sporting qualities, lacking that peculiar ha bit of meaning what one sa ys, so

necessar y to keep dogs v irtuous. But surely to hav e had him with me, qui v ering and

alert, with his solemn, eager face, w ould hav e gi v en a new jo y to those crisp mornings

when the hope of wings coming to the gun makes poignant in the sports man as

nothing else will, an almost sensual lov e of Nature, a f ierce delight in the sof t glo w of

leav es, in the white birch stems and tracer y of sparse twigs against blue sky, in the

scents of sap and grass and gum and heather f lo wers; sti v ers the hair of him with

keenness for interpreting each sound, and f ills the v er y f ern or moss he kneels on, the

v er y trunk he leans against, with strange v ibration.



Slo wly Fate prepares for each of us the religion that lies coiled in our most secret

nerv es; with such we cannot trif le, we do not e v en tr y! But ho w shall a man grudge

any one sensations he has so keenly f elt? Let such as hav e ne v er kno wn those curious

delights, uphold the hand of horror ² for me there can be no such luxur y. If I could, I

w ould still perhaps be kno wing them; but when once the jo y of lif e in those winged

and f urr y things has knocked at the v er y portals of one¶s spirit, the thought that by

pressing a little iron twig one will ri v e that jo y out of their v itals, is too hard to bear.

Call it aestheticism, squeamishness, namby-pamby sentimentalism, what y ou will it is

stronger than oneself !

Yes, af ter one had once w atched with an eye that did not merely see, the thirsty

gaping of a slo wly dying bird, or a ra bbit dragging a broken leg to a hole where he

w ould lie for hours thinking of the f ern to which he should ne v er more come forth ²

af ter that, there w as alw a ys the follo wing little matter of arithmetic: Gi v en, that all

those who had been shooting were ³good-fair´ shots ² which, Heav en knew, they

ne v er were ² they yet missed one at least in four, and did not miss it v er y much; so

that if se v enty-f i v e things were slain, there were also twenty-f i v e that had been f ired

at, and, of those twenty-f i v e, twel v e and a half had ³gotten it´ somewhere in their

bodies, and w ould ³likely´ die at their great leisure.

This w as the sum that brought a bout the only cleavage in our li v es; and so, as he grew

older, and tr ying to part from each other we no longer could, he ceased going to

Scotland. But af ter that I of ten f elt, and especially when we heard guns, ho w the best

and most secret instincts of him were being stif led. But what w as to be done? In that

which w as lef t of a cla y pigeon he w ould take not the faintest interest ² the scent of it

w as paltr y. Yet alw a ys, e v en in his most cosseted and idle da ys, he managed to

preserv e the grav e preoccupation of one prof essionally concerned with retrie v ing

things that smell; and consoled himself with pastimes such as cricket, which he

pla yed in a manner highly specialised, follo wing the ball up the moment it lef t the

bo wler¶s hand, and sometimes retrie v ing it before it reached the batsman. When

remonstrated with, he w ould consider a little, hanging out a pink tongue a nd looking

rather too eagerly at the ball, then canter slo wly out to a sort of for w ard short leg.

Why he alw a ys chose that particular position it is diff icult to sa y; possibly he could

lurk there better than anywhere else, the batsman¶s eye not being on him, and the

bo wler¶s not too much. As a f ieldsman he w as perf ect, but for an occasional belief that

he w as not merely short leg, but slip, point, midoff , and wicket-keep; and perhaps a

tendency to make the ball a little ³jubey.´ But he w orked tremendously, w atching

e v er y mov ement; for he knew the game thoroughly, and seldom dela yed it more than



three minutes when he secured the ball. And if that ball were really lost, then indeed

he took ov er the proceedings with an intensity and quiet v igour that destro yed many

shrubs, and the solemn satisfaction which comes from being in the v er y centre of the

stage.

But his most passionate delight w as swimming in anything except the sea, for which,

with its unpleasant noise and ha bit of tasting salt, he had little aff ection. I see him

no w, cleav ing the Serpentine, with his air of ³the w orld well lost,´ stri v ing to reach my

stick before it had touched w ater. Being only a large spaniel, too small for mere

heroism, he sav ed no li v es in the w ater but his o wn ² and that, on one occasion,

before our v er y eyes, from a dark trout stream, which w as tr ying to w ash him do wn

into a black hole among the boulders.

The call of the wild-Spring running ² whate v er it is ² that besets men and dogs,

seldom attained f ull master y ov er him; but one could of ten see it struggling against

his de votion to the scent of us, and, w atching that dumb contest, I hav e time and

again w ondered ho w far this ci v ilisation of ours w as justif ia bly imposed on him; ho w

far the lov e for us that we had so caref ully implanted could e v er replace in him the

satisfaction of his primiti v e wild yearnings: He w as like a man, naturally poly gamous,

married to one lov ed w oman.

It w as surely not for nothing that R ov er is dog¶s most common name, and w ould be

ours, but for our too tenacious f ear of losing something, to admit, e v en to oursel v es,

that we are hankering. There w as a man who said: Strange that tw o such queerly

opposite qualities as courage and hy pocrisy are the leading characteristics of the

Anglo-Saxon! But is not hy pocrisy just a product of tenacity, which is again the lo wer

part of courage? Is not hy pocrisy but an acti v e sense of property in one¶s good name,

the clutching close of respecta bility at any price, the f eeling that one must not part,

e v en at the cost of truth, with what he has sweated so to gain? And so we Anglo-

Saxons will not answer to the name of R ov er, and treat our dogs so that they, too,

hardly kno w their natures.

The histor y of his one w andering, for which no respecta ble reason can be assigned,

will ne v er, of course, be kno wn. It w as in London, of an Octo ber e v ening, when we

were told he had slipped out and w as not anywhere. Then began those four distressf ul

hours of searching for that black needle n that blacker bundle of ha y. Hours of real

disma y and suff ering for it is suff ering, indeed, to f eel a lov ed thing sw allo wed up in

that hopeless haze of London streets. Stolen or run ov er? Which w as w orst? The

neighbouring police stations v isited, the Dog¶s Home notif ied, an order of f i v e

hundred ³Lost Dog´ bills placed in the printer¶s hands, the streets patrolled! And



then, in a lull snatched for food, and still endeavouring to preserv e some aspect of

assurance, we heard the bark which meant: ³Here is a door I cannot open!´ We

hurried forth, and there he w as on the top doorstep ² busy, unashamed, gi v ing no

explanations, asking for his supper; and v er y shortly af ter him came his f i v e hundred

³Lost Dog´ bills. Long I sat looking at him that night af ter my companion had gone

up, thinking of the e v ening, some years before, when there follo wed as that shado w of

a spaniel who had been lost for ele v en da ys. And my heart turned ov er within me. But

he! He w as asleep, for he knew not remorse.

Ah! and there w as that other time, when it w as reported to me, returning home at

night, that he had gone out to f ind me; and I went forth again, distur bed, and

whistling his special call to the empty f ields. Suddenly out of the darkness I heard a

rushing, and he came f uriously dashing against my heels from he alone knew where

he had been lurking and sa ying to himself : I will not go in till he comes! I could not

scold, there w as something too ly rical in the return of that li v e, lonely, rushing piece

of blackness through the blacker night. A f ter all, the vagar y w as but a variation in his

practice when one w as a w a y at bed-time, of passionately scratching up his bed in

protest, till it resembled nothing; for, in spite of his long and solemn face and the

silkiness of his ears, there w as much in him yet of the cav e bear ² he dug grav es on

the smallest provocations, in which he ne v er buried anything. He w as not a ³cle v er´

dog; and guiltless of all tricks. Nor w as he e v er ³sho wn.´ We did not e v en dream of

subjecting him to this indignity. W as our dog a clo wn, a ho bby, a fad, a fashion, a

f eather in our caps that we should subject him to periodic pennings in stuff y halls,

that we should harr y his faithf ul soul with such tomfooler y? He ne v er e v en heard us

talk a bout his lineage, deplore the length of his nose, or call him ³cle v er-looking.´ We

should hav e been ashamed to let him smell a bout us the tar-brush of a sense of

property, to let him think we looked on him as an asset to earn us pelf or glor y. We

wished that there should be between us the spirit that w as between the sheep dog and

that farmer, who, when asked his dog¶s age, touched the old creature¶s head, and

answered thus: ³Teresa´ (his daughter) ³w as born in Nov ember, and this one in

August.´ That sheep dog had seen eighteen years when the great white da y came for

him, and his spirit passed a w a y up, to cling with the w ood-smoke round the dark

raf ters of the kitchen where he had lain so vast a time beside his master¶s boots. No,

no! If a man does not soon pass bey ond the thought ³By what shall this dog prof it

me?´ into the large state of simple gladness to be with dog, he shall ne v er kno w the

v er y essence of that companion ship which depends not on the points of dog, but on

some strange and subtle mingling of mute spirits. For it is by muteness that a dog



becomes for one so utterly bey ond value; with him one is at peace, where w ords pla y

no torturing tricks. When he just sits, lov ing, and kno ws that he is being lov ed, those

are the moments that I think are precious to a dog; when, with his adoring soul

coming through his eyes, he f eels that y ou are really thinking of him. But he is

touchingly tolerant of one¶s other occupations. The subject of these memories alw a ys

knew when one w as too a bsor bed in w ork to be so close to him as he thought proper;

yet he ne v er tried to hinder or distract, or asked for attention. It dinged his mood, of

course, so that the red under his eyes and the folds of his crumply cheeks ² which

seemed to speak of a touch of bloodhound introduced a long w a y back into his

breeding ² drew deeper and more manif est. If he could hav e spoken at such times, he

w ould hav e said: ³I hav e been a long time alone, and I cannot alw a ys be asleep; but

y ou kno w best, and I must not criticise.´

He did not at all mind one¶s being a bsor bed in other humans; he seemed to enjo y the

sounds of con v ersation lif ting round him, and to kno w when they were sensible. He

could not, for instance, stand actors or actresses gi v ing readings of their parts,

percei v ing at once that the same had no connection with the minds and real f eelings

of the speakers; and, hav ing w andered a little to sho w his disapproval, he w ould go to

the door and stare at it till it opened and let him out. Once or twice, it is true, when an

actor of large voice w as declaiming an emotional passage, he so far relented as to go

up to him and pant in his face. Music, too, made him restless, inclined to sigh, and to

ask questions. Sometimes, at its f irst sound, he w ould cross to the windo w and

remain there looking for Her. At others, he w ould simply go and lie on the loud pedal,

and we ne v er could tell whether it w as from sentiment, or because he thought that in

this w a y he heard less. At one special Nocturne of Chopin¶s he alw a ys whimpered. He

w as, indeed, of rather Polish temperament ² v er y ga y when he w as ga y, dark and

brooding when he w as not.

On the whole, perhaps his lif e w as une v entf ul for so far-trav elling a dog, though it

held its moments of eccentricity, as when he leaped through the windo w of a four-

wheeler into K ensington, or sat on a Dartmoor adder. But that w as fortunately of a

Sunda y af ternoon ² when adder and all were torpid, so nothing happened, till a

friend, who w as follo wing, lif ted him off the creature with his large boot.

If only one could hav e kno wn more of his pri vate lif e ² more of his relations with his

o wn kind! I fancy he w as alw a ys rather a dark dog to them, hav ing so many thoughts

a bout us that he could not share with any one, and being naturally fastidious, except

with ladies, for whom he had a chi valrous and catholic taste, so that they of ten turned

and snapped at him. He had, ho we v er, but one lasting lov e affair, for a li v er -coloured



lass of our v illage, not quite of his o wn caste, but a wholesome if somewhat elderly

girl, with lov ing and sphinx-like eyes. Their children, alas, were not for this w orld,

and soon departed.

Nor w as he a f ighting dog; but once attacked, he lacked a sense of values, being

una ble to distinguish between dogs that he could beat and dogs with whom he had

³no earthly.´ It w as, in fact, as well to interf ere at once, especially in the matter of

retrie v ers, for he ne v er forgot hav ing in his y outh been attacked by a retrie v er from

behind. No, he ne v er forgot, and ne v er forgav e, an enemy. Only a month before that

da y of which I cannot speak, being v er y old and ill, he engaged an Irish terrier on

whose impudence he had long had his eye, and routed him. And ho w a battle cheered

his spirit! He w as certainly no Christian; but, allo wing for essential dog, he w as v er y

much a gentleman. And I do think that most of us who li v e on this earth these da ys

w ould rather leav e it with that la bel on us than the other. For to be a Christian, as

Tolsto y understood the w ord ² and no one else in our time has had logic and lov e of

truth enough to gi v e it coherent meaning ² is (to be quite sincere) not suited to men

of Western blood. Whereas ² to be a gentleman! It is a far cr y, but perhaps it can be

done. In him, at all e v ents, there w as no pettiness, no meanness, and no cruelty, and

though he f ell belo w his ideal at times, this ne v er altered the true look of his eyes, nor

the simple lo y alty in his soul.

But what a cro wd of memories come back, bringing with them the perf ume of fallen

da ys! What delights and glamour, what long hours of effort, discouragements, and

secret f ears did he not w atch ov er ² our black familiar; and with the sight and scent

and touch of him, deepen or assuage! Ho w many thousand w alks did we not go

together, so that we still turn to see if he is follo wing at his padding gait, attenti v e to

the in v isible trails. Not the least hard thing to bear when they go from us, these quiet

friends, is that they carr y a w a y with them so many years of our o wn li v es. Yet, if they

f ind w armth therein, who w ould grudge them those years that they hav e so guarded?

Nothing else of us can they take to lie upon with outstretched pa ws and chin pressed

to the ground; and, whate v er they take, be sure they hav e deserv ed.

Do they kno w, as we do, that their time must come? Yes, they kno w, at rare moments.

No other w a y can I interpret those pauses of his latter lif e, when, propped on his

foref eet, he w ould sit for long minutes quite motionless ² his head drooped, utterly

withdra wn; then turn those eyes of his and look at me. That look said more plainly

than all w ords could: ³Yes, I kno w that I must go!´ If we hav e spirits that persist ²

they hav e. If we kno w af ter our departure, who we were they do. No one, I think, who

really longs for truth, can e v er glibly sa y which it will be for dog and man persistence



or extinction of our consciousness. There is but one thing certain ² the childishness

of fretting ov er that eternal question. Whiche v er it be, it must be right, the only

possible thing. He f elt that too, I kno w; but then, like his master, he w as what is

called a pessimist.

My companion tells me that, since he lef t us, he has once come back. It w as Old Year¶s

Night, and she w as sad, when he came to her in v isible shape of his black body,

passing round the dining-ta ble from the windo w-end, to his proper place beneath the

ta ble, at her f eet. She sa w him quite clearly; she heard the padding tap-tap of his pa ws

and v er y toe-nails; she f elt his w armth brushing hard against the front of her skirt.

She thought then that he w ould settle do wn upon her f eet, but something distur bed

him, and he stood pausing, pressed against her, then mov ed out to w ard where I

generally sit, but w as not sitting that night.

She sa w him stand there, as if considering; then at some sound or laugh, she became

self -conscious, and slo wly, v er y slo wly, he w as no longer there. Had he some

message, some counsel to gi v e, something he w ould sa y, that last night of the last year

of all those he had w atched ov er us? Will he come back again?

No stone stands ov er where he lies. It is on our hearts that his lif e is engrav ed.

1912.

FELICIT Y

When God is so good to the f ields, of what use are w ords ² those poor husks of

sentiment! There is no painting Felicity on the wing! No w a y of bringing on to the can vas the f lying glor y of things! A single buttercup of the twenty million in one f ield

is w orth all these dr y symbols ² that can ne v er body forth the v er y spirit of that froth

of Ma y breaking ov er the hedges, the choir of birds and bees, the lost-trav elling do wn

of the wind f lo wers, the white-throated sw allo ws in their Odysseys. Just here there

are no skylarks, but what jo y of song and leaf ; of lanes lighted with bright trees, the

f ew oaks still golden bro wn, and the ashes still spiritual! Only the blackbirds and

thrushes can sing-up this da y, and cuck oos ov er the hill. The year has f lo wn so fast

that the apple-trees hav e dropped nearly all their bloom, and in ³long meado w´ the

³daggers´ are out early, beside the narro w bright streams. Orpheus sits there on a

stone, when no body is by, and pipes to the ponies; and Pan can of ten be seen dancing

with his nymphs in the raised beech-grov e where it is alw a ys twilight, if y ou lie still

enough against the far bank.

Who can belie v e in gro wing old, so long as we are w rapped in this cloak of colour and

wings and song; so long as this unimagina ble v ision is here for us to gaze at ² the



sof t-faced sheep a bout us, and the w ool-bags dr ying out along the f ence, and great

numbers of tiny ducks, so trustf ul that the cro ws hav e taken se v eral.

Blue is the colour of y outh, and all the blue f lo wers hav e a ³f ey´ look. E v er ything

seems y oung too y oung to w ork. There is but one thing busy, a starling, f etching

grubs for its little family, a bov e my head ² it must take that f light at least tw o

hundred times a da y. The children should be v er y fat.

When the sky is so happ y, and the f lo wers so luminous, it does not seem possible that

the bright angels of this da y shall pass into dark night, that slo wly these wings shall

close, and the cuck oo praise himself to sleep, mad midges dance-in the e v ening; the

grass shi v er with dew, wind die, and no bird sing . . . .

Yet so it is. Da y has gone ² the song and glamour and sw oop of wings. Slo wly, has

passed the daily miracle. It is night. But Felicity has not withdra wn; she has but

changed her ro be for silence, v el v et, and the pearl fan of the moon. E v er ything is

sleeping, sav e only a single star, and the pansies. Why they should be more w akef ul

than the other f lo wers, I do not kno w. The expressions of their faces, if one bends

do wn into the dusk, are sweeter and more cunning than e v er. They hav e some

compact, no doubt, in hand.

What a number of voices hav e gi v en up the ghost to this night of but one voice ² the

murmur of the stream out there in darkness!

With what religion all has been done! Not one buttercup open; the yew-trees already

with shado ws f lung do wn! No moths are a broad yet; it is too early in the year for

nightjars; and the o wls are quiet. But who shall sa y that in this silence, in this

hov ering w an light, in this air beref t of wings, and of all scent sav e freshness, there is

less of the ineffa ble, less of that before which w ords are dumb?

It is strange ho w this tranquillity of night, that seems so f inal, is inha bited, if one

keeps still enough. A lamb is bleating out there on the dim moor; a bird somewhere, a

little one, a bout three f ields a w a y, makes the sweetest kind of chirruping; some co ws

are still cropping. There is a scent, too, underneath the freshness-sweet-brier, I think,

and our Dutch honeysuckle; nothing else could so delicately twine itself with air. And

e v en in this darkness the roses hav e colour, more beautif ul perhaps than e v er. If

colour be, as they sa y, but the eff ect of light on various f ibre, one ma y think of it as a

tune, the song of thanksgi v ing that each form puts forth, to sun and moon and stars

and f ire. These moon-coloured roses are singing a most quiet song. I see all of a

sudden that there are many more stars beside that one so red and w atchf ul. The f lo wn

kite is there with its se v en pale w orlds; it has ad v entured v er y high and far to-night-

with a company of others remoter still. . . .



This serenity of night! What could seem less likely e v er more to mov e, and change

again to da y? Surely no w the w orld has found its long sleep; and the pearly glimmer

from the moon will last, and the precious silence ne v er again yield to clamour; the

grape-bloom of this myster y ne v er more pale out into gold . . . .

And yet it is not so. The nightly miracle has passed. It is da wn. Faint light has come. I

am w aiting for the f irst sound. The sky as yet is like nothing but grey paper, with the

shado ws of wild geese passing. The trees are phantoms. And then it comes ² that

f irst call of a bird, startled at discov ering da y! Just one call ² and no w, here, there, on

all the trees, the sudden answers swelling, of that most sweet and careless choir. W as

irresponsibility e v er so di v ine as this, of birds w aking? Then ² saffron into the sky,

and once more silence! What is it birds do af ter the f irst Chorale? Think of their sins

and business? Or just sleep again? The trees are fast dropping unreality, and the

cuck oos begin calling. Colour is burning up in the f lo wers already; the dew smells of

them.

The miracle is ended, for the starling has begun its jo b; and the sun is fretting those

dark, busy wings with gold. Full da y has come again. But the face of it is a little

strange, it is not like yesterda y. Queer-to think, no da y is like to a da y that¶s past and

no night like a night that¶s coming! Why, then, f ear death, which is but night? Why

care, if next da y hav e diff erent face and spirit? The sun has lighted buttercup-f ield

no w, the wind touches the lime-tree. Something passes ov er me a w a y up there.

It is Felicity on her wings!

1912

CO

CER

I

G LETTER S

A

OVELIST¶S A LLEGORY

Once upon a time the Prince of Felicitas had occasion to set forth on a journey. It w as

a late autumn e v ening with f ew pale stars and a moon no larger than the paring of a

f inger-nail. And as he rode through the purlieus of his city, the white mane of his

amber-coloured steed w as all that he could clearly see in the dusk of the high streets.

His w a y led through a quarter but little kno wn to him, and he w as surprised to f ind

that his horse, instead of ambling for w ard with his customar y gentle v igour, stepped

caref ully from side to side, stopping no w and then to curv e his neck and prick his ears

² as though at some thing of f ear unseen in the darkness; while on either hand

creatures could be heard rustling and scuttling, and little cold draughts as of wings

fanned the rider¶s cheeks.



The Prince at last turned in his saddle, but so great w as the darkness that he could

not e v en see his escort.

³What is the name of this street? ́he said.

³Sire, it is called the Vita Publica.´

³It is v er y dark.´ E v en as he spoke his horse staggered, but, recov ering its foothold

with an effort, stood trembling v iolently. Nor could all the incitements of its master

induce the beast again to mov e for w ard.

³Is there no one with a lanthorn in this street?´ asked the Prince.

His attendants began forthwith to call out loudly for any one who had a lanthorn.

No w, it chanced that an old man sleeping in a hov el on a pallet of stra w w as,

a w akened by these cries. When he heard that it w as the Prince of Felicitas himself , he

came hastily, carr ying his lanthorn, and stood trembling beside the Prince¶s horse. It

w as so dark that the Prince could not see him.

³Light y our lanthorn, old man,´ he said.

The old man la boriously lit his lanthorn. Its pale ra ys f led out on either hand;

beautif ul but grim w as the v ision they disclosed. Tall houses, fair court-y ards, and a

palm gro wn garden; in front of the Prince¶s horse a deep cesspool, on whose jagged

edges the good beast¶s hoof s were planted; and, as far as the glimmer of the lanthorn

stretched, both w a ys do wn the rutted street, pav ing stones displaced, and smooth

tesselated mar ble; pools of mud, the hanging fruit of an orange tree, and dark,

scurr ying shapes of monstrous rats bolting across from house to house. The old man

held the lanthorn higher; and instantly bats f lying against it w ould hav e beaten out

the light but for the thin protection of its horn sides.

The Prince sat still upon his horse, looking f irst at the rutted space that he had

trav ersed and then at the rutted space before him.

³Without a light,´ he said, ³this thoroughfare is dangerous. What is y our name, old

man?´

³My name is Cethru,´ replied the aged churl.

³Cethru!´ said the Prince. ³Let it be y our duty henceforth to w alk with y our lanthorn

up and do wn this street all night and e v er y night,´² and he looked at Cethru: ³Do y ou

understand, old man, what it is y ou hav e to do?´

The old man answered in a voice that trembled like a rusty f lute:

³Aye, a ye!² to w alk up and do wn and hold my lanthorn so that folk can see where

they be going.´

The Prince gathered up his reins; but the old man, lurching for w ard, touched his

stirrup.



³Ho w long be I to go on wi¶ thiccy jo b?´

³Until y ou die!´

Cethru held up his lanthorn, and they could see his long, thin face, like a sandwich of

dried leather, jerk and qui v er, and his thin grey hairs f lutter in the draught of the

bats¶ wings circling round the light.

³¶T will be main hard!´ he groaned; ³an¶ my lanthorn¶s no wt but a poor thing.´

With a high look, the Prince of Felicitas bent and touched the old man¶s forehead.

³Until y ou die, old man,´ he repeated; and bidding his follo wers to light torches from

Cethru¶s lanthorn, he rode on do wn the twisting street. The clatter of the horses¶

hoof s died out in the night, and the scuttling and the rustling of the rats and the

whispers of the bats¶ wings were heard again.

Cethru, lef t alone in the dark thoroughfare, sighed heav ily; then, spitting on his

hands, he tightened the old girdle round his loins, and slinging the lanthorn on his

staff , held it up to the le v el of his w aist, and began to make his w a y along the street.

His progress w as but slo w, for he had many times to stop and rekindle the f lame

within his lanthorn, which the bats¶ wings, his o wn stumbles, and the jostlings of

footpads or of re v ellers returning home, were for e v er extinguishing. In trav ersing

that long street he spent half the night, and half the night in trav ersing it back again.

The saffron sw an of da wn, slo w swimming up the sky-ri v er between the high roof -

banks, bent her neck do wn through the dark air-w ater to look at him staggering

belo w her, with his still smoking wick. No sooner did Cethru see that sunlit bird, than

with a great sigh of jo y he sat him do wn, and at once f ell asleep.

No w when the dwellers in the houses of the Vita Publica f irst gained kno wledge that

this old man passed e v er y night with his lanthorn up and do wn their street, and when

they marked those pallid gleams gliding ov er the motley prospect of cesspools and

garden gates, ov er the sightless hov els and the rich-carv ed frontages of their palaces;

or sa w them sta y their journey and remain suspended like a handf ul of daffodils held

up against the black stuff s of secrecy ² they said:

³It is good that the old man should pass like this ² we shall see better where we¶re

going; and if the W atch hav e any jo b on hand, or w ant to put the pav ements in order,

his lanthorn will serv e their purpose well enough.´ And they w ould call out of their

doors and windo ws to him passing:

³Hola! old man Cethru! All¶s well with our house, and with the street before it?´

But, for answer, the old man only held his lanthorn up, so that in the ring of its pale

light they sa w some sight or other in the street. And his silence troubled them, one by

one, for each had expected that he w ould reply:



³Aye, a ye! All¶s well with y our house, Sirs, and with the street before it!´

Thus they grew irritated with this old man who did not seem a ble to do anything but

just hold his lanthorn up. And gradually they began to dislike his passing by their

doors with his pale light, by which they could not fail to see, not only the rich-carv ed

frontages and scrolled gates of courty ards and fair gardens, but things that were not

pleasing to the eye. And they murmured amongst themsel v es: ³What is the good of

this old man and his silly lanthorn? We can see all we w ant to see without him; in

fact, we got on v er y well before he came.´

So, as he passed, rich folk who were supping w ould pelt him with orange-peel and

empty the dregs of their wine ov er his head; and poor folk, sleeping in their hutches,

turned ov er, as the ra ys of the lanthorn f ell on them, and cursed him for that

distur bance. Nor did re v ellers or footpads treat the old man, ci v illy, but tied him to

the w all, where he w as constrained to sta y till a kind passer by released him. And e v er

the bats darkened his lanthorn with their wings and tried to beat the f lame out. And

the old man thought: ³This be a terrible hard jo b; I don¶t seem to please no body.´ But

because the Prince of Felicitas had so commanded him, he continued nightly to pass

with his lanthorn up and do wn the street; and e v er y morning as the saffron sw an

came swimming ov erhead, to fall asleep. But his sleep did not last long, for he w as

compelled to pass many hours each da y in gathering rushes and melting do wn tallo w

for his lanthorn; so that his lean face grew more than e v er like a sandwich of dried

leather.

No w it came to pass that the To wn W atch hav ing had certain complaints made to

them that persons had been bitten in the Vita Publica by rats, doubted of their duty to

destro y these f erocious creatures; and they held in v estigation, summoning the

persons bitten and inquiring of them ho w it w as that in so dark a street they could tell

that the animals which had bitten them were indeed rats. Ho wbeit for some time no

one could be found who could sa y more than what he had been told, and since this

w as not e v idence, the To wn W atch had good hopes that they w ould not af ter all be

forced to undertake this tedious enterprise. But presently there came before them one

who said that he had himself seen the rat which had bitten him, by the light of an old

man¶s lanthorn. When the To wn W atch heard this they were v exed, for they knew

that if this were true they w ould no w be forced to prosecute the arduous undertaking,

and they said:

³Bring in this old man!´

Cethru w as brought before them trembling.



³What is this we hear, old man, a bout y our lanthorn and the rat? And in the f irst

place, what were y ou doing in the Vita Publica at that time of night?´

Cethru answered: ³I were just passin¶ with my lanthorn!´

³Tell us ² did y ou see the rat?´

Cethru shook his head: ³My lanthorn seed the rat, ma ybe!´ he muttered.

³Old o wl!´ said the Captain of the W atch: ³Be caref ul what y ou sa y! If y ou sa w the rat,

why did y ou then not aid this unhapp y citizen who w as bitten by it ² f irst, to avoid

that rodent, and subsequently to sla y it, thereby relie v ing the public of a pestilential

danger?´

Cethru looked at him, and for some seconds did not reply; then he said slo wly: ³I

were just passin¶ with my lanthorn.´

³That y ou hav e already told us,´ said the Captain of the W atch; ³it is no answer.´

Cethru¶s leathern cheeks became wine-coloured, so desirous w as he to speak, and so

una ble. And the W atch sneered and laughed, sa ying:

³This is a f ine witness.´

But of a sudden Cethru spoke:

³What w ould I be duin¶² killin¶ rats; tidden my business to kill rats.´

The Captain of the W atch caressed his beard, and looking at the old man with

contempt, said:

³It seems to me, brothers, that this is an idle old vaga bond, who does no good to any

one. We should be well ad v ised, I think, to prosecute him for vagrancy. But that is not

at this moment the matter in hand. Owing to the accident ² scarcely fortunate ² of

this old man¶s passing with his lanthorn, it w ould certainly appear that citizens hav e

been bitten by rodents. It is then, I f ear, our duty to institute proceedings against

those poisonous and v iolent animals.´

And amidst the sighing of the W atch, it w as so resol v ed.

Cethru w as glad to shuff le a w a y, unnoticed, from the Court, and sitting do wn under a

camel-date tree outside the City W all, he thus ref lected:

³They were rough with me! I done nothin¶, so far¶s I can see!´

And a long time he sat there with the bunches of the camel-dates a bov e him, golden

as the sunlight. Then, as the scent of the ly ric-f lo wers, released by e v ening, w arned

him of the night dropping like a f light of dark birds on the pla in, he rose stiff ly, and

made his w a y as usual to w ard the Vita Publica.

He had trav ersed but little of that black thoroughfare, holding his lanthorn at the

le v el of his breast, when the sound of a splash and cries for help smote his long, thin

ears. Remembering ho w the Captain of the W atch had admonished him, he stopped



and peered a bout, but o wing to his proximity to the light of his o wn lanthorn he sa w

nothing. Presently he heard another splash and the sound of blo wings and of

puff ings, but still una ble to see clearly whence they came, he w as forced in

bewilderment to resume his march. But he had no sooner entered the next bend of

that o bscure and winding av enue than the most lamenta ble, lusty cries assailed him.

A gain he stood still, blinded by his o wn light. Somewhere at hand a citizen w as being

beaten, for vague, quick-mov ing forms emerged into the radiance of his lanthorn out

of the deep v iolet of the night air. The cries swelled, and died a w a y, and swelled; and

the mazed Cethru mov ed for w ard on his w a y. But v er y near the end of his f irst

trav ersage, the sound of a long, deep sighing, as of a fat man in spiritual pain, once

more arrested him.

³Drat me!´ he thought, ³this time I will see what ¶tis,´ and he spun round and round,

holding his lanthorn no w high, no w lo w, and to both sides. ³The de v il an¶ all¶s in it to -

night,´ he murmured to himself ; ³there¶s some¶at here f etchin¶ of its breath a w f ul

loud.´ But for his lif e he could see nothing, only that the higher he held his lanthorn

the more painf ul grew the sound of the fat but spiritual sighing. And desperately, he

at last resumed his progress.

On the morro w, while he still slept stretched on his stra w pallet, there came to him a

member of the W atch.

³Old man, y ou are w anted at the Court House; rouse up, and bring y our lanthorn.´

Stiff ly Cethru rose.

³What be they w antin¶ me f ur no w, mester?´

³Ah!´ replied the W atchman, ³they are a bout to see if they can¶t put an end to y our

goings-on.´

Cethru shi v ered, and w as silent.

No w when they reached the Court House it w as patent that a great affair w as for w ard;

for the Judges were in their ro bes, and a cro wd of ad vocates, burgesses, and common

folk thronged the careen, lof ty hall of justice.

When Cethru sa w that all eyes were turned on him, he shi v ered still more v iolently,

f ixing his fascinated gaze on the three Judges in their emerald ro bes.

³This then is the prisoner,´ said the oldest of the Judges; ³proceed with the

indictment!´

A little ad vocate in snuff -coloured clothes rose on little legs, and commenced to read:

³Forasmuch as on the se v enteenth night of August f if teen hundred years since the

Messiah¶s death, one Celestine, a maiden of this city, f ell into a cesspool in the Vita

Publica, and while being quietly dro wned, w as espied of the burgess Pardonix by the



light of a lanthorn held by the old man Cethru; and, forasmuch as, plunging in, the

said Pardonix rescued her, not without grav e risk of lif e and the ruin, of his clothes,

and toda y lies ill of f e v er; and forasmuch as the old man Cethru w as the cause of

these misfortunes to the burgess Pardonix, by reason of his w andering lanthorn¶s

sho wing the dro wning maiden, the W atch do hereby indict, accuse, and other wise

place charge upon this Cethru of µ V aga bondage without serious occupation.¶

³And, forasmuch as on this same night the W atchman Filepo, made a w are, by the

light of this said Cethru¶s lanthorn, of three sturdy footpads, went to arrest them, and

w as set on by the rogues and well-nigh slain, the W atch do hereby indict, accuse, and

other wise charge upon Cethru complicity in this assault, by reasons, namely, f irst,

that he discov ered the footpads to the W atchman and the W atchman to the footpads

by the light of his lanthorn; and, second, that, hav ing thus discov ered them, he stood

idly by and gav e no assistance to the la w.

³And, forasmuch as on this same night the wealthy burgess Pranzo, who, hav ing

prepared a banquet, w as standing in his door w a y a w aiting the arri val of his guests,

did see, by the light of the said Cethru¶s lanthorn, a beggar w oman and her children

grov elling in the gutter for gar bage, whereby his appetite w as lost completely; and,

forasmuch as he, Pranzo, has lodged a complaint against the Constitution for

permitting w omen and children to go starv ed, the W atch do hereby indict, accuse,

and other wise make charge on Cethru of rebellion and of anarchy, in that wilf ully he

doth distur b good citizens by sho wing to them without provocation disagreea ble

sights, and doth moreov er endanger the la ws by causing persons to desire to change

them.

³These be the charges, re v erend Judges, so please y ou!´

And hav ing thus spoken, the little ad vocate resumed his seat.

Then said the oldest of the Judges:

³Cethru, y ou hav e heard; what answer do y ou make?´

But no w ord, only the chattering of teeth, came from Cethru.

³Hav e y ou no def ence?´ said the Judge: ³these are grav e accusations!´

Then Cethru spoke:

³So please y our Highnesses, ́he said, ³can I help what my lanthorn sees?´

And hav ing spoken these w ords, to all f urther questions he remained more silent than

a headless man.

The Judges took counsel of each other, and the oldest of them thus addressed himself

to Cethru:



³If y ou hav e no def ence, old man, and there is no one will sa y a w ord for y ou, we can

but proceed to judgment.´

Then in the main aisle of the Court there rose a y outhf ul ad vocate.

³Most re v erend Judges,´ he said in a mellif luous voice, clearer than the f luting of a

bell-bird, ³it is useless to look for w ords from this old man, for it is manif est that he

himself is nothing, and that his lanthorn is alone concerned in this affair. But,

re v erend Judges, bethink y ou well: W ould y ou hav e a lanthorn ply a trade or be

concerned with a prof ession, or do aught indeed but pervade the streets at night,

shedding its light, which, if y ou will, is vaga bondage? And, Sirs, upon the second

count of this indictment: W ould y ou hav e a lanthorn di v e into cesspools to rescue

maidens? W ould y ou hav e a lanthorn to beat footpads? Or, indeed, to be any sort of

partisan either of the La w or of them that break the La w? Sure, Sirs, I think not. And

as to this third charge of fostering anarchy let me but describe the trick of this

lanthorn¶s f lame. It is distilled, most re v erend Judges, of oil and wick, together with

that sweet secret heat of whose birth no w ords of mine can tell. And when, Sirs, this

pale f lame has sprung into the air sw a ying to e v er y wind, it brings v ision to the

human eye. And, if it be charged on this old man Cethru that he and his lanthorn by

reason of their sho wing not only the good but the e v il bring no pleasure into the

w orld, I ask, Sirs, what in the w orld is so dear as this po wer to see whether it be the

beautif ul or the foul that is disclosed? Need I, indeed, tell y ou of the w a y this f lame

spreads its f eelers, and delicately darts and hov ers in the darkness, conjuring things

from nothing? This mechanical summoning, Sirs, of v isions out of blackness is

benign, by no means of male volent intent; no more than if a man, passing tw o

donkeys in the road, one lean and the other fat, could justly be arraigned for

malignancy because they were not both fat. This, re v erend Judges, is the essence of

the matter concerning the rich burgess, Pranzo, who, on account of the sight he sa w

by Cethru¶s lanthorn, has lost the equilibrium of his stomach. For, Sirs, the lanthorn

did but sho w that which w as there, both fair and foul, no more, no less; and though it

is indeed true that Pranzo is upset, it w as not because the lanthorn maliciously

produced distorted images, but merely caused to be seen, in due proportions, things

which Pranzo had not seen before. And surely, re v erend Judges, being just men, y ou

w ould not hav e this lanthorn turn its light a w a y from what is ragged and ugly because

there are also fair things on which its light ma y fall; ho w, indeed, being a lanthorn,

could it, if it w ould? And I w ould hav e y ou note this, Sirs, that by this impartial

discov er y of the proportions of one thing to another, this lanthorn must indeed

perpetually seem to cloud and sadden those things which are fair, because of the deep



instincts of harmony and justice planted in the human breast. Ho we v er unfair and

cruel, then, this lanthorn ma y seem to those who, def icient in these instincts, desire

all their li v es to see naught but what is pleasant, lest they, like Pranzo, should lose

their appetites ² it is not consonant with equity that this lanthorn should, e v en if it

could, be pre v ented from thus mechanically buff eting the holida y cheek of lif e. I

w ould think, Sirs, that y ou should rather blame the queaz y state of Pranzo¶s stomach.

The old man has said that he cannot help what his lanthorn sees. This is a just sa ying.

But if , re v erend Judges, y ou deem this equipoised, indiff erent lanthorn to be indeed

blamew orthy for hav ing sho wn in the same moment, side by side, the skull and the

fair face, the burdock and the tiger-lily, the butterf ly and toad, then, most re v erend

Judges, punish it, but do not punish this old man, for he himself is but a f lume of

smoke, thistle do wn dispersed ² nothing!´

So sa ying, the y oung ad vocate ceased.

A gain the three Judges took counsel of each other, and af ter much talk had passed

between them, the oldest spoke:

³What this y oung ad vocate has said seems to us to be the truth. We cannot punish a

lanthorn. Let the old man go!´

And Cethru went out into the sunshine . . . .

No w it came to pass that the Prince of Felicitas, returning from his journey, rode once

more on his amber-coloured steed do wn the Vita Publica.

The night w as dark as a rook¶s wing, but far a w a y do wn the street burned a little light,

like a red star truant from heav en. The Prince riding by descried it for a lanthorn,

with an old man sleeping beside it.

³Ho w is this, Friend?´ said the Prince. ³Y ou are not w alking as I bade y ou, carr ying

y our lanthorn.´

But Cethru neither mov ed nor answered:

³Lif t him up!´ said the Prince.

They lif ted up his head and held the lanthorn to his closed eyes. So lean w as that

bro wn face that the beams from the lanthorn w ould not rest on it, but slipped past on

either side into the night. His eyes did not open. He w as dead.

And the Prince touched him, sa ying: ³Farewell, old man! The lanthorn is still alight.

Go, f etch me another one, and let him carr y it!´

1909.

SOME PL A TITUDES CO CER I G DRA M A



A drama must be shaped so as to hav e a spire of meaning. E v er y grouping of lif e and

character has its inherent moral; and the business of the dramatist is so to pose the

group as to bring that moral poignantly to the light of da y. Such is the moral that

exhales from pla ys like µLear¶, µHamlet¶, and µMacbeth¶. But such is not the moral to be

found in the great bulk of contemporar y Drama. The moral of the av erage pla y is

no w, and pro ba bly has alw a ys been, the triumph at all costs of a supposed immediate

ethical good ov er a supposed immediate ethical e v il.

The v ice of dra wing these distorted morals has permeated the Drama to its spine;

discoloured its art, humanity, and signif icance; inf ected its creators, actors, audience,

critics; too of ten turned it from a picture into a caricature. A Drama which li v es under

the shado w of the distorted moral forgets ho w to be free, fair, and f ine ² forgets so

completely that it of ten prides itself on hav ing forgotten.

No w, in w riting pla ys, there are, in this matter of the moral, three courses open to the

serious dramatist. The f irst is: To def initely set before the public that which it wishes

to hav e set before it, the v iews and codes of lif e by which the public li v es and in which

it belie v es. This w a y is the most common, successf ul, and popular. It makes the

dramatist¶s position sure, and not too o b v iously authoritati v e.

The second course is: To def initely set before the public those v iews and codes of lif e

by which the dramatist himself li v es, those theories in which he himself belie v es, the

more eff ecti v ely if they are the opposite of what the public wishes to hav e placed

before it, presenting them so that the audience ma y sw allo w them like po wder in a

spoonf ul of jam.

There is a third course: To set before the public no cut-and-dried codes, but the

phenomena of lif e and character, selected and combined, but not distorted, by the

dramatist¶s outlook, set do wn without f ear, favour, or prejudice, leav ing the public to

dra w such poor moral as nature ma y afford. This third method requires a certain

detachment; it requires a sympathy with, a lov e of , and a curiosity as to, things for

their o wn sake; it requires a far v iew, together with patient industr y, for no

immediately practical result.

It w as once said of Shakespeare that he had ne v er done any good to any one, and

ne v er w ould. This, unfortunately, could not, in the sense in which the w ord ³good´

w as then meant, be said of most modern dramatists. In truth, the good that

Shakespeare did to humanity w as of a remote, and, shall we sa y, eternal nature;

something of the good that men get from hav ing the sky and the sea to look at. And

this partly because he w as, in his greater pla ys at all e v ents, free from the ha bit of

dra wing a distorted moral. No w, the pla yw right who supplies to the public the facts of



lif e distorted by the moral which it expects, does so that he ma y do the public what he

considers an immediate good, by fortif ying its prejudices; and the dramatist who

supplies to the public facts distorted by his o wn ad vanced morality, does so because

he considers that he will at once benef it the public by substituting for its w orn-out

ethics, his o wn. In both cases the ad vantage the dramatist hopes to conf er on the

public is immediate and practical.

But matters change, and morals change; men remain ² and to set men, and the facts

a bout them, do wn faithf ully, so that they dra w for us the moral of their natural

actions, ma y also possibly be of benef it to the community. It is, at all e v ents, harder

than to set men and facts do wn, as they ought, or ought not to be. This, ho we v er, is

not to sa y that a dramatist should, or indeed can, keep himself and his

temperamental philosophy out of his w ork. As a man li v es and thinks, so will he

w rite. But it is certain, that to the making of good drama, as to the practice of e v er y

other art, there must be brought an almost passionate lov e of discipline, a white-heat

of self -respect, a desire to make the truest, fairest, best thing in one¶s po wer; and that

to these must be added an eye that does not f linch. Such qualities alone will bring to a

drama the self less character which soaks it with ine v ita bility.

The w ord ³pessimist´ is frequently applied to the f ew dramatists who hav e been

content to w ork in this w a y. It has been applied, among others, to Euripides, to

Shakespeare, to I bsen; it will be applied to many in the f uture. Nothing, ho we v er, is

more dubious than the w a y in which these tw o w ords ³pessimist´ and ³optimist´ are

used; for the optimist appears to be he who cannot bear the w orld as it is, and is

forced by his nature to picture it as it ought to be, and the pessimist one who cannot

only bear the w orld as it is, but lov es it well enough to dra w it faithf ully. The true

lov er of the human race is surely he who can put up with it in all its forms, in v ice as

well as in v irtue, in def eat no less than in v ictor y; the true seer he who sees not only

jo y but sorro w, the true painter of human lif e one who blinks nothing. I t ma y be that

he is also, incidentally, its true benefactor.

In the whole range of the social fa bric there are only tw o impartial persons, the

scientist and the artist, and under the latter heading such dramatists as desire to

w rite not only for toda y, but for tomorro w, must stri v e to come.

But dramatists being as they are made ² past remedy it is perhaps more prof ita ble to

examine the various points at which their qualities and def ects are sho wn.

The plot! A good plot is that sure edif ice which slo wly rises out of the interpla y of

circumstance on temperament, and temperament on circumstance, within the

enclosing atmosphere of an idea. A human being is the best plot there is; it ma y be



impossible to see why he is a good plot, because the idea within which he w as brought

forth cannot be f ully grasped; but it is plain that he is a good plot. He is organic. And

so it must be with a good pla y. Reason alone produces no good plots; they come by

original sin, sure conception, and instincti v e af ter-po wer of selecting what benef its

the germ. A bad plot, on the other hand, is simply a ro w of stakes, with a character

impaled on each ² characters who w ould hav e liked to li v e, but came to untimely

grief ; who started brav ely, but f ell on these stakes, placed beforehand in a ro w, and

were transf ixed one by one, while their ghosts stride on, squeaking and gibbering,

through the pla y. Whether these stakes are made of facts or of ideas, according to the

nature of the dramatist who planted them, their eff ect on the unfortunate characters

is the same; the creatures were begotten to be staked, and staked they are! The

demand for a good plot, not unfrequently heard, commonly signif ies: ³Tickle my

sensations by stuff ing the pla y with ar bitrar y ad v entures, so that I need not be

troubled to take the characters seriously. Set the persons of the pla y to action,

regardless of time, sequence, atmosphere, and pro ba bility!´

No w, true dramatic action is what characters do, at once contrar y, as it were, to

expectation, and yet because they hav e already done other things. No dramatist

should let his audience kno w what is coming; but neither should he suff er his

characters to, act without making his audience f eel that those actions are in harmony

with temperament, and arise from pre v ious kno wn actions, together with the

temperaments and pre v ious kno wn actions of the other characters in the pla y. The

dramatist who hangs his characters to his plot, instead of hanging his plot to his

characters, is guilty of cardinal sin.

The dialogue! Good dialogue again is character, marshalled so as continually to

stimulate interest or excitement. The reason good dialogue is seldom found in pla ys is

merely that it is hard to w rite, for it requires not only a kno wledge of what interests or

excites, but such a f eeling for character as brings miser y to the dramatist¶s heart when

his creations speak as they should not speak ² ashes to his mouth when they sa y

things for the sake of sa ying them ² disgust when they are ³smart.´

The art of w riting true dramatic dialogue is an austere art, denying itself all license,

grudging e v er y sentence de voted to the mere machiner y of the pla y, suppressing all

jokes and epigrams se v ered from character, relying for f un and pathos on the f un and

tears of lif e. From start to f inish good dialogue is hand-made, like good lace; clear, of

f ine texture, f urthering with each thread the harmony and strength of a design to

which all must be subordinated.



But good dialogue is also spiritual action. In so far as the dramatist di vorces his

dialogue from spiritual action ² that is to sa y, from progress of e v ents, or to w ard

e v ents which are signif icant of character ² he is stultif ying the thing done; he ma y

make pleasing disquisitions, he is not making drama. And in so far as he twists

character to suit his moral or his plot, he is neglecting a f irst principle, that truth to

Nature which alone in v ests art with handmade quality.

The dramatist¶s license, in fact, ends with his design. In conception alone he is free.

He ma y take what character or group of characters he chooses, see them with what

eyes, knit them with what idea, within the limits of his temperament; but once taken,

seen, and knitted, he is bound to treat them like a gentleman, with the tenderest

consideration of their mainsprings. Take care of character; action and dialogue will

take care of themsel v es! The true dramatist gi v es f ull rein to his temperament in the

scope and nature of his subject; hav ing once selected subject and characters, he is

just, gentle, restrained, neither gratif ying his lust for praise at the expense of his

off spring, nor using them as puppets to f lout his audience. Being himself the nature

that brought them forth, he guides them in the course predestined at their

conception. So only hav e they a chance of def ying Time, which is alw a ys lying in w ait

to destro y the false, topical, or fashiona ble, all ² in a w ord ² that is not based on the

permanent elements of human nature. The perf ect dramatist rounds up his

characters and facts within the ring-f ence of a dominant idea which f ulf ils the crav ing

of his spirit; hav ing got them there, he suff ers them to li v e their o wn li v es.

Plot, action, character, dialogue! But there is yet another subject for a platitude.

Flavour! An impalpa ble quality, less easily captured than the scent of a f lo wer, the

peculiar and most essential attribute of any w ork of art! It is the thin, poignant spirit

which hov ers up out of a pla y, and is as much its diff erentiating essence as is caff eine

of coff ee. Flavour, in f ine, is the spirit of the dramatist pro jected into his w ork in a

state of volatility, so that no one can exactly la y hands on it, here, there, or anywhere.

This distincti v e essence of a pla y, marking its brand, is the one thing at which the

dramatist cannot w ork, for it is outside his consciousness. A man ma y hav e many

moods, he has but one spirit; and this spirit he communicates in some subtle,

unconscious w a y to all his w ork. It w axes and w anes with the currents of his v itality,

but no more alters than a chestnut changes into an oak.

For, in truth, dramas are v er y like unto trees, springing from seedlings, shaping

themsel v es ine v ita bly in accordance with the la ws fast hidden within themsel v es,

drinking sustenance from the earth and air, and in conf lict with the natural forces

round them. So they slo wly come to f ull gro wth, until w arped, stunted, or risen to fair



and gracious height, they stand open to all the winds. And the trees that spring from

each dramatist are of diff erent race; he is the spirit of his o wn sacred grov e, into

which no stra y tree can by any chance enter.

One more platitude. It is not unfashiona ble to pit one form of drama against another

² holding up the naturalistic to the disad vantage of the epic; the epic to the

belittlement of the fantastic; the fantastic to the detriment of the naturalistic. Little

purpose is thus serv ed. The essential meaning, truth, beauty, and irony of things ma y

be re v ealed under all these forms. Vision ov er lif e and human nature can be as keen

and just, the re v elation as true, inspiring, delight -gi v ing, and thought -provoking,

whate v er fashion be emplo yed ² it is simply a question of doing it well enough to

uncov er the kernel of the nut. Whether the v iolet come from Russia, from Parma, or

from England, matters little. Close by the Greek temples at Paestum there are v iolets

that seem redder, and sweeter, than any e v er seen ² as though they hav e sprung up

out of the footprints of some old pagan goddess; but under the A pril sun, in a

De vonshire lane, the little blue scentless v iolets capture e v er y bit as much of the

spring. And so it is with drama ² no matter what its form it need only be the ³real

thing,´ need only hav e caught some of the precious f luids, re v elation, or delight, and

imprisoned them within a chalice to which we ma y put our lips and continually drink.

And yet, starting from this last platitude, one ma y perhaps be suff ered to speculate as

to the particular forms that our renascent drama is likely to assume. For our drama is

renascent, and nothing will stop its gro wth. It is not renascent because this or that

man is w riting, but because of a new spirit. A spirit that is no doubt in part the

gradual outcome of the impact on our home-gro wn art, of Russian, French, and

Scandinav ian inf luences, but which in the main rises from an a w akened humanity in

the conscience of our time.

What, then, are to be the main channels do wn which the renascent English drama

will f loat in the coming years? It is more than possible that these main channels will

come to be tw o in number and situate far apart.

The one will be the broad and clear-cut channel of naturalism, do wn which will

course a drama poignantly shaped, and inspired with high intention, but faithf ul to

the seething and multiple lif e around us, drama such as some are inclined to term

photographic, decei v ed by a seeming simplicity into forgetf ulness of the old prov er b,

³A rs est celare artem,´ and o bli v ious of the fact that, to be v ital, to grip, such drama is

in e v er y respect as dependent on imagination, construction, selection, and

elimination ² the main la ws of artistr y ² as e v er w as the romantic or rhapsodic pla y:

The question of naturalistic technique will bear, indeed, much more study than has



yet been gi v en to it. The aim of the dramatist emplo ying it is o b v iously to create such

an illusion of actual lif e passing on the stage as to compel the spectator to pass

through an experience of his o wn, to think, and talk, and mov e with the people he

sees thinking, talking, and mov ing in front of him. A fals e phrase, a single w ord out of

tune or time, will destro y that illusion and spoil the surface as surely as a stone

heav ed into a still pool shatters the image seen there. But this is only the beginning of

the reason why the naturalistic is the most exacting and diff icult of all techniques. It

is easy enough to reproduce the exact con v ersation and mov ements of persons in a

room; it is desperately hard to produce the perf ectly natural con v ersation and

mov ements of those persons, when each natural phrase spoken and each natural

mov ement made has not only to contribute to w ard the gro wth and perf ection of a

drama¶s soul, but also to be a re v elation, phrase by phrase, mov ement by mov ement,

of essential traits of character. To put it another w a y, naturalistic art, when ali v e,

indeed to be ali v e at all, is simply the art of manipulating a procession of most

delicate symbols. Its serv ice is the sw a ying and focussing of men¶s f eelings and

thoughts in the various departments of human lif e. It will be like a steady lamp, held

up from time to time, in whose light things will be seen for a space clearly and in due

proportion, freed from the mists of prejudice and partisanship. And the other of these

tw o main channels will, I think, be a twisting and delicious stream, which will bear on

its breast new barques of poetr y, shaped, it ma y be, like prose, but a prose incarnating

through its fantasy and symbolism all the deeper aspirations, yearning, doubts, and

mysterious stirrings of the human spirit; a poetic prose-drama, emotionalising us by

its di v ersity and purity of form and in v ention, and whose prov ince will be to disclose

the elemental soul of man and the forces of Nature, not perhaps as the old tragedies

disclosed them, not necessarily in the epic mood, but alw a ys with beauty and in the

spirit of discov er y.

Such will, I think, be the tw o v ital forms of our drama in the coming generation. And

between these tw o forms there must be no crude unions; they are too far apart, the

cross is too v iolent. For, where there is a seeming blend of ly ricism and naturalism, it

will on examination be found, I think, to exist only in pla ys whose subjects or settings

² as in Synge¶s ³Pla ybo y of the Western W orld,´ or in Mr. Masef ield¶s ³Nan´² are so

remov ed from our ken that we cannot really tell, and therefore do not care, whether

an a bsolute illusion is maintained. The poetr y which ma y and should exist in

naturalistic drama, can only be that of perf ect rightness of proportion, rhythm, shape

² the poetr y, in fact, that lies in all v ital things. It is the ill-mating of forms that has

killed a thousand pla ys. We w ant no more bastard drama; no more attempts to dress



out the simple dignity of e v er yda y lif e in the peacock¶s f eathers of false ly ricism; no

more stra w-stuff ed heroes or heroines; no more ra bbits and goldf ish from the

conjurer¶s pockets, nor any limelight. Let us hav e starlight, moonlight, sunlight, and

the light of our o wn self -respects.

1909.

MEDIT A TIO O FI A LIT Y

In the Grand Cany on of A rizona, that most exhilarating of all natural phenomena,

Nature has for once so focussed her eff ects, that the result is a framed and f inal w ork

of A rt. For there, between tw o high lines of plateau, le v el as the sea, are sunk the

w rought thrones of the innumera ble gods, couchant, and for e v er re v ering, in their

million moods of light and colour, the Master Myster y.

Hav ing seen this culmination, I realize why many people either recoil before it, and

take the f irst train home, or speak of it as a ³remark a ble formation.´ For, though

mankind at large crav es f inality, it does not crav e the sort that bends the knee to

Myster y. In Nature, in Religion, in A rt, in Lif e, the common cr y is: ³Tell me precisely

where I am, what doing, and where going! Let me be free of this f earf ul untidiness of

not kno wing all a bout it!´ The favoured religions are alw a ys those whose message is

most f inite. The fashiona ble prof essions ² they that end us in assured positions. The

most popular w orks of f iction, such as leav e nothing to our imagination. And to this

crav ing af ter prose, who w ould not be lenient, that has at all kno wn lif e, with its usual

predominance of our lo wer and less courageous sel v es, our constant hankering af terthe cosey closed door and line of least resistance? We are continually begging to be

allo wed to kno w for certain; though, if our pra yer were granted, and Myster y no

longer hov ered, made blue the hills, and turned da y into night, we should, as surely,

w ail at once to be deli v ered of that ghastliness of kno wing things for certain!

No w, in A rt, I w ould ne v er quarrel with a certain li v ing w riter who demands of it the

kind of f inality implied in what he calls a ³moral discov er y´² using, no doubt, the

w ords in their widest sense. I w ould maintain, ho we v er, that such f inality is not

conf ined to positi v ely discov ering the true conclusion of premises laid do wn; but that

it ma y also distil gradually, negati v ely from the whole w ork, in a moral discov er y, as it

were, of Author. In other w ords, that, permeation by an essential point of v iew, by

emanation of author, ma y so unif y and v italize a w ork, as to gi v e it all the f inality that

need be required of A rt. For the f inality that is requisite to A rt, be it positi v e or

negati v e, is not the f inality of dogma, nor the f inality of fact, it is e v er the f inality of

f eeling ² of a spiritual light, subtly gleaned by the spectator out of that queer



luminous haze which one man¶s nature must e v er be to others. And herein,

incidentally, it is that A rt acquires also that quality of myster y, more needf ul to it

e v en than f inality, for the myster y that w raps a w ork of A rt is the myster y of its

maker, and the myster y of its maker is the diff erence between that maker¶s soul and

e v er y other soul.

But let me take an illustration of what I mean by these tw o kinds of f inality that A rt

ma y hav e, and sho w that in essence they are but tw o hal v es of the same thing. The

term ³a w ork of A rt´ will not be denied, I think, to that early nov el of M. Anatole

France, ³Le L ys R ouge.´ No w, that nov el has positi v e f inality, since the spiritual

conclusion from its premises strikes one as true. But neither will the term ³a w ork of

A rt´ be denied to the same w riter¶s four ³Bergeret´ volumes, whose negati v e f inality

consists only in the temperamental atmosphere wherein they are soaked. No w, if the

theme of ³Le L ys R ouge´ had been treated by Tolsto y, Meredith, or Turgene v , we

should hav e had spiritual conclusions from the same factual premises so diff erent

from M. France¶s as prunes from prisms, and yet, being the w ork of equally great

artists, they w ould, doubtless, hav e struck us as equally true. Is not, then, the positi v e

f inality of ³Le L ys R ouge,´ though expressed in terms of a diff erent craf tsmanship, the

same, in essence, as the negati v e f inality of the ³Bergeret´ volumes? A re not both, in

fact, merely f lo wer of author true to himself ? So long as the scent, colour, form of that

f lo wer is strong and f ine enough to aff ect the senses of our spirit, then all the rest,

surely, is academic ² I w ould sa y, immaterial.

But here, in regard to A rt, is where mankind at large comes on the f ield. ³µFlo wer of

author,¶´ it sa ys, ³µSenses of the spirit!¶ Phew! Gi v e me something I can understand!

Let me kno w where I am getting to!´ In a w ord, it w ants a f inality diff erent from that

which A rt can gi v e. It will ask the artist, with irritation, what his solution, or his

lesson, or his meaning, really is, hav ing omitted to notice that the poor creature has

been gi v ing all the meaning that he can, in e v er y sentence. It will demand to kno w

why it w as not told def initely what became of Charles or Mar y in whom it had gro wn

so interested; and will be almost frightened to learn that the artist kno ws no more

than itself . And if by any chance it be required to dip its mind into a philosophy that

does not promise it a def ined position both in this w or ld and the next, it will

assuredly recoil, and with a certain contempt sa y: ³No, sir! This means nothing to me;

and if it means anything to y ou ² which I v er y much doubt ² I am sorr y for y ou!´

It must hav e facts, and again facts, not only in the present and the past, but in the

f uture. And it demands facts of that, which alone cannot glibly gi v e it facts. It goes on



asking facts of A rt, or, rather, such facts as A rt cannot gi v e ² for, af ter all, e v en

³f lo wer of author´ is fact in a sort of w a y.

Consider, for instance, Synge¶s masterpiece, ³The Pla ybo y of the Western W orld!´

There is f lo wer of author! What is it for mankind at large? An attack on the Irish

character! A pretty piece of w riting! An amusing farce! Enigmatic cynicism leading

no where! A puzzling f ello w w rote it! Mankind at large has little patience with

puzzling f ello ws.

Few, in fact, w ant f lo wer of author. Moreov er, it is a quality that ma y well be looked

for where it does not exist. To sa y that the f inality which A rt requires is merely an

enw rapping mood, or f lo wer of author, is not by any means to sa y that any ro bust

f ello w, slamming his notions do wn in ink, can gi v e us these. Indeed, no! So long as we

see the author¶s proper person in his w ork, we do not see the f lo wer of him. Let him

retreat himself , if he pretend to be an artist. There is no less of subtle skill, no less

impersonality, in the ³Bergeret´ volumes than in ³Le L ys R ouge.´ No less la bour and

mental torturing went to their making, page by page, in order that they might exhale

their perf ume of mysterious f inality, their withdra wn but implicit judgment. Flo wer

of author is not quite so common as the buttercup, the Californian popp y, or the ga y

Texan gaillardia, and for that v er y reason the f inality it gi v es off will ne v er be ro bust

enough for a mankind at large that w ould hav e things cut and dried, and la belled in

thick letters. For, consider ² to take one phase alone of this demand for factual

f inality ² ho w continual and insistent is the cr y for characters that can be

w orshipped; ho w intense and persistent the desire to be told that Charles w as a real

hero; and ho w bitter the regret that Mar y w as no better than she should be! Mankind

at large w ants heroes that are heroes, and heroines that are heroines ² and nothing

so inappropriate to them as unhapp y endings.

Trav elling a w a y, I remember, from that Grand Cany on of A rizona were a y oung man

and a y oung w oman, e v idently in lov e. He w as sitting v er y close to her, and reading

aloud for her pleasure, from a paper-cov ered nov el, heroically o bli v ious of us all:

³µSir R o bert,¶ she murmured, lif ting her beauteous eyes, µI ma y not tempt y ou, for y ou

are too dear to me!¶ Sir R o bert held her lov ely face between his tw o strong hands.

µFarewell!¶ he said, and went out into the night. But something told them both that,

when he had f ulf illed his duty, Sir R o bert w ould return . . . .´ He had not returned

before we reached the Junction, but there w as f inality a bout that baronet, and we well

knew that he ultimately w ould. And, long af ter the sound of that y oung man¶s faithf ul

reading had died out of our ears, we meditated on Sir R o bert, and compared him with

the famous characters of f iction, slo wly percei v ing that they were none of them so



f inal in their heroism as he. No, none of them reached that apex. For Hamlet w as a

most unf inished f ello w, and Lear extremely v iolent. Pickwick addicted to punch, and

Sam Weller to lying; Bazarof actually a Nihilist, and Irina ²²! Le v in and Anna,

Pierre and Natasha, all of them stormy and unsatisfactor y at times. ³Un Coeur

Simple´ nothing but a servant, and an old maid at that; ³Saint Julien l¶Hospitalier´ a

sheer fanatic. Colonel Newcome too irrita ble and too simple altogether. Don Quixote

certif ied insane. Hilda W angel, Nora, Hedda ² Sir R o bert w ould ne v er e v en hav e

spoken to such baggages! Mon sieur Bergeret ² an amia ble weak thing! D¶A rtagnan

² a true sw ashbuckler! Tom Jones, Faust, Don Juan ² we might not e v en think of

them: And those poor Greeks: Prometheus ² shocking rebel. OEdipus for a long time

banished by the Censor. Phaedra and Elektra, not e v en so v irtuous as Mar y, who

failed of being what she should be! And coming to more familiar persons Joseph and

Moses, Dav id and Elijah, all of them lacked his f inality of true heroism ² none could

quite pass muster beside Sir R o bert . . . . Long we meditated, and, ref lecting that an

author must e v er be superior to the creatures of his brain, were refreshed to think

that there were so many li v ing authors capa ble of gi v ing birth to Sir R o bert; for

indeed, Sir R o bert and f inality like his ² no doubtf ul heroes, no f lo wer of author, and

no myster y is what mankind at large has alw a ys w anted from Letters, and will alw a ys

w ant.

As truly as that oil and w ater do not mix, there are tw o kinds of men. The main

cleavage in the whole tale of lif e is this subtle, all pervading di v ision of mankind into

the man of facts and the man of f eeling. And not by what they are or do can they be

told one from the other, but just by their attitude to w ard f inality. Fortunately most of

us are neither quite the one nor quite the other. But between the pure-blooded of

each kind there is real antipathy, far deeper than the antipathies of race, politics, or

religion ² an antipathy that not circumstance, lov e, goodwill, or necessity will e v er

quite get rid of . Sooner shall the panther agree with the bull than that other one with

the man of facts. There is no bridging the gorge that di v ides these w orlds.

Nor is it so easy to tell, of each, to which w orld he belongs, as it w as to place the lady,

who held out her f inger ov er that gorge called Grand Cany on, and said:

³It doesn¶t look thirteen miles; but they measured it just there! Excuse my pointing!´

1912.

W A TED ² SCHOOLI G

³Et nous jongleurs inutiles, fri voles joueurs de luth!´. . . Useless jugglers, fri volous

pla yers on the lute! Must we so describe oursel v es, we, the producers, season by



season, of so many hundreds of ³remark a ble´ w orks of f iction?² for though, when we

take up the remark a ble w orks of our f ello ws, we ³really cannot read them!´ the Press

and the ad v ertisements of our publishers tell us that they are ³remark a ble.´

A stor y goes that once in the twilight undergro wth of a forest of nut-bearing trees a

number of little pur blind creatures w andered, singing for nuts. On some of these

pur blind creatures the nuts f ell heav y and f ull, extremely indigestible, and were

quickly sw allo wed; on others they f ell light, and contained nothing, because the

kernel had already been eaten up a bov e, and these light and kernel-less nuts were

accompanied by sibilations or laughter. On others again no nuts at all, empty or f ull,

came do wn. But nuts or no nuts, f ull nuts or empty nuts, the pur blind creatures belo w

went on w andering and singing. A trav eller one da y stopped one of these creatures

whose voice w as peculiarly disagreea ble, and asked ³Why do y ou sing like this? Is it

for pleasure that y ou do it, or for pain? What do y ou get out of it? Is it for the sake of

those up there? Is it for y our o wn sake ² for the sake of y our family ² for whose

sake? Do y ou think y our songs w orth listening to? Answer!´

The creature scratched itself , and sang the louder.

³Ah! Cacoethes! I pity, but do not blame y ou,´ said the trav eller.

He lef t the creature, and presently came to another which sang a squeaky treble song.

It w andered round in a ring under a grov e of stunted trees, and the trav eller noticed

that it ne v er went out of that grov e.

³Is it really necessar y,´ he said, ³for y ou to express y ourself thus?´

And as he spoke sho wers of tiny hard nuts came do wn on the little creature, who ate

them greedily. The trav eller opened one; it w as extremely small and tasted of dr y rot.

³Why, at all e v ents,´ he said, ³need y ou sta y under these trees? the nuts are not good

here.´

But for answer the little creature ran round and round, and round and round.

³I suppose,´ said the trav eller, ³small bad nuts are better than no bread; if y ou went

out of this grov e y ou w ould starv e?´

The pur blind little creature shrieked. The trav eller took the sound for aff irmation,

and passed on. He came to a third little creature who, under a tall tree, w as singing

v er y loudly indeed, while all around w as a great silence, broken only by sounds like

the snuff ling of small noses. The creature stopped singing as the trav eller came up,

and at once a storm of huge nuts came do wn; the trav eller found them sweetish and

v er y oily.

³Why,´ he said to the creature, ³did y ou sing so loud? Y ou cannot eat all these nuts.

Y ou really do sing louder than seems necessar y; come, answer me! ́



But the pur blind little creature began to sing again at the top of its voice, and the

noise of the snuff ling of small noses became so great that the trav eller hastened a w a y.

He passed many other pur blind little creatures in the twilight of this forest, till at last

he came to one that looked e v en blinder than the rest, but whose song w as sweet and

lo w and clear, breaking a perf ect stillness; and the trav eller sat do wn to listen. For a

long time he listened to that song without noticing that not a nut w as falling. But

suddenly he heard a faint rustle and three little oval nuts la y on the ground.

The trav eller cracked one of them. It w as of delicate f lavour. He looked at the little

creature standing with its face raised, and said:

³Tell me, little blind creature, whose song is so charming, where did y ou learn to

sing?´

The little creature turned its head a trif le to one side as though listening for the fall of

nuts.

³Ah, indeed!´ said the trav eller: ³Y ou, whose voice is so clear, is this all y ou get to

eat?´

The little blind creature smiled . . . .

It is a twilight forest in which we w riters of f iction w ander, and once in a w a y, though

all this has been said before, we ma y as well remind oursel v es and others why the

light is so dim; why there is so much bad and false f iction; why the demand for it is so

great. Li v ing in a w orld where demand creates supply, we w riters of f iction f urnish

the exception to this rule. For, consider ho w, as a class, we come into existence.

Unlike the follo wers of any other occupation, nothing whate v er compels any one of us

to serv e an apprenticeship. We go to no school, hav e to pass no examination, attain

no standard, recei v e no diploma. We need not study that which should be studied; we

are at liberty to f lood our minds with all that should not be studied. Like mushrooms,

in a single sight we spring up ² a pen in our hands, v er y little in our brains, and who -

kno ws-what in our hearts!

Few of us sit do wn in cold blood to w rite our f irst stories; we hav e something in us

that we f eel we must express. This is the beginning of the v icious circle. Our f irst

books of ten hav e some thing in them. We are sincere in tr ying to express that

something. It is true we cannot express it, not hav ing learnt ho w, but its gh ost haunts

the pages the ghost of real experience and real lif e ² just enough to attract the

untrained intelligence, just enough to make a generous Press remark: ³This sho ws

promise.´ We hav e tasted blood, we pant for more. Those of us who had a carking

occupation hasten to thro w it aside, those who had no occupation hav e no w found

one; some f ew of us keep both the old occupation and the new. Whiche v er of these



courses we pursue, the hurr y with which we pursue it undoes us. For, of ten we hav e

only that one book in us, which we did not kno w ho w to w rite, and hav ing expressed

that which we hav e f elt, we are dri v en in our second, our third, our fourth, to w arm

up variations, like those dressed remains of last night¶s dinner which are serv ed for

lunch; or to spin from our usually commonplace imaginations thin extravagances

which those who do not tr y to think for themsel v es are e v er ready to accept as f ull of

inspiration and v itality. Anything for a book, we sa y ² anything for a book!

From time immemorial we hav e acted in this immoral manner, till we hav e

accustomed the Press and Public to expect it. From time immemorial we hav e

allo wed oursel v es to be dri v en by those po werf ul dri v ers, Bread, and Praise, and

cared little for the quality of either. Sensibly, or insensibly, we tune our songs to earn

the nuts of our twilight forest. We tune them, not to the key of : ³Is it good?´ but to the

key of : ³Will it pa y?´ and at each tuning the nuts fall fast! It is all so natural. Ho w can

we help it, seeing that we are undisciplined and standardless, seeing that we started

without the backbone that schooling gi v es? Here and there among us is a genius, here

and there a man of exceptional sta bility who trains himself in spite of all the forces

w orking for his destruction. But those who do not publish until they can express, and

do not express until they hav e something w orth expressing, are so rare that they can

be counted on the f ingers of three or perhaps four hands; mercif ully, we all ² or

nearly all belie v e oursel v es of that company.

It is the fashion to sa y that the public will hav e what it w ants. Certainly the Public will

hav e what it w ants if what it w ants is gi v en to the Public. If what it no w w ants were

suddenly withdra wn, the Public, the big Public, w ould by an o b v ious natural la w take

the lo west of what remained; if that again were withdra wn, it w ould take the next

lo west, until by degrees it took a relati v ely good article. The Public, the big Public, is a

mechanical and helpless consumer at the mercy of what is supplied to it, and this

must e v er be so. The Public then is not to blame for the supply of bad, false f iction.

The Press is not to blame, for the Press, like the Public, must take what is set before

it; their Critics, for the most part, like oursel v es hav e been to no school, passed no

test of f itness, recei v ed no certif icate; they cannot lead us, it is we who lead them, for

without the Critics we could li v e but without us the Critics w ould die. We cannot,

therefore, blame the Press. Nor is the Publisher to blame; for the Publisher will

publish what is set before him. It is true that if he published no books on commission

he w ould deserv e the praise of the State, but it is quite unreasona ble for us to expect

him to deserv e the praise of the State, since it is we who supply him with these books

and incite him to publish them. We cannot, therefore, la y the blame on the Publisher.



We must la y the blame where it clearly should be laid, on oursel v es. We oursel v es

create the demand for bad and false f iction. Ver y many of us hav e pri vate means; for

such there is no excuse. Ver y many of us hav e none; for such, once started on this

journey of f iction, there is much, of ten tragic, excuse ² the less reason then for not

hav ing trained oursel v es before setting out on our w a y. There is no getting out of it;

the fault is ours. If we will not put oursel v es to school when we are y oung; if we must

rush into print before we can spell; if we will not repress our natural desires and w alk

before we run; if we will not learn at least what not to do ² we shall go on w andering

through the forest, singing our foolish songs.

And since we cannot train oursel v es except by w riting, let us w rite, and burn what we

w rite; then shall we soon stop w riting, or produce what we need not burn!

For, as things are no w, without compass, without map, we set out into the twilight

forest of f iction; without path, without track ² and we ne v er emerge.

Yes, with the French w riter, we must sa y:

³Et nous jongleurs inutiles, fri voles joueurs de luth!´ . . .

1906.

R EFLECTIO S O OUR DISLIK E OF THI GS A S THEY ARE

Yes! Why is this the chief characteristic of our art? What secret instincts are

responsible for this in v eterate distaste? But, f irst, is it true that we hav e it?

To stand still and look at a thing for the jo y of looking, without ref erence to any

material ad vantage, and personal benef it, either to oursel v es or our neighbours, just simply to indulge our curiosity! Is that a British ha bit? I think not.

If , on some Nov ember af ternoon, we w alk into K ensington Gardens, where they join

the Park on the Ba ysw ater side, and, crossing in front of the ornamental fountain,

glance at the semicircular seat let into a dismal little Temple of the Sun, we shall see a

half -moon of apathetic f igures. There, enjo ying a moment of lugubrious idleness, ma y

be sitting an old countr yw oman with steady eyes in a lean, dusty-black dress and an

old poke-bonnet; by her side, some gin-faced creature of the to wn, all blousy and

draggled; a hollo w-eyed foreigner, far gone in consumption; a bronzed y oung navv y,

asleep, with his muddy boots jutting straight out; a bearded, drear y being, chin on

chest; and more consumpti v es, and more vaga bonds, and more people dead-tired,

speechless, and staring before them from that crescent-shaped hav en where there is

no draught at their backs, and the sun occasionally shines. And as we look at them,

according to the state of our temper, we think: Poor creatures, I wish I could do

something for them! or: Re volting! They oughtn¶t to allo w it! But do we f eel any



pleasure in just w atching them; any of that intimate sensation a cat entertains when

its back is being rubbed; are we curiously enjo ying the sight of these people, simply as

manif estations of lif e, as o bjects fashioned by the ebb and f lo w of its tides? A gain, I

think, not. And why? Either, because we hav e instantly f elt that we ought to do

something; that here is a danger in our midst, which one da y might aff ect our o wn

security; and at all e v ents, a sight re volting to us who came out to look at this

remark a bly f ine fountain. Or, because we are too humane! Though v er y possibly that

frequent murmuring of ours: Ah! It¶s too sad! is but another w a y of putting the w ords:

Stand aside, please, y ou¶re too depressing! Or, again, is it that we avoid the sight of

things as they are, avoid the unedif ying, because of what ma y be called ³the

uncreati v e instinct,´ that saf eguard and concomitant of a ci v ilisation which demands

of us complete eff iciency, practical and thorough emplo yment of e v er y second of our

time and e v er y inch of our space? We kno w, of course, that out of nothing nothing

can be made, that to ³create´ anything a man must f irst recei v e impressions, and that

to recei v e impressions requires an apparatus of nerv es and f eelers, exposed and

qui v ering to e v er y v ibration round it, an apparatus so entirely opposed to our

national spirit and traditions that the bare thought of it causes us to blush. A ro bust

recognition of this, a steadfast resol v e not to be forced out of the current of strenuous

ci v ilisation into the sleep y backw ater of pure impression ism, makes us distrustf ul of

attempts to foster in oursel v es that recepti v ity and subsequent creati v eness, the

micro bes of which exist in e v er y man: To w atch a thing simply because it is a thing,

entirely without considering ho w it can aff ect us, and without e v en seeing at the

moment ho w we are to get anything out of it, jars our consciences, jars that inner

f eeling which keeps secure and makes harmonious the whole concert of our li v es, for

we f eel it to be a w aste of time, dangerous to the community, contributing neither to

our meat and drink, our clothes and comfort, nor to the sta bility and order of our

li v es.

Of these three possible reasons for our dislike of things as they are, the f irst tw o are

perhaps contained within the third. But, to whate v er our dislike is due, we hav e it ²

Oh! we hav e it! With the possible exception of Hogarth in his non -preaching pictures,

and Consta ble in his sketches of the sky,² I speak of dead men only,² hav e we

produced any painter of reality like Manet or Millet, any w riter like Flaubert or

Maupassant, like Turgene v , or Tchek ov . We are, I think, too deeply ci v ilised, so

deeply ci v ilised that we hav e come to look on Nature as indecent. The acts and

emotions of lif e undraped with ethics seem to us anathema. It has long been, and still

is, the fashion among the intellectuals of the Continent to regard us as bar barians in



most aesthetic matters. Ah! If they only knew ho w inf initely bar barous they seem to

us in their nai v e contempt of our bar barism, and in what we regard as their infantine

concern with things as they are. Ho w far hav e we not gone past all that ² we of the

oldest settled Western countr y, who hav e so v eneered our li v es that we no longer

kno w of what w ood they are made! Whom generations hav e so soaked with the

preserv e ³good form´ that we are imperv ious to the claims and clamour of that ill-

bred creature ² lif e! Who think it either dreadf ul, or µv ieux jeu¶, that such things as

the crude emotions and the ra w struggles of Fate should be e v en mentioned, much

less presented in terms of art! For whom an artist is µsuspect¶ if he is not, in his w ork,

a sportsman and a gentleman? Who shake a solemn head ov er w riters who will treat

of sex; and, with the remark: ³W orst of it is, there¶s so much truth in those f ello ws!´

close the book.

Ah! well! I suppose we hav e been too long familiar with the unprof ita bleness of

speculation, hav e surrendered too def initely to action ² to the material side of things,

retaining for what relaxation our spirits ma y require, a ha bit of sentimental

aspiration, caref ully di vorced from things as they are. We seem to hav e decided that

things are not, or, if they are, ought not to be ² and what is the good of thinking of

things like that? In fact, our national ideal has become the Will to Health, to Material

Eff iciency, and to it we hav e sacrif iced the Will to Sensibility. It is a point of v iew. And

yet ² to the philosophy that crav es Perf ection, to the spirit that desires the golden

mean, and hankers for the serene and balanced seat in the centre of the see-sa w, it

seems a little pitif ul, and constricted; a conf ession of def eat, a hedging and limitation

of the soul. Need we put up with this, must we for e v er turn our eyes a w a y from

things as they are, stif le our imaginations and our sensibilities, for f ear that they

should become our masters, and destro y our sanity? This is the eternal question that

confronts the artist and the thinker. Because of the ine v ita ble decline af ter f ull

f lo wering-point is reached, the ine v ita ble fading of the f ire that follo ws the f ull f lame

and glo w, are we to recoil from stri v ing to reach the perf ect and harmonious

climacteric? Better to hav e lov ed and lost, I think, than ne v er to hav e lov ed at all;

better to reach out and grasp the f ullest expression of the indi v idual and the national

soul, than to keep for e v er under the shelter of the w all. I w ould e v en think it possible

to be sensiti v e without neurasthenia, to be sympathetic without insanity, to be ali v e

to all the winds that blo w without getting inf luenza. God for bid that our Letters and

our A rts should decade into Beardsleyism; but between that and their present

³health´ there lies f ull f lo wering-point, not yet, by a long w a y, reached.

To f lo wer like that, I suspect, we must see things just a little more ² as they are!



1905-1912.

THE W I DLESTRA W

A certain w riter, returning one af ternoon from rehearsal of his pla y, sat do wn in the

hall of the hotel where he w as sta ying. ³No,´ he ref lected, ³this pla y of mine will not please the Public; it is gloomy, almost terrible. This v er y da y I read these w ords in my

morning paper: µNo artist can afford to despise his Public, for, whether he conf esses it

or not, the artist exists to gi v e the Public what it w ants.¶ I hav e, then, not only done

what I cannot afford to do, but I hav e been false to the reason of my existence.´

The hall w as f ull of people, for it w as the hour of tea; and looking round him, the

w riter thought ³And this is the Public ² the Public that my pla y is destined not to

please!´ And for se v eral minutes he looked at them as if he had been hy pnotised.

Presently, between tw o ta bles he noticed a w aiter standing, lost in his thoughts. The

mask of the man¶s prof essional ci v ility had come a w r y, and the expression of his face

and f igure w as curiously remote from the faces and forms of those from whom he had

been taking orders; he seemed like a bird discov ered in its o wn haunts, all

unconscious as yet of human eyes. And the w riter thought: ³But if those people at the

ta bles are the Public, what is that w aiter? Ho w if I w as mistaken, and not they, but he

were the real Public? ́ And testing this thought, his mind began at once to range ov er

all the people he had lately seen. He thought of the Founder¶s Da y dinner of a great

School, which he had attended the night before. ³No,´ he mused, ³I see v er y little

resemblance between the men at that dinner and the men in this hall; still less between them and the w aiter. Ho w if they were the real Public, and neither the

w aiter, nor these people here!´ But no sooner had he made this ref lection, than he

bethought him of a gathering of w orkers whom he had w atched tw o da ys ago.

³A gain,´ he mused, ³I do not recollect any resemblance at all between those w orkers

and the men at the dinner, and certainly they are not like any one here. What if those

w orkers are the real Public, not the men at the dinner, nor the w aiter, nor the people

in this hall!´ And thereupon his mind f lew off again, and this time rested on the

f igures of his o wn immediate circle of friends. They seemed v er y diff erent from the

four real Publics whom he had as yet discov ered. ³Yes,´ he considered, ³when I come

to think of it, my associates painters, and w riters, and critics, and all that kind of

person ² do not seem to hav e anything to speak of in common with any of these

people. Perhaps my o wn associates, then, are the real Public, and not these others!´

Percei v ing that this w ould be the f if th real Public, he f elt discouraged. But presently

he began to think: ³The past is the past and cannot be undone, and with this pla y of



mine I shall not please the Public; but there is alw a ys the f uture! No w, I do not wish

to do what the artist cannot afford to do, I earnestly desire to be true to the reason of

my existence; and since the reason of that existence is to gi v e the Public what it

w ants, it is really v ital to discov er who and what the Public is!´ And he began to look

v er y closely at the faces around him, hoping to f ind out from ty pes what he had failed

to ascertain from classes. T w o men were sitting near, one on each side of a w oman.

The f irst, who w as all crumpled in his arm-chair, had curly lips and w rinkles round

the eyes, cheeks at once rather fat and rather shado wy, and a dimple in his chin. It

seemed certain that he w as humourous, and kind, sympathetic, rat her diff ident,

speculati v e, moderately intelligent, with the rudiments perhaps of an imagination.

And he looked at the second man, who w as sitting v er y upright, as if he had a

particularly f ine backbone, of which he w as not a little proud. He w as extremely big

and handsome, with pronounced and regular nose and chin, f irm, well -cut lips

beneath a smooth moustache, direct and rather insolent eyes, a some what receding

forehead, and an air of master y ov er all around. It w as o b v ious that he possessed a

complete kno wledge of his o wn mind, some brutality, much practical intelligence,

great resolution, no imagination, and plenty of conceit. And he looked at the w oman.

She w as pretty, but her face w as vapid, and seemed to hav e no character at all. And

from one to the other he looked, and the more he looked the less resemblance he sa w

between them, till the o bjects of his scrutiny grew resti v e.... Then, ceasing to examine

them, an idea came to him. ³No! The Public is not this or that class, this or that ty pe;

the Public is an hy pothetical av erage human being, endo wed with av erage human

qualities ² a distillation, in fact, of all the people in this hall, the people in the street

outside, the people of this countr y e v er ywhere.´ And for a moment he w as pleased;

but soon he began again to f eel uneasy. ³Since,´ he ref lected, ³it is necessar y for me to

supply this hy pothetical av erage human being with what he w ants, I shall hav e to f ind

out ho w to distil him from all the ingredients around me. No w ho w am I to do that? It

will certainly take me more than all my lif e to collect and boil the souls of all of them,

which is necessar y if I am to extract the genuine article, and I should then apparently

hav e no time lef t to supply the precipitated spirit, when I had o btained it, with what it

w anted! Yet this hy pothetical av erage human being must be found, or I must sta y for

e v er haunted by the thought that I am not supplying him with what he w ants!´ And

the w riter became more and more discouraged, for to arrogate to himself kno wledge

of all the heights and depths, and e v en of all the v irtues and v ices, tastes and dislikes

of all the people of the countr y, without hav ing f irst o btained it, seemed to him to

savour of insolence. And still more did it appear impertinent, hav ing taken this mass



of kno wledge which he had not got, to extract from it a golden mean man, in order to

supply him with what he w anted. And yet this w as what e v er y artist did who justif ied

his existence ² or it w ould not hav e been so stated in a newspaper. And he gaped up

at the lof ty ceiling, as if he might perchance see the Public f lying up there in the faint

bluish mist of smoke. And suddenly he thought: ³Suppose, by some miracle, my

golden-mean bird came f lying to me with its beak open for the food with which it is

my duty to supply it ² w ould it af ter all be such a v er y strange-looking creature;

w ould it not be extremely like my normal self ? Am I not, in fact, myself the Public?

For, without the strongest and most reprehensible conceit, can I claim for my normal

self a single attribute or quality not possessed by an hy pothetical av erage human

being? Yes, I am myself the Public; or at all e v ents all that my consciousness can e v er

kno w of it for certain.´ And he began to consider deeply. For sitting there in cold

blood, with his nerv es at rest, and his brain and senses normal, the pla y he had

w ritten did seem to him to put an unnecessar y strain upon the faculties. ³Ah!´ he

thought, ³in f uture I must take good care ne v er to w rite anything except in cold blood,

with my nerv es well clothed, and my brain and senses quiet. I ought only to w rite

when I f eel as normal as I do no w.´ And for some minutes he remained motionless,

looking at his boots. Then there crept into his mind an uncomforta ble thought. ³But

hav e I e v er w ritten anything without f eeling a little-a bnormal, at the time? Hav e I

e v er e v en f elt inclined to w rite anything, until my emotions had been unduly excited,

my brain immoderately stirred, my senses unusually quickened, or my spirit

extravagantly roused? Ne v er! Alas, ne v er! I am then a misera ble renegade, false to the

whole purpose of my being ² nor do I see the slightest hope of becoming a better

man, a less unw orthy artist! For I literally cannot w rite without the stimulus of some

f eeling exaggerated at the expense of other f eelings. What has been in the past will be

in the f uture: I shall ne v er be taking up my pen when I f eel my comforta ble and

normal self ne v er be satisf ying that self which is the Public!´ And he thought: ³I am

lost. For, to satisf y that normal self , to gi v e the Public what it w ants, is, I am told, and

therefore must belie v e, what all artists exist for. AEschylus in his µChoephorae¶ and

his µPrometheus¶; Sophocles in his µOEdipus T y rannus¶; Euripides when he w rote µThe

Tro jan W omen,¶ µMedea,¶² and µHippolytus¶; Shakespeare in his µLeer¶; Goethe in his

µFaust¶; I bsen in his µGhosts¶ and his µPeer Gynt¶; Tolsto y in µThe Po wers of Darkness¶;

all ² all in those great w orks, must hav e satisf ied their most comforta ble and normal

sel v es; all ² all must hav e gi v en to the av erage human being, to the Public, what it

w ants; for to do that, we kno w, w as the reason of their existence, and who shall sa y

those no ble artists were not true to it? That is surely unthink a ble. And yet ² and yet



² we are assured, and, indeed, it is true, that there is no real Public in this countr y for

just those pla ys! Therefore AEschylus, Sophocles, Euripides, Shakespeare, Goethe,

I bsen, Tolsto y, in their greatest w orks did not gi v e the Public what it w ants, did not

satisf y the av erage human being, their more comforta ble and normal sel v es, and as

artists were not true to the reason of their existence. Therefore they were not artists,

which is unthink a ble; therefore I hav e not yet found the Public!´

And percei v ing that in this impasse his last hope of discov er y had foundered, the

w riter let his head fall on his chest.

But e v en as he did so a gleam of light, like a faint moonbeam, stole out into the

garden of his despair. ³Is it possible,´ he thought, ³that, by a w riter, until his pla y has

been performed (when, alas! it is too late), µthe Public¶ is inconcei va ble ² in fact that

for him there is no such thing? But if there be no such thing, I cannot exist to gi v e it

what it w ants. What then is the reason of my existence? Am I but a windlestra w?´

And wearied out with his perplexity, he f ell into a doze. And while he dozed he

dreamed that he sa w the f igure of a w oman standing in darkness, from whose face

and form came a misty ref ulgence, such as steals out into the dusk from white

campion f lo wers along summer hedgero ws. She w as holding her pale hands before

her, wide apart, with the palms turned do wn, qui v ering as might dov es a bout to

settle; and for all it w as so dark, her grey eyes were v isible-f ull of light, with black

rims round the irises. To gaze at those eyes w as almost painf ul; for though they were

beautif ul, they seemed to see right through his soul, to pass him by, as though on a far

discov ering vo y age, and for bidden to rest.

The dreamer spoke to her: ³Who are y ou, standing there in the darkness with those

eyes that I can hardly bear to look at? Who are y ou?´

And the w oman answered: ³Friend, I am y our Conscience; I am the Truth as best it

ma y be seen by y ou. I am she whom y ou exist to serv e.´ With those w ords she

vanished, and the w riter w oke. A bo y w as standing before him with the e v ening

papers.

To cov er his conf usion at being caught asleep he purchased one and began to read a

leading article. It commenced with these w ords: ³There are certain pla yw rights taking

themsel v es v er y seriously; might we suggest to them that they are in danger of

becoming ridiculous . . . .´

The w riter let fall his hand, and the paper f luttered to the ground. ³The Public, ́he

thought, ³I am not a ble to take seriously, because I cannot concei v e what it ma y be;

myself , my conscience, I am told I must not take seriously, or I become ridiculous.

Yes, I am indeed lost!´



And with a f eeling of elation, as of a stra w blo wn on e v er y wind, he arose.

1910.

A OUT CE SOR SHIP

Since, time and again, it has been prov ed, in this countr y of free institutions, that the great ma jority of our f ello w-countr ymen consider the only Censorship that no w

o btains amongst us, namely the Censorship of Pla ys, a bulw ark for the preservation of

their comfort and sensibility against the spiritual researches and speculations of

bolder and too acti v e spirits ² it has become time to consider whether we should not

seriously extend a principle, so gratef ul to the ma jority, to all our institutions.

For no one can deny that in practice the Censorship of Drama w orks with a smooth

swif tness ² a lack of dela y and friction unexampled in any public off ice. No

troublesome publicity and tedious postponement for the purpose of appeal mar its

eff iciency. It is neither hampered by the La w nor by the slo w process of popular

election. Welcomed by the ov er whelming ma jority of the public; o bjected to only by

such persons as suff er from it, and a negligible faction, who, wedded pedantically to

liberty of the subject, are resentf ul of summar y po wers v ested in a single person

responsible only to his o wn µconscience¶² it is amazingly, triumphantly, successf ul.

Why, then, in a democratic State, is so valua ble a protector of the will, the interests,

and pleasure of the ma jority not besto wed on other branches of the public being?

Opponents of the Censorship of Pla ys hav e been led by the a bsence of such other

Censorships to conclude that this Off ice is an archaic surv i val, persisting into times that hav e outgro wn it. They hav e been kno wn to allege that the reason of its surv i val

is simply the fact that Dramatic Authors, whose reputation and means of li v elihood it

threatens, hav e e v er been f ew in number and poorly organised ² that the reason, in

short, is the helplessness and weakness of the interests concerned. We must all

combat with force such an aspersion on our Legislature. Can it e v en for a second be

supposed that a State which gi v es trial by Jur y to the meanest, poorest, most helpless

of its citizens, and concedes to the greatest criminals the right of appeal, could hav e

debarred a body of reputa ble men from the ordinar y rights of citizenship for so

cynical a reason as that their numbers were small, their interests unjoined, their

protests f eeble? Such a supposition were intolera ble! We do not in this countr y

depri v e a class of citizens of their ordinar y rights, we do not place their produce

under the irresponsible control of one not amena ble to La w, by any sort of political

accident! That w ould indeed be to laugh at Justice in this K ingdom! That w ould

indeed be cynical and unsound! We must ne v er admit that there is no basic Justice



controlling the edif ice of our Ci v ic Rights. We do, we must, conclude that a just and

well-considered principle underlies this despotic Institution; for surely, else, it w ould

not be suff ered to surv i v e for a single moment! Pom! Pom!

If , then, the Censorship of Pla ys be just, benef icent, and based on a well-considered

principle, we must rightly inquire what good and logical reason there is for the

a bsence of Censorship in other departments of the national lif e. If Censorship of the

Drama be in the real interests of the people, or at all e v ents in what the Censor for the

time being concei v es to be their interest ² then Censorships of A rt, Literature,

Religion, Science, and Politics are in the interests of the people, unless it can be

prov ed that there exists essential diff erence between the Drama and these other

branches of the public being. Let us consider whether there is any such essential

diff erence.

It is fact, bey ond dispute, that e v er y year numbers of books appear which strain the

av erage reader¶s intelligence and sensibilities to an unendura ble extent; books whose

speculations are totally unsuited to normal thinking po wers; books which contain

v iews of morality di v ergent from the customar y, and discussions of themes unsuited

to the y oung person; books which, in f ine, prov ide the greater Public with no pleasure

whatsoe v er, and, either by harro wing their f eelings or off ending their good taste,

cause them real pain.

It is true that, precisely as in the case of Pla ys, the Public are protected by a v igilant

and critical Press from w orks of this description; that, f urther, they are protected by

the commercial instinct of the Libraries, who will not stock an article which ma y

off end their customers ² just as, in the case of Pla ys, the Public are protected by the

common-sense of theatrical Managers; that, f inally, they are protected by the Police

and the Common La w of the land. But despite all these protections, it is no

uncommon thing for an av erage citizen to purchase one of these distur bing or

dubious books. Has he, on discov ering its true nature, the right to call on the

bookseller to ref und its value? He has not. And thus he runs a danger o b v iated in the

case of the Drama which has the protection of a prudential Censorship. For this

reason alone, ho w much better, then, that there should exist a paternal authority

(some, no doubt, will call it grand-maternal ² but sneers must not be confounded

with argument) to suppress these books before appearance, and saf eguard us from

the danger of buying and possibly reading undesira ble or painf ul literature!

A specious reason, ho we v er, is ad vanced for exempting Literature from the

Censorship accorded to Pla ys. He ² it is said ² who attends the performance of a

pla y, attends it in public, where his f eelings ma y be harro wed and his taste off ended,



cheek by jo wl with bo ys, or w omen of all ages; it ma y e v en chance that he has taken to

this entertainment his wif e, or the y oung persons of his household. He ² on the other

hand ² who reads a book, reads it in pri vacy. True; but the wielder of this argument

has clasped his f ingers round a tw o-edged blade. The v er y fact that the book has no

mixed audience remov es from Literature an element which is e v er the greatest check

on licentiousness in Drama. No manager of a theatre,² a man of the w orld engaged

in the acquisition of his li v elihood, unless guaranteed by the license of the Censor,

dare risk the presentment before a mixed audience of that which might cause an

µemeute¶ among his clients. It has, indeed, alw a ys been o bserv ed that the theatrical

manager, almost without exception, thoughtf ully recoils from the responsibility that

w ould be thrust on him by the a bolition of the Censorship. The f ear of the mixed

audience is e v er suspended a bov e his head. No such f ear threatens the publisher, who

displa ys his w ares to one man at a time. And for this v er y reason of the mixed

audience; perpetually and perv ersely cited to the contrar y by such as hav e no f irm

grasp of this matter, there is a greater necessity for a Censorship on Literature than

for one on Pla ys.

Further, if there were but a Censorship of Literature, no matter ho w dubious the

books that were allo wed to pass, the conscience of no reader need e v er be troubled.

For, that the perf ect rest of the public conscience is the f irst result of Censorship, is

prov ed to certainty by the protected Drama, since many dubious pla ys are yearly put

before the pla y-going Public without tending in any w a y to distur b a complacency

engendered by the security from harm guaranteed by this benef icent, if despotic,

Institution. Pundits who, to the discomfort of the populace, foster this exemption of

Literature from discipline, cling to the old-fashioned notion that ulcers should be

encouraged to discharge themsel v es upon the surface, instead of being quietly and

decently dri v en into the system and allo wed to f ester there.

The remaining plea for exempting Literature from Censorship, put for w ard by

unref lecting persons: That it w ould require too many Censors ² besides being

unw orthy, is, on the face of it, erroneous. Special tests hav e ne v er been thought

necessar y in appointing Examiners of Pla ys. They w ould, indeed, not only be

unnecessar y, but positi v ely dangerous, seeing that the essential f unction of

Censorship is protection of the ordinar y prejudices and forms of thought. There

w ould, then, be no diff iculty in securing tomorro w as many Censors of Literature as

might be necessar y (sa y twenty or thirty); since all that w ould be required of each one

of them w ould be that he should secretly exercise, in his uncontrolled discretion, his

indi v idual taste. In a w ord, this Free Literature of ours protects ad vancing thought



and speculation; and those who belie v e in ci v ic freedom subject only to Common

La w, and espouse the cause of free literature, are championing a system which is

essentially undemocratic, essentially inimical to the will of the ma jority, who hav e

certainly no desire for any such things as ad vancing thought and speculation. Such

persons, indeed, merely hold the faith that the People, as a whole, unprotected by the

despotic judgments of single persons, hav e enough strength and wisdom to kno w

what is and what is not harmf ul to themsel v es. They put their trust in a Public Press

and a Common La w, which deri v ing from the Conscience of the Countr y, is openly

administered and within the reach of all. Ho w a bsurd, ho w inadequate this all is we

see from the existence of the Censorship on Drama.

Hav ing o bserv ed that there is no reason whate v er for the exemption of Literature, let

us no w turn to the case of A rt. E v er y picture hung in a galler y, e v er y statue placed on

a pedestal, is exposed to the public stare of a mixed company. Why, then, hav e we no

Censorship to protect us from the possibility of encountering w orks that bring

blushes to the cheek of the y oung person? The reason cannot be that the proprietors

of Galleries are more w orthy of trust than the managers of Theatres; this w ould be to

make an odious distinction which those v er y Managers who uphold th e Censorship of

Pla ys w ould be the f irst to resent. It is true that Societies of artists and the proprietors

of Galleries are subject to the prosecution of the La w if they off end against the

ordinar y standards of public decency; but precisely the same lia bility attaches to

theatrical managers and proprietors of Theatres, in whose case it has been found

necessar y and benef icial to add the Censorship. And in this connection let it once

more be noted ho w much more easily the ordinar y standards of public decency can be

assessed by a single person responsible to no one, than by the clumsy (if more open)

process of public protest. What, then, in the light of the prov ed justice and eff iciency

of the Censorship of Drama, is the reason for the a bsence of the Censorship of A rt?

The more closely the matter is regarded, the more plain it is, that there is none! At

any moment we ma y hav e to look upon some painting, or contemplate some statue,

as tragic, heart-rending, and dubiously delicate in theme as that censured pla y ³The

Cenci,´ by one Shelley; as dangerous to prejudice, and suggesti v e of new thought as

the censured ³Ghosts,´ by one I bsen. Let us protest against this peril suspended ov er

our heads, and demand the immediate appointment of a single person not selected

for any pretentiously artistic f eelings, but endo wed with summar y po wers of

prohibiting the exhibition, in public galleries or places, of such w orks as he shall

deem, in his uncontrolled discretion, unsuited to av erage intelligence or sensibility.

Let us demand it in the interest, not only of the y oung person, but of those whole



sections of the community which cannot be expected to take an interest in A rt, and to

whom the purpose, speculations, and achie v ements of great artists, w orking not only

for toda y but for tomorro w, must naturally be dark riddles. Let us e v en require that

this off icial should be empo wered to order the destruction of the w orks which he has

deemed unsuited to av erage intelligence and sensibility, lest their creators should, by

pri vate sale, make a prof it out of them, such as, in the nature of the case, Dramatic

Authors are debarred from making out of pla ys which, hav ing been censured, cannot

be pla yed for money. Let us ask this with conf idence; for it is not compatible with

common justice that there should be any favouring of Painter ov er Pla yw right. They

are both artists ² let them both be measured by the same last!

But let us no w consider the case of Science. It will not, indeed cannot, be contended

that the in v estigations of scientif ic men, whether committed to w riting or to speech,

are alw a ys suited to the taste and capacities of our general public. There w as, for

example, the well-kno wn doctrine of E volution, the teachings of Charles Dar win and

Alfred Russet W allace, who gathered up certain facts, hitherto but vaguely kno wn,

into presentments, irre v erent and startling, which, at the time, profoundly distur bed

e v er y normal mind. Not only did religion, as then accepted, suff er in this cataclysm,

but our taste and f eeling were inexpressibly shocked by the discov er y, so emphasised

by Thomas Henr y Huxley, of Man¶s descent from A pes. It w as f elt, and is f elt by many

to this da y, that the ad vancement of that theor y grossly and dangerously v iolated

e v er y canon of decency. What pain, then, might hav e been av erted, what far-reaching

consequences and incalcula ble sub v ersion of primiti v e faiths checked, if some

judicious Censor of scientif ic thought had existed in those da ys to demand, in

accordance with his pri vate estimate of the will and temper of the ma jority, the

suppression of the doctrine of E volution.

Innumera ble in v estigations of scientists on subjects such as the date of the w orld¶s

creation, hav e from time to time been summarised and inconsiderately sprung on a

Public shocked and startled by the re v elation that facts which they were accustomed

to re v ere were conspicuously at fault. So, too, in the range of medicine, it w ould be

diff icult to cite any radical discov er y (such as the pre v enti v e po wer of vaccination),

whose unchecked publication has not v iolated the prejudices and distur bed the

immediate comfort of the common mind. Had these discov eries been judiciously

suppressed, or pared a w a y to suit what a Censorship concei v ed to be the popular

palate of the time, all this distur bance and discomfort might hav e been avoided.

It will doubtless be contended (for there are no such v iolent opponents of Censorship

as those who are threatened with the same) that to compare a momentous disclosure,



such as the doctrine of E volution, to a mere drama, were unprof ita ble. The answer to

this ungenerous contention is fortunately plain. Had a judicious Censorship existed

ov er our scientif ic matters, such as for tw o hundred years has existed ov er our

Drama, scientif ic discov eries w ould hav e been no more distur bing and momentous

than those which we are accustomed to see made on our nicely pruned and tutored

stage. For not only w ould the more dangerous and penetrating scientif ic truths hav e

been caref ully destro yed at birth, but scientists, a w are that the results of

in v estigations off ensi v e to accepted notions w ould be suppressed, w ould long hav e

ceased to w aste their time in search of a kno wledge repugnant to av erage intelligence,

and thus foredoomed, and hav e occupied themsel v es with serv ices more agreea ble to

the public taste, such as the rediscov er y of truths already kno wn and published.

Indissolubly connected with the desira bility of a Censorship of Science, is the need for

Religious Censorship. For in this, assuredly not the least important department of the

nation¶s lif e, we are witnessing week by week and year by year, what in the light of the

security guaranteed by the Censorship of Drama, we are justif ied in terming an

alarming spectacle. Thousands of men are licensed to proclaim from their pulpits,

Sunda y af ter Sunda y, their indi v idual belief s, quite regardless of the settled

con v ictions of the masses of their congregations. It is true, indeed, that the vast

ma jority of sermons (like the vast ma jority of pla ys) are, and will alw a ys be,

harmonious with the f eelings ² of the av erage citizen; for neither priest nor

pla yw right hav e customarily any such peculiar gif t of spiritual daring as might render

them unsaf e mentors of their f ello ws; and there is not w anting the deterrent of

common-sense to keep them in bounds. Yet it can hardly be denied that there spring

up at times men ² like John Wesley or General Booth ² of such incura ble

temperament as to be capa ble of a busing their freedom by the promulgation of

doctrine or procedure, di v ergent from the current traditions of religion. Nor must it

be forgotten that sermons, like pla ys, are addressed to a mixed audience of families,

and that the spiritual teachings of a lif etime ma y be destro yed by ten minutes of

uncensored pronouncement from a pulpit, the while parents are sitting, not, as in a

theatre v ested with the right of protest, but dumb and excoriated to the soul,

w atching their children, perhaps of tender age, eagerly drinking in w ords at variance

with that which they themsel v es hav e been at such pains to instil.

If a set of Censors ² for it w ould, as in the case of Literature, indubita bly require

more than one (perhaps one hundred and eighty, but, for reasons already gi v en, there

should be no diff iculty whate v er in procuring them) endo wed with the swif t po wers

conf erred by freedom from the dull tedium of responsibility, and not remark a ble for



religious temperament, were appointed, to whom all sermons and public addresses

on religious subjects must be submitted before deli v er y, and whose duty af ter perusal

should be to excise all portions not conforma ble to their pri vate ideas of what w as at

the moment suita ble to the Public¶s ears, we should be far on the road to w ard that

proper preservation of the status quo so desira ble if the faiths and ethical standards

of the less exuberantly spiritual masses are to be maintained in their f ull bloom. As

things no w stand, the nation has a bsolutely nothing to saf eguard it against religious

progress.

We hav e seen, then, that Censorship is at least as necessar y ov er Literature, A rt,

Science, and Religion as it is ov er our Drama. We hav e no w to call attention to the

cro wning need ² the w ant of a Censorship in Politics.

If Censorship be based on justice, if it be prov ed to serv e the Public and to be

successf ul in its lonely v igil ov er Drama, it should, and logically must be, extended to

all parallel cases; it cannot, it dare not, stop short at ² Politics. For, precisely in this

supreme branch of the public lif e are we most menaced by the rule and license of the

leading spirit. To appreciate this fact, we need only examine the Constitution of the

House of Commons. Six hundred and se v enty persons chosen from a population

numbering four and forty millions, must necessarily, whate v er their indi v idual

def ects, be citizens of more than av erage enterprise, resource, and resolution. They

are elected for a period that ma y last f i v e years. Many of them are ambitious; some

uncompromising; not a f ew enthusiastically eager to do something for their countr y;

f illed with designs and aspirations for national or social betterment, with which the

masses, sunk in the immediate pursuits of lif e, can in the nature of things hav e little

sympathy. And yet we f ind these men licensed to pour forth at pleasure, before mixed

audiences, checked only by Common La w and Common Sense political utterances

which ma y hav e the grav est, the most terrif ic consequences; utterances which ma y at

any moment let loose re volution, or plunge the countr y into w ar; which of ten, as a

fact, excite an utter detestation, terror, and mistrust; or shock the most sacred

domestic and proprietar y con v ictions in the breasts of vast ma jorities of their f ello w-

countr ymen! And we incur this appalling risk for the w ant of a single, or at the most,

a handf ul of Censors, in v ested with a simple but limitless discretion to excise or to

suppress entirely such political utterances as ma y seem to their pri vate judgments

calculated to cause pain or moral distur bance in the av erage man. The masses, it is

true, hav e their protection and remedy against injudicious or inf lammator y

politicians in the La w and the so-called democratic process of election; but we hav e

seen that theatre audiences hav e also the protection of the La w, and the remedy of



bo ycott, and that in their case, this protection and this remedy are not deemed

enough. What, then, shall we sa y of the case of Politics, where the dangers attending

inf lammator y or sub v ersi v e utterance are greater a million fold, and the remedy a

thousand times less expeditious?

Our Legislators hav e laid do wn Censorship as the basic principle of Justice

underlying the ci v ic rights of dramatists. Then, let ³Censorship for all´ be their motto,

and this countr y no longer be ridden and destro yed by free Institutions! Let them not

only esta blish forthwith Censorships of Literature, A rt, Science, and Religion, but also

place themsel v es beneath the regimen with which they hav e calmly f ettered Dramatic

Authors. They cannot deem it becoming to their regard for justice, to their honour; to

their sense of humour, to recoil from a restriction which, in a parallel case they hav e

imposed on others. It is an old and homely sa ying that good off icers ne v er place their

men in positions they w ould not themsel v es be willing to f ill. And we are not entitled

to belie v e that our Legislators, hav ing set Dramatic Authors where they hav e been set,

will ² no w that their duty is made plain ² for a moment hesitate to step do wn and

stand alongside.

But if by any chance they should recoil, and thus make answer: ³We are ready at all

times to submit to the La w and the People¶s will, and to bo w to their demands, but we

cannot and must not be asked to place our calling, our duty, and our honour beneath

the irresponsible rule of an ar bitrar y autocrat, ho we v er sympathetic with the

generality he ma y chance to be!´ Then, we w ould ask: ³Sirs, did y ou e v er hear of that

great sa ying: µDo unto others as ye w ould they should do unto y ou!¶´ For it is but fair

presumption that the Dramatists, whom our Legislators hav e placed in bondage to a

despot, are, no less than those Legislators, proud of their calling, conscious of their

duty, and jealous of their honour.

1909.

V A GUETHOUGHTS O A R T

It w as on a da y of rare beauty that I went out into the f ields to tr y and gather these

f ew thoughts. So golden and sweetly hot it w as, that they came lazily, and with a f light

no more coherent or responsible than the sw oop of the v er y sw allo ws; and, as in a

pla y or poem, the result is conditioned by the concei v ing mood, so I knew w ould be

the nature of my di v ing, dipping, pale-throated, fork-tailed w ords. But, af ter all ² I

thought, sitting there ² I need not take my critical pronouncements seriously. I hav e

not the f irm soul of the critic. It is not my prof ession to kno w µthings for certain, and

to make others f eel that certainty. On the contrar y, I am of ten w rong ² a luxur y no



critic can afford. And so, in vading as I w as the realm of others, I ad vanced with a light

pen, f eeling that none, and least of all myself , need expect me to be right.

What then ² I thought ² is A rt? For I percei v ed that to think a bout it I must f irst

def ine it; and I almost stopped thinking at all before the f earsome nature of that task.

Then slo wly in my mind gathered this group of w ords:

A rt is that imaginati v e expression of human energ y, which, through technical

concretion of f eeling and perception, tends to reconcile the indi v idual with the

uni v ersal, by exciting in him impersonal emotion. And the greatest A rt is that which

excites the greatest impersonal emotion in an hy pothecated perf ect human being.

Impersonal emotion! And what ² I thought do I mean by that? Surely I mean: That is

not A rt, which, while I, am contemplating it, inspires me with any acti v e or directi v e

impulse; that is A rt, when, for ho we v er brief a moment, it replaces within me interest

in myself by interest in itself . For, let me suppose myself in the presence of a carv ed

mar ble bath. If my thoughts be ³What could I buy that for?´ Impulse of acquisition;

or: ³From what quarr y did it come?´ Impulse of inquir y; or: ³Which w ould be the

right end for my head?´ Mixed impulse of inquir y and acquisition ² I am at that

moment insensible to it as a w ork of A rt. But, if I stand before it v ibrating at sight of

its colour and forms, if e v er so little and for e v er so short a time, unhaunted by any

def inite practical thought or impulse ² to that extent and for that moment it has

stolen me a w a y out of myself and put itself there instead; has linked me to the

uni v ersal by making me forget the indi v idual in me. And for that moment, and only

while that moment lasts, it is to me a w ork of A rt. The w ord ³impersonal,´ then, is but

used in this my def inition to signif y momentar y forgetf ulness of one¶s o wn

personality and its acti v e w ants.

So A rt ² I thought ² is that which, heard, read, or looked on, while producing no

directi v e impulse, w arms one with unconscious v ibration. Nor can I imagine any

means of def ining what is the greatest A rt, without hy pothecating a perf ect human

being. But since we shall ne v er see, or kno w if we do see, that desira ble creature ²

dogmatism is banished, ³Academy´ is dead to the discussion, deader than e v en

Tolsto y lef t it af ter his famous treatise ³What is A rt?´ For, hav ing destro yed all the old

Judges and Academies, Tolsto y, by sa ying that the greatest A rt w as that which

appealed to the greatest number of li v ing human beings, raised up the masses of

mankind to be a def inite new Judge or Academy, as ty rannical and narro w as e v er

were those whom he had destro yed.

This, at all e v ents ² I thought is as far as I dare go in def ining what A rt is. But let me

tr y to make plain to myself what is the essential quality that gi v es to A rt the po wer of



exciting this unconscious v ibration, this impersonal emotion. It has been called

Beauty! An a wkw ard w ord ² a perpetual begging of the question; too current in use,

too ambiguous altogether; no w too narro w, no w too wide ² a w ord, in fact, too glib to

kno w at all what it means. And ho w dangerous a w ord ² of ten misleading us into

sla bbing with extraneous f loridities what w ould other wise, on its o wn plane, be A rt!

To be decorati v e where decoration is not suita ble, to be ly rical where ly ricism is out of

place, is assuredly to spoil A rt, not to achie v e it. But this essential quality of A rt has

also, and more happily, been called Rhythm. And, what is Rhythm if not that

mysterious harmony between part and part, and part and whole, which gi v es what is

called lif e; that exact proportion, the myster y of which is best grasped in o bserv ing

ho w lif e leav es an animate creature when the essential relation of part to whole has

been suff iciently distur bed. And I agree that this rhythmic relation of part to part, and

part to whole ² in short, v itality ² is the one quality insepara ble from a w ork of A rt.

For nothing which does not seem to a man possessed of this rhythmic v itality, can

e v er steal him out of himself .

And hav ing got thus far in my thoughts, I paused, w atching the sw allo ws; for they

seemed to me the symbol, in their swif t, sure curv etting, all daring and balance and

surprise, of the delicate poise and motion of A rt, that v isits no tw o men alike, in a

w orld where no tw o things of all the things there be, are quite the same.

Yes ² I thought ² and this A rt is the one form of human energ y in the whole w orld,

which really w orks for union, and destro ys the barriers between man and man. It is

the continual, unconscious replacement, ho we v er f leeting, of oneself by another; the

real cement of human lif e; the e v erlasting refreshment and renew al. For, what is

grie vous, dompting, grim, a bout our li v es is that we are shut up within oursel v es , with

an itch to get outside oursel v es. And to be stolen a w a y from oursel v es by A rt is a

momentar y relaxation from that itching, a minute¶s profound, and as it were secret,

enfranchisement. The acti v e amusements and relaxations of lif e can only rest certain

of our faculties, by indulging others; the whole self is ne v er rested sav e through that

unconsciousness of self , which comes through rapt contemplation of Nature or of A rt.

And suddenly I remembered that some belie v e that A rt does not produce

unconsciousness of self , but rather v er y v i v id self -realisation.

Ah! but ² I though ² that is not the f irst and instant eff ect of A rt; the new impetus is

the af ter eff ect of that momentar y replacement of oneself by the self of the w ork

before us; it is surely the result of that brief span of enlargement, enfranchisement,

and rest.



Yes, A rt is the great and uni v ersal refreshment. For A rt is ne v er dogmatic; holds no

brief for itself y ou ma y take it or y ou ma y leav e it. It does not force itself rudely where

it is not w anted. It is re v erent to all tempers, to all points of v iew. But it is wilf ul ² the

v er y wind in the comings and goings of its inf luence, an uncaptura ble f ugiti v e,

v isiting our hearts at vagrant, sweet moments; since we of ten stand e v en before the

greatest w orks of A rt without being a ble quite to lose oursel v es! That restf ul o bli v ion

comes, we ne v er quite kno w when ² and it is gone! But when it comes, it is a spirit

hov ering with cool wings, blessing us from least to greatest, according to our po wers;

a spirit deathless and varied as human lif e itself .

And in what sort of age ² I thought ² are artists li v ing no w? A re conditions

favoura ble? Lif e is v er y multiple; f ull of ³mov ements,´ ³facts,´ and ³news´; with the

limelight terribly turned on ² and all this is ad v erse to the artist. Yet, leisure is

a bundant; the facilities for study great; Liberty is respected ² more or less. But, there

is one great reason why, in this age of ours, A rt, it seems, must f lourish. For, just as

cross-breeding in Nature ² if it be not too v iolent ² of ten gi v es an extra v itality to the

off spring, so does cross-breeding of philosophies make for v itality in A rt. I cannot

help thinking that historians, looking back from the far f uture, will record this age as

the Third Renaissance. We who are lost in it, w orking or looking on, can neither tell

what we are doing, nor where standing; but we cannot help o bserv ing, that, just as in

the Greek Renaissance, w orn-out Pagan orthodoxy w as penetrated by new

philosophy; just as in the Italian Renaissance, Pagan philosophy, reasserting itself ,

f ertilised again an already too inbred Christian creed; so no w Orthodoxy f ertilised by

Science is producing a fresh and f uller conception of lif e ² a, lov e of Perf ection, not

for hope of rew ard, not for f ear of punishment, but for Perf ection¶s sake. Slo wly,

under our f eet, beneath our consciousness, is forming that new philosophy, and it is

in times of new philosophies that A rt, itself in essence alw a ys a discov er y, must

f lourish. Those whose sacred suns and moons are e v er in the past, tell us that our A rt

is going to the dogs; and it is, indeed, true that we are in conf usion! The w aters are

broken, and e v er y nerv e and sinew of the artist is strained to discov er his o wn saf ety.

It is an age of stir and change, a season of new wine and old bottles. Yet, assuredly, in

spite of break ages and w aste, a wine w orth the drinking is all the time being made.

I ceased again to think, for the sun had dipped lo w, and the midges were biting me;

and the sounds of e v ening had begun, those innumera ble far-trav elling sounds of

man and bird and beast ² so clear and intimate ² of remote countr ysides at sunset.

And for long I listened, too vague to mov e my pen.



New philosophy ² a v igorous A rt! A re there not all the signs of it? In music,

sculpture, painting; in f iction ² and drama; in dancing; in criticism itself , if criticism

be an A rt. Yes, we are reaching out to a new faith not yet cr ystallised, to a new A rt not

yet perf ected; the forms still to f ind-the f lo wers still to fashion!

And ho w has it come, this slo wly gro wing faith in Perf ection for Perf ection¶s sake?

Surely like this: The Western w orld a w oke one da y to f ind that it no longer belie v ed

corporately and for certain in f uture lif e for the indi v idual consciousness. It began to

f eel: I cannot sa y more than that there ma y be ² Death ma y be the end of man, or

Death ma y be nothing. And it began to ask itself in this uncertainty: Do I then desire

to go on li v ing? No w, since it found that it desired to go on li v ing at least as earnestly

as e v er it did before, it began to inquire why. And slo wly it percei v ed that there w as,

inborn within it, a passionate instinct of which it had hardly till then been conscious

² a sacred instinct to perf ect itself , no w, as well as in a possible hereaf ter; to perf ect

itself because Perf ection w as desira ble, a v ision to be adored, and stri v en for; a dream

moti v e fastened within the Uni v erse; the v er y essential Cause of e v er ything. And it

began to see that this Perf ection, cosmically, w as nothing but perf ect Equanimity and

Harmony; and in human relations, nothing but perf ect Lov e and Justice. And

Perf ection began to glo w before the eyes of the Western w orld like a new star, whose

light touched with glamour all things as they came forth from Myster y, till to Myster y

they were ready to return.

This ² I thought is surely what the Western w orld has dimly been rediscov ering.

There has crept into our minds once more the f eeling that the Uni v erse is all of a

piece, Equipoise supreme; and all things equally w onderf ul, and mysterious, and

valua ble. We hav e begun, in fact, to hav e a glimmering of the artist¶s creed, that

nothing ma y we despise or neglect ² that e v er ything is w orth the doing well, the

making fair ² that our God, Perf ection, is implicit e v er ywhere, and the re v elation of

Him the business of our A rt.

And as I jotted do wn these w ords I noticed that some real stars had crept up into the

sky, so gradually darkening a bov e the pollard lime-trees; cuck oos, who had been

calling on the thorn-trees all the af ternoon, were silent; the sw allo ws no longer f lirted

past, but a bat w as already in career ov er the holly hedge; and round me the

buttercups were closing. The whole form and f eeling of the w orld had changed, so

that I seemed to hav e before me a new picture hanging.

Ah! I thought A rt must indeed be priest of this new faith in Perf ection, whose motto

is: ³Harmony, Proportion, Balance. ́ For by A rt alone can true harmony in human

affairs be fostered, true Proportion re v ealed, and true Equipoise preserv ed. Is not the



training of an artist a training in the due relation of one thing with another, and in the

faculty of expressing that relation clearly; and, e v en more, a training in the faculty of

disengaging from self the v er y essence of self ² and passing that essence into other

sel v es by so delicate means that none shall see ho w it is done, yet be insensibly

unif ied? Is not the artist, of all men, foe and nullif ier of partisanship and

parochialism, of distortions and extravagance, the discov erer of that jack-o¶-lantern

² Truth; for, if Truth be not Spiritual Proportion I kno w not what it is. Truth it seems

to me ² is no a bsolute thing, but alw a ys relati v e, the essential symmetr y in the

var ying relationships of lif e; and the most perf ect truth is but the concrete expression

of the most penetrating v ision. Lif e seen throughout as a countless sho w of the f inest

w orks of A rt; Lif e shaped, and purged of the irrele vant, the gross, and the

extravagant; Lif e, as it were, spiritually selected ² that is Truth; a thing as multiple,

and changing, as subtle, and strange, as Lif e itself , and as little to be bound by dogma.

Truth admits but the one rule: No def iciency, and no excess! Diso bedient to that rule

² nothing attains f ull v itality. And secretly f ettered by that rule is A rt, whose business

is the creation of v ital things.

That aesthete, to be sure, w as right, when he said: ³It is Style that makes one belie v e

in a thing; nothing but Style.´ For, what is Style in its true and broadest sense sav e

f idelity to idea and mood, and perf ect balance in the clothing of them? And I thought:

Can one belie v e in the decadence of A rt in an age which, ho we v er unconsciously as

yet, is beginning to w orship that which A rt w orships ² Perf ection-Style?

The faults of our A rts toda y are the faults of zeal and of ad v enture, the faults and

crudities of pioneers, the errors and mishaps of the explorer. They must pass through

many f e v ers, and many times lose their w a y; but at all e v ents they shall not go dying

in their beds, and be buried at K ensal Green. And, here and there, amid the disasters

and w reck age of their vo y ages of discov er y, they will f ind something new, some fresh

w a y of embellishing lif e, or of re v ealing the heart of things. That characteristic of

toda y¶s A rt ² the stri v ing of each branch of A rt to burst its o wn boundaries ² which

to many spells destruction, is surely of happ y omen. The nov el straining to become

the pla y, the pla y the nov el, both tr ying to paint; music stri v ing to become stor y;

poetr y gasping to be music; painting panting to be philosophy; forms, canons, rules,

all melting in the pot; stagnation broken up! In all this havoc there is much to shock

and jar e v en the most eager and ad v enturous. We cannot stand these new-fangled

f ello ws! They hav e no form! They rush in where angels f ear to tread. They hav e lost

all the good of the old, and gi v en us nothing in its place! And yet ² only out of stir

and change is born new sal vation. To deny that is to deny belief in man, to turn our



backs on courage! It is well, indeed, that some should li v e in closed studies with the

paintings and the books of yesterda y ² such de voted students serv e A rt in their o wn

w a y. But the fresh-air w orld will e v er w ant new forms. We shall not get them without

faith enough to risk the old! The good will li v e, the bad will die; and tomorro w only

can tell us which is which!

Yes ² I thought ² we naturally take a too impatient v iew of the A rt of our o wn time,

since we can neither see the ends to w ard which it is almost blindly groping, nor the

f ew perf ected creations that will be lef t standing amidst the rubble of a borti v e effort.

An age must alw a ys decr y itself and extol its for bears. The unw ritten histor y of e v er y

A rt will sho w us that. Consider the nov el ² that most recent form of A rt! Did not the

age which follo wed Fielding lament the treacher y of authors to the Picaresque

tradition, complaining that they were not as Fielding and Smollett were? Be sure they

did. Ver y slo wly and in spite of opposition did the nov el attain in this countr y the

f ulness of that biographical form achie v ed under Thackera y. Ver y slo wly, and in face

of condemnation, it has been losing that form in favour of a greater v i v idness which

places before the reader¶s brain, not historical statements, as it were, of moti v es and

of facts, but w ord-paintings of things and persons, so chosen and arranged that the

reader ma y see, as if at f irst hand, the spirit of Lif e at w ork before him. The new nov el

has as many bemoaners as the old nov el had when it w as new. It is no question of

better or w orse, but of diff ering forms ² of change dictated by gradual suita bility to

the changing conditions of our social lif e, and to the e v er fresh discov eries of

craf tsmen, in the intoxication of which, old and equally w orthy craf tsmanship is ² by

the w a y ² too of ten for the moment mislaid. The v ested interests of lif e favour the

line of least resistance ² disliking and re volting against distur bance; but one must

alw a ys remember that a spurious glamour is inclined to gather around what is new.

And, because of these tw o def lecting factors, those who break through old forms must

well expect to be dead before the new forms they hav e unconsciously created hav e

found their true le v el, high or lo w, in the w orld of A rt. When a thing is new ho w shall

it be judged? In the f luster of meeting nov elty, we hav e e v en seen coherence

attempting to bind together tw o personalities so f undamentally opposed as those of

I bsen and Bernard Sha w dramatists with hardly a quality in common; no identity of

tradition, or belief ; not the faintest resemblance in methods of construction or

technique. Yet contemporar y; estimate talks of them of ten in the same breath. They

are new! It is enough. And others, as utterly unlike them both. They too are new. They

hav e as yet no la bel of their o wn then put on some o ne else¶s!



And so ² I thought it must alw a ys be; for Time is essential to the proper placing and

estimate of all A rt. And is it not this f eeling, that contemporar y judgments are apt to

turn out a little ludicrous, which has con v erted much criticism of late from judgment

pronounced into impression recorded ² recreati v e statement ² a kind, in fact, of

expression of the critic¶s self , elicited through contemplation of a book, a pla y, a

symphony, a picture? For this kind of criticism there has e v en recently been claimed

an actual identity with creation. Esthetic judgment and creati v e po wer identical! That

is a hard sa ying. For, ho we v er sympathetic one ma y f eel to w ard this new criticism,

ho we v er one ma y recognise that the recording of impression has a wider, more

elastic, and more lasting value than the deli v er y of ar bitrar y judgment based on rigid

la ws of taste; ho we v er one ma y admit that it approaches the creati v e gif t in so far as it

demands the qualities of recepti v ity and reproduction ² is there not still lacking to

this ³new´ critic something of that thirsting spirit of discov er y, which precedes the

creation ² hitherto so-called ² of anything? Criticism, taste, aesthetic judgment, by

the v er y nature of their task, w ait till lif e has been focussed by the artists before they

attempt to reproduce the image which that imprisoned fragment of lif e makes on the

mirror of their minds. But a thing created springs from a germ unconsciously

implanted by the direct impact of unf ettered lif e on the whole range, of the creator¶s

temperament; and round the germ thus engendered, the creati v e artist ² e v er

penetrating, discov ering, selecting ² goes on building cell on cell, gathered from a

million little fresh impacts and v isions. And to sa y that this is also exactly what the

recreati v e critic does, is to sa y that the interpretati v e musician is creator in the same

sense as is the composer of the music that he interprets. If , indeed, these processes be

the same in kind, they are in degree so far apart that one w ould think the w ord

creati v e unfortunately used of both....

But this speculation ² I thought ² is going bey ond the bounds of vagueness. Let

there be some thread of coherence in y our thoughts, as there is in the progress of this

e v ening, fast fading into night. Return to the consideration of the nature and

purposes of A rt! And recognize that much of what y ou hav e thought will seem on the

face of it heresy to the school whose doctrine w as incarnated by Oscar Wilde in that

admira ble apotheosis of half -truths: ³The Deca y of the A rt of L ying.´ For therein he

said: ³No great artist e v er sees things as they really are.´ Yet, that half -truth might

also be put thus: The seeing of things as they really are ² the seeing of a proportion

v eiled from other eyes (together with the po wer of expression), is what makes a man

an artist. What makes him a great artist is a high f ervour of spirit, which produces a

superlati v e, instead of a comparati v e, clarity of v ision.



Close to my house there is a group of pines with gnarled red limbs f lanked by beech-

trees. And there is of ten a v er y deep blue sky behind. Generally, that is all I see. But,

once in a w a y, in those trees against that sky I seem to see all the passionate lif e and

glo w that Titian painted into his pagan pictures. I hav e a v ision of my sterious

meaning, of a mysterious relation between that sky and those trees with their gnarled

red limbs and Lif e as I kno w it. And when I hav e had that v ision I alw a ys f eel, this is

reality, and all those other times, when I hav e no such v ision, simple unreality. If I

were a painter, it is for such f erv ent v ision I should w ait, before mov ing brush: This,

so intimate, inner v ision of reality, indeed, seems in duller moments well-nigh

grotesque; and hence that other glib half -truth: ³A rt is greater than Lif e itself .´ A rt is,

indeed, greater than Lif e in the sense that the po wer of A rt is the disengagement from

Lif e of its real spirit and signif icance. But in any other sense, to sa y that A rt is greater

than Lif e from which it emerges, and into which it must remerge, can but suspend the

artist ov er Lif e, with his f eet in the air and his head in the clouds ² Prig

masquerading as Demi-god. ³Nature is no great Mother who has borne us. She is our

creation. It is in our brain that she quickens to lif e.´ Such is the highest hy per bole of

the aesthetic creed. But what is creati v e instinct, if not an incessant li v ing sympathy

with Nature, a constant crav ing like that of Nature¶s o wn, to fashion something new

out of all that comes within the grasp of those faculties with w hich Nature has

endo wed us? The qualities of v ision, of fancy, and of imaginati v e po wer, are no more

di vorced from Nature, than are the qualities of common-sense and courage. They are

rarer, that is all. But in truth, no one holds such v iews. Not e v en those who utter

them. They are the rhetoric, the ov er-statement of half -truths, by such as wish to

condemn what they call ³Realism,´ without being temperamentally capa ble of

understanding what ³Realism´ really is.

And what ² I thought ² is Realism? What is the meaning of that w ord so wildly

used? Is it descripti v e of technique, or descripti v e of the spirit of the artist; or both, or

neither? W as Turgene v a realist? No greater poet e v er w rote in prose, nor any one

who more closely brought the actual shapes of men and things before us. No more

f erv ent idealists than I bsen and Tolsto y e v er li v ed; and none more caref ul to make

their people real. Were they realists? No more deeply fantastic w riter can I concei v e

than Dostoie v sky, nor any who has described actual situations more v i v idly. W as he a

realist? The late Stephen Crane w as called a realist. Than whom no more

impressionistic w riter e v er painted with w ords. What then is the heart of this term

still of ten used as an expression almost of a buse? To me, at all e v ents ² I thought ²

the w ords realism, realistic, hav e no longer ref erence to technique, for which the



w ords naturalism, naturalistic, serv e far better. Nor hav e they to do with the question

of imaginati v e po wer ² as much demanded by realism as by romanticism. For me, a

realist is by no means tied to naturalistic technique ² he ma y be poetic, idealistic,

fantastic, impressionistic, anything but ² romantic; that, in so far as he is a realist, he

cannot be. The w ord, in fact, characterises that artist whose temperamental

preoccupation is with re v elation of the actual inter-relating spirit of lif e, character,

and thought, with a v iew to enlighten himself and others; as distinguished from that

artist whom I call romantic ² whose tempera mental purpose is in v ention of tale or

design with a v iew to delight himself and others. It is a question of temperamental

antecedent moti v e in the artist, and nothing more.

Realist ² R omanticist! Enlightenment ² Delight! That is the true apposition. To

make a re v elation ² to tell a fair y-tale! And either of these artists ma y use what form

he likes ² naturalistic, fantastic, poetic, impressionistic. For it is not by the form, but

by the purpose and mood of his art that he shall be kno wn, as one or as the other.

Realists indeed ² including the half of Shakespeare that w as realist not being

primarily concerned to amuse their audience, are still comparati v ely unpopular in a

w orld made up for the greater part of men of action, who instincti v ely reject all art

that does not distract them without causing them to think. For thought makes

demands on an energ y already in f ull use; thought causes introspection; and

introspection causes discomfort, and distur bs the groov es of action. To sa y that the

o bject of the realist is to enlighten rather than to delight, is not to sa y that in his art

the realist is not amusing himself as much as e v er is the teller of a fair y-tale, though

he does not deliberately start out to do so; he is amusing, too, a large part of

mankind. For, admitted that the a bject, and the test of A rt, is alw a ys the a w akening of

v ibration, of impersonal emotion, it is still usually forgotten that men fall, roughly

speaking, into tw o f locks: Those whose intelligence is uninquiring in the face of A rt,

and does not demand to be appeased before their emotions can be stirred; and those

who, hav ing a speculati v e bent of mind, must f irst be satisf ied by an enlightening

quality in a w ork of A rt, before that w ork of A rt can a w aken in them f eeling. The

audience of the realist is dra wn from this latter ty pe of man; the much larger

audience of the romantic artist from the former; together with, in both cases, those

fastidious f ew for whom all A rt is style and only style, and who welcome either kind,

so long as it is good enough.

To me, then ² I thought ² this di v ision into Realism and R omance, so understood, is

the main cleavage in all the A rts; but it is hard to f ind pure examples of either kind.

For e v en the most determined realist has more than a streak in him of the



romanticist, and the most resolute romanticist f inds it impossible at times to be quite

unreal. Guido Reni, W atteau, Leighton were they not perhaps somewhat pure

romanticists; Rembrandt, Hogarth, Manet mainly realists; Botticelli, Titian, R aphael,

a blend. Dumas pere, and Scott, surely romantic; Flaubert and Tolsto y as surely

realists; Dickens and Cervantes, blended. K eats and Swinburne romantic; Bro wning

and Whitman ² realistic; Shakespeare and Goethe, both. The Greek dramatists ²

realists. The A ra bian Nights and Malor y romantic. The Iliad, the Odyssey, and the

Old Testament, both realism and romance. And if in the vagueness of my thoughts I

were to seek for illustration less general and vague to sho w the essence of this

temperamental cleavage in all A rt, I w ould take the tw o nov elists T urgene v and

Ste v enson. For Turgene v expressed himself in stories that must be called romances,

and Ste v enson emplo yed almost alw a ys a naturalistic technique. Yet no one w ould

e v er call Turgene v a romanticist, or Ste v enson a realist. The spirit of the f irst brooded

ov er lif e, found in it a perpetual vo y age of spiritual ad v enture, w as set on discov ering

and making clear to himself and all, the var ying traits and emotions of human

character ² the var ying moods of Nature; and though he couched all this discov er y in

caskets of engaging stor y, it w as alw a ys clear as da y what mood it w as that drov e him

to dip pen in ink. The spirit of the second, I think, almost dreaded to discov er; he f elt

lif e, I belie v e, too keenly to w ant to pro be into it; he spun his gossamer to lure himself

and all a w a y from lif e. That w as his dri v ing mood; but the craf tsman in him, longing

to be clear and poignant, made him more natural, more actual than most realists.

So, ho w thin of ten is the hedge! And ho w poor a business the partisan a buse of either

kind of art in a w orld where each sort of mind has f ull right to its o wn due expression,

and grumbling la w f ul only when due expression is not attained. One ma y not care for

a Rembrandt portrait of a plain old w oman; a gracef ul W atteau decoratio n ma y leav e

another cold but foolish will he be who denies that both are faithf ul to their

concei v ing moods, and so proportioned part to part, and part to whole, as to hav e,

each in its o wn w a y, that inherent rhythm or v itality which is the hall-mark of A rt. He

is but a poor philosopher who holds a v iew so narro w as to exclude forms not to his

personal taste. No realist can lov e romantic A rt so much as he lov es his o wn, but

when that A rt f ulf ils the la ws of its peculiar being, if he w ould be no blind partis an, he

must admit it. The romanticist will ne v er be amused by realism, but let him not for

that reason be so parochial as to think that realism, when it achie v es v itality, is not

A rt. For what is A rt but the perf ected expression of self in contact with the w orld; and

whether that self be of enlightening, or of fair y-telling temperament, is of no moment

whatsoe v er. The tossing of a buse from realist to romanticist and back is but the



sw ord-pla y of tw o one-eyed men with their blind side turned to w ard each other. Shall

not each attempt be judged on its o wn merits? If found not shoddy, faked, or forced,

but true to itself , true to its concei v ing mood, and fair-proportioned part to whole; so

that it li v es ² then, realistic or romantic, in the name of Fairness let it pass! Of all

kinds of human energ y, A rt is surely the most free, the least parochial; and demands

of us an essential tolerance of all its forms. Shall we w aste breath and ink in

condemnation of artists, because their temperaments are not our o wn?

But the shapes and colours of the da y were no w all blurred; e v er y tree and stone

entangled in the dusk. Ho w diff erent the w orld seemed from that in which I had f irst

sat do wn, with the sw allo ws f lirting past. And my mood w as diff erent; for each of

those w orlds had brought to my heart its proper f eeling ² painted on my eyes the just

picture. And Night, that w as coming, w ould bring me yet another mood that w ould

frame itself with consciousness at its o wn fair moment, and hang before me. A quiet

o wl stole by in the geld belo w, and vanished into the heart of a tree. And suddenly

a bov e the moor-line I sa w the large moon rising. Cinnamon-coloured, it made all

things swim, made me uncertain of my thoughts, vague with maz y f eeling. Shapes

seemed but drif ts of moon-dust, and true reality nothing sav e a sort of still listening

to the wind. And for long I sat, just w atching the moon creep up, and hearing the

thin, dr y rustle of the leav es along the holly hedge. And there came to me this

thought: What is this Uni v erse ² that ne v er had beginning and will ne v er hav e an

end ² but a my riad stri v ing to perf ect pictures ne v er the same, so blending and

fading one into another, that all form one great perf ected picture? And what are we ²

ripples on the tides of a birthless, deathless, equipoised Creati v e-Purpose ² but little

w orks of A rt?

Documents

The Inn of Tranquillity Studies and Essays