always writing, as one of my brother-critics has aptly remarked, "in
the style of an educated upper housemaid." And yet her books sell
largely--partly because Bentley and Son advertise them perpetually,
and partly because they "will not bring a blush to the cheek of the
Young Person." This latter reason accounts for the popularity (in the
pious provinces) of that astoundingly dull writer, Edna Lyall. Patience
almost fails me when I think of that lady's closely-printed, bulky
volumes, all about nothing. "Groove"? ye gods! I should think it _was_
a "groove"--a religious, goody-goody "groove," out of which there is
never the smallest possibility of an escape. But perhaps one of the
circumstances that surprises me most in the fate of all the mass of
fiction produced weekly, is the curious placidity with which the public
take it up, scan it, lay it aside, and forget it instantly. Scarce one
out of all the writers writing, male and female, has a book remembered
by Mudie's supporters after a year. If any novel is still thought of
and talked of after that period, you may be sure it is not "groovy,"
but that it runs in a directly contrary current to all "grooves" of
preconceived opinion--that it has something vaguely irritating about
it as well as pleasing--hence its success. But on the whole I am
not sure that I do not prefer "groovy" writers after all. There is
a comfortable certainty in their literary manœuvres. They are not
going to frighten you by exploding a big fiery bomb of Imagination or
Truth (both these things are abhorrent to me) on the reader unawares.
It is really quite a weird sensation to take up the latest book by
a writer who has the reputation of being able to tell you something
different each time, because, of course, you never know what he or she
may be at. You may have your very soul racked by painful or pathetic
surprises--and why should we have our souls racked? The persistently
"original" man may take us to the brink of a hell and force us to look
down when we would rather not; he may suddenly exert all his forces to
drag our leaden minds after him up to a heaven where we are not quite
ready to go. Then, again, he may give us descriptions of human passion
such as will make us grow quite hot and anon quite cold with the most
curious feelings; what have we done that we should be afflicted with
literary ague? No; it is better, it is safer, to have our novelists
all arranged in "grooves" or "sets" ready to hand, so that we shall
know exactly where to find the chroniclers of rural stories, sporting
stories, detective stories, ghost stories, every "male and female after
their kind," each in his or her own appointed place. To get a book by
an author who is recognised as a manufacturer of "racing novels," and
find him breaking out into a strain of sublimated philosophy, would be
indeed an alarming circumstance to most readers. Oh, yes, it is better
to be "groovy"; sometimes the public get tired and throw you over, but
that sort of thing happens more frequently in restless France and Italy
than in England. Had I been "groovy" I should have been famous--at
least, so I have been told by a lady skilled in the fashionable science
of palmistry. But being unable to play the mill-horse, and go round
and round in a recognised rut, here I am--the merest un-notorious
Nobody. What a pity! I cannot but heave an involuntary sigh over my
lost opportunities. If I had only had the necessary ambition, I could
have been made a "Celebrity at Home" for one of the leading journals.
"Fancy that!" to quote from the immortal Ibsen's "Hedda Gabler." And
then--proud thought!--I should have been a Somebody. Not because I
had achieved something--oh, no, that isn't required of a "Celebrity at
Home." Not at all. In fact, the less you do nowadays the more likely
you are to become a "celebrity" of the newspapers. So that as I have
done nothing, and moreover, as I have really nothing to do, I ought, by
all modern rule and plan, to be "interviewed" as--well, let me modestly
suggest, as a "Coming" person, perhaps? Lots of fellows are "Coming,"
according to the press, who never arrive. I could be advertised as one
of those, without doing much harm to anybody? Won't some one back me
up? I am fully aware of the extent of my loss in literature in having
failed to find a "groove"--but it's never too late to mend, and perhaps
I shall discover it still and settle down in it. At present I am not
anxious, because, as far as my observations on the great literary
raree-show have gone, I find the chief object of the modern Pen is to
earn Money, not Fame. Now, of money I have enough, and of fame--well! I
am a friend of Gladstone's, and that assures fame to anybody!
FOOTNOTE:
[1] Miss Hannah Lynch has published a "Commentary" on the works of
George Meredith.
X.
OF THE SOCIAL ELEPHANT.
Upon my word, the crowd is very dense just here! I find it more than
difficult to elbow a passage through. And I know how dangerous it is
to jostle literary men, even by accident--they are so touchy, that no
matter how politely you apologise for the inadvertency, they never
excuse it. And there is a little obstruction yonder in the person of
the tame Elephant, who is a sort of grotesque pet of ours; he moves
slowly on account of his bulk, and he has a big palanquin on his
back in which sits the Fairy who manages him. It's quite a charming
spectacle--especially the Fairy part of it--and although there is
such a crush in this particular corner, it is pleasant to see how
good-natured some of the people are, and how kindly they allow the
Elephant to get along in spite of increasing scarcity of room, and how
they all make light of his awkward size because he is such a nice,
mild, innocent, sagacious creature.
What am I talking about?--who am I talking about? Nothing!--nobody! I
am only making an allegory. It is not called "The Sunlight Lay Across
my Bed," but "The Elephant Walked Across my Path." So he did on one
occasion. I wasn't a bit inconvenienced by his proceedings; he thought
I was, but I wasn't.
When they are at home the Elephant and the Fairy live together. The
Elephant has a Trunk (or Intellectual Faculty) of the utmost delicacy
and sensitiveness at the tip, and with this exquisitely formed member
he is fond of picking up Pins. The Fairy watches him with a touch of
melancholy interest in her lovely eyes; pins are certainly useful,
and he does pick them up "beautifully." No one can be more bewitching
than the Fairy; no one can be blander or more aware of his own value
than the Elephant. Conscious of weight and ponderous movement, he
nevertheless manages to preserve a suggestion of something indefinable
that is "utter." He is not without malice--note the slyness of his
eye when he is at his graceful trick of Pin-lifting. He will, it is
true, wave his trunk to and fro with a majestic gentleness that seems
harmless, but a closer inspection of him will arouse in the timorous
observer a vague sense of danger. The chances are ten to one that he
will accept the sugared biscuit (or compliment) offered to him by the
unsuspecting beholder, and then that he will incontinently seize the
unsuspecting one suddenly round the body and dash him to bits on the
flat ground of some hard journalistic matter suitable for smashing
a man. But he never forgets himself so far as to trumpet forth this
secret capability of his; the only warning the visitor ever receives as
to his possible malicious intent is the solemn twinkle of his sly green
eye. Beware that eye! it means mischief.
As for the Fairy, it is not too much to say that she is one of the
prettiest things alive. She does not seem to stand at all in awe of
her Elephant lord. She has her own little webs to weave--silvery
webs of gossamer-discussion on politics, in which, bless her heart
for a charming little Radical, she works neither good nor harm. Her
eyes would burn a hole through many a stern old Tory's waistcoat and
make him dizzily doubtful as to what party he really belonged to for
the moment. She has the prettiest hair, all loosely curling about
her face, and she has a very low voice, so modulated as to seem to
some folks affected in its intonation. But it isn't affected; it
is a natural music, and only repulsive old spinsters with cracked
vocal cords presume to cast aspersions on its dulcet sweetness. She
dresses "æsthetically"--in all sorts of strange tints, and rich
stuffs, made in a fashion which the masculine mind must describe
as "gathered-up-anyhow"--with large and wondrous sleeves and queer
mediæval adornments--it pleases her whim so to do, and it also
pleases the Elephant, who is apt to get excited on the subject of
Colour. We all know what a red rag is to a bull--so we should not
be surprised to find an Elephant who is calmed by some colours and
enraged by others. Colour, in fact, is the only rule of life accepted
by the Elephant--better to have no morality, according to him, than
no sense of Colour. And so the Fairy robes herself in curious and
cunningly-devised hues to soothe the Elephant's nerves (Elephants
have thick hides but excessively fragile nerves, as every naturalist
will tell you); and pranks herself out like a flower of grace set
in a queen's garden. She does not talk much, this quaint Fairy, but
she looks whole histories. Her gaze is softly wistful, and often
abstracted; at certain moments her spirit seems to have gone out of her
on invisible wings, miles away from the Elephant and literary Castle,
and it is in such moments that she looks her very prettiest. To me
she is infinitely more interesting than the Elephant himself, but as
it is the Elephant whom everybody goes to see, I must try to do him
justice--if I can!
To begin with, I know him very well, and he knows me. I have fed him
many a time and oft with the sugared compliments he likes best--and
what is really a matter worth noting he has _allowed_ me to feed him.
This is very good of him. He is not so amiable to everybody. Few
indeed are permitted the high honour of holding out a dainty morsel of
flattery to that delicately-sniffing trunk which "smells a rat" too
swiftly to be easily cajoled. But it has pleased the Elephant to take
food from my hand, though while he ate, I noticed he never stopped
winking. So that I know perfectly well who it was that lifted me up
a while ago in a journal that shall be nameless, and did his utmost
to smash me utterly by the force with which he threw me down again.
Elephants have "nasty humours" now and then--it is their nature.
But for once this particular animal found his match. He didn't hurt
me though he tried; I got up from under his very feet, and--offered
him another Compliment. He took it--gracefully; swallowed it
"beautifully"--and does not wink quite so much now. Still, his eye is
always on me--and mine on him--and we begin to understand each other.
His prettiest trick, and the one for which he is chiefly admired, is,
as I said before, the delicate way in which he picks up Pins. Pins
that any less sensitive creature would think worthless, he instantly
perceives, selects and classes as "distinctly precious." Minute points
of discussion having to do with vague subjects which (unless we could
live on an Island of Dreams like the Laureate's Lotus-eaters) no one
has any time to waste in considering, he (the Elephant) turns over and
over and disposes of in his own peculiar fashion. He has a low estimate
of man's moral responsibilities, he thinks that if the "masses"
could only be brought to appreciate Colour as keenly as he himself
appreciates it, the world would be both happy and wise, and would have
no further need of law. He considers Nature _au naturel_ a mistake.
Nature must be refined by Art. _Ergo_, a grand waterfall would not
appeal to him, unless properly illumined by electricity, or otherwise
got up for effect. He himself is got up for effect--if he were not,
according to his own showing, he would be hideous. An Elephant of
the jungle is unlovely, but an Elephant in civilian attire, decently
housed, with a Fairy to look after him and preside over his meals, is a
very different animal. Art has refined him. Nature has nothing more to
do with him.
Sometimes the Elephant ruminates. Pins cease to interest him, and with
coiled-up trunk (_i.e._, Intellectual Faculty), and heavy limbs at
rest, he shuts his blinking emerald eyes to outer things, and thinks.
Then, rising with a mighty roar of trumpeting that blares across the
old world and the new, he tears up the ground beneath his feet, and
throws a Production--_i.e._, a novel, or a play--in the face of his
foes. And his foes momentarily shrink back from him, appalled at the
noise he makes; but anon they rise up boldly in their puny strength to
confront his ponderosity. Staves, darts, arrows and stones they get
together in haste and trembling, and, shielding themselves behind
different editor's desks, begin the wild affray. Lo, how the huge Trunk
sways and the green eyes glare! Trample the Production to pieces, ye
pigmy ruffians of reviewers, ye shall never crush what is "immortal!"
Howl, ye spitfires of the Press, ye shall never make the Elephant's
shadow diminish by one iota! For the fulminating truth of the
elephantine Production, from a literary point of view, is this: That
"as a work of art it is perfection, and perfection is what we artists
aim at."
Thus the Elephant, with much pounding of feet, swinging of trunk,
lashing of tail, and scattering of dust in the eyes of bewildered
beholders. And truly he succeeds in attracting an infinite amount of
attention, as why should he not? He is a lordly animal; large enough to
be seen at a distance, and society pets him as it pets all creatures of
whom it is vaguely afraid. Shy, retiring souls have no chance whatever
of what is called "social success" nowadays. You must either be an
Elephant or a Gnat; you must rend or sting before society will take
any notice of you. And though critics curse the Elephant and wish he
were well out of their way, Society fondles him; and as long as he
is thus fondled, so long will he score certain victories in art and
literature. It is impossible to "quash" him, he is too big. Every one
is bound to look at him, and when he begins to move, albeit slowly,
every one is equally bound to get out of the way.
There was once a time, however (when the Elephant was younger), in
which it seemed doubtful whether he would remain an Elephant. A
strange spell was upon him, a wizard-glow of the light that blinds
reviewers--Genius. He stood on the confines of a sort of magic
territory, wagging his delicate Trunk wistfully, and taking inquiring
sniffs at the world. He was then like one of those deeply interesting
animals we read about in the dear old fairy-books; he was waiting for
the proper person to come and cut off his head, or throw water over
him, or something, and say--"Quit thy present form and take that of
a ----" What? Well, let us say "Poet," for example. Yes, that would
have probably been the correct formula--"Quit thy present form and
take that of a Poet." And then, hey presto! he would have skipped out
of his hide, all dressed in dazzling blue and silver, a very Prince
of wit and wisdom. But the magician who could or might have worked
this change in him didn't turn up at the right moment, and so no one
would believe he was anything _but_ an Elephant at last. And when he
found that this was people's fixed opinion, and that nobody could be
persuaded to think otherwise, he showed a few very ugly humours. He
broke into the newspaper shops and went rampaging round among the pens
and the ink-pots. He knocked down a few unwary authors whom he imagined
stood in his way, and when they _were_ down, he stamped upon them.
This was not nice of him. But he ought to have known, if he had been
as wise as elephants are supposed to be, that authors, unless they
are very frail indeed, take a deal of killing before being killed.
And he might have foreseen the possibility of those trampled people
getting up and revenging themselves whenever they had the chance. His
"perfect" work was the very thing they had waited for ever so long.
And they did not spare the Elephant. Not they! They remembered the
weight of his feet on themselves, and not being able to tread on him
because he was so large and heavy and obstinate, they stuck things into
him instead. The "barbëd arrow," you know, that kind of disagreeable
small weapon that goes in deep and rankles. A whole shower of such
irritating little darts went into the Elephant--just in the delicate
fleshy places between the folds of his hide--and it was an amazing
sight to see how badly he took them. Never was such a roaring and
trumpeting heard before! In the unreasoning heat of rage he quite
forgot how matters really stood, and that he was only getting the _quid
pro quo_ he actually deserved. He never gave a thought to the authors
he had mangled and left for dead, and who had not been allowed to make
any outcry on the subject of their wounds. He had no recollection of
that Scriptural anecdote which tells how the "dry bones" came together
"bone by bone," and became a "great standing army." _His_ "dry bones"
were the poor poets and novelists he had stamped upon; indeed, not only
had he stamped upon them, but he had even filled his trunk with muddy
water, and squirted it over their seemingly lifeless remains. But the
"great army" was there, and not past fighting, and it marched straight
at and around the Elephant. On one occasion it encamped a force against
him in the _St. James's Gazette_, and alas, for the good Elephant's
vanity, he imagined he had foes there simply because he holds Radical
views. Ye gods! Who that is commonly sane, cares whether an elephant be
Radical, Whig, or Tory? Politics are the very last subject in the world
I should consult an Elephant about. The mere idea of such a thing is
enough to make a certain _St. James's Gazette_ reviewer I wot of, split
his sides with laughter in the evil secrecy of his literary den.
As I hinted before, the Elephant while on the rampage in the
newspaper-shops once chanced on my humble self, sitting back in an
unobtrusive corner. One would have thought that to a lordly animal of
such a size, I might have seemed too microscopic to be noticed, but
not a bit of it. He "went" for me, with a good deal of unnecessary
vigour--a total waste of power on his part, I considered; however,
that was his look-out, not mine. He didn't know who I was then, and
he doesn't quite know now, though I believe if I threw off my domino
and showed him my features he would take to his old tricks again in
a minute. But I don't want to irritate him, because he is really a
good creature; I would much rather pet him than goad him. He can be
cruel, but he can also be kind, and it is in the latter mood that
everybody likes him and wants to give him sugar-candy. Moreover, as
Elephant he is the living Emblem of Wisdom--a sacred being; and, if one
is of an Eastern turn of mind, worthy of worship--and I never heard
of any one yet who would venture to cast a doubt on his sagacity.
He is wonderfully knowing; his opinion on some things is always
worth having, and when he picks up Pins his movements are graceful
and always worth watching. Moreover, one never gets tired of looking
at the lovely Fairy who guards and guides him. We could not spare
either of the twain from our midst--they form a picture "full of
Colour." When we view that picture the "moral sense" of Colour enters
into us--we feel twice born and twice alive. See how graceful is the
_cortége_! how quaint and pretty and Oriental! Through the eye-holes
of my domino I gaze admiringly upon the group--it makes a bright
reflection on the "tablets of my memory." Move on, gentle Elephant!
Move on! As slowly as you like, and at your own pleasure. Only don't
try to "smash" me any more--it's useless. I am formed of that hard
"virile" composition of literary ware "guaranteed unsmashable"--I am
neither glass nor porcelain. Have another biscuit? Another _bon-bon_
of sugared praise? Well, then, you are a poet in disguise--a genius,
wrapped up and sealed down under a hopeless weight of circumstances.
I know your buried qualities well, and had some brave person cut off
your head--_i.e._ your Self-Esteem (as I previously suggested)--years
ago, we might have had a Prince, nay, even a King, among us. Yet on the
whole I think you are happy in your condition. The _dolce far niente_
suits you very well, and the bovine repose of an almost Buddhistic
meditation entirely agrees with your constitution, while as long as
life lasts you may be sure you shall never lack Pins. Pass, good
Elephant! I salute you profoundly, and with a still more profound
reverence I kiss the hands of the Fairy!
XI.
THE STORY OF A SOUTH AFRICAN DREAM.
Elephants and Fairies suggest the "Arabian Nights." The "Arabian
Nights" suggest, in their turn, the East, and the East suggests--ah!
what does the East not suggest? A. P. Sinnett with his eyeglass?
a vision of "Koot-Hoomi?" pretty Mrs. Besant, once atheist, now
theosophist? or the marvellous fat (now dematerialised) of the
marvellous Blavatsky? More, far more than these things! The very idea
of the East causes me to stand still where I am, in a corner among
all the literary folk, and "dream." The mood grows upon me; I am in
the humour for "dreams." I feel metaphysical; don't listen to me;
the fit will pass by and by. Nay, it _is_ passing, and I feel pious
instead--very pious; and I shall probably get blasphemous directly.
From piety to blasphemy is but a step; from the prayer of Moses to his
professing to see the Deity's "back parts" was but the hair's-breadth
of a line in Holy Writ. And as I find everything in a very bad state,
and as I think everybody wants reforming, I am going to tell a little
story. It is a beautiful little story, and if you ask the _Athenæum_
about it, it will tell you that it is "like a picture by Watts"; that
"it has had no forerunners in literature and probably will have no
successors." So you must pay great attention to it, and you must think
it over for a long time. It requires thinking over for a long time,
because it is a Parable. The best people, and especially those who want
to "tickle the ears" of the _Pall Mall_ groundlings, are all going to
talk and live and write in Parables for the future. So listen!
"There was once a woman in South Africa.
She saw the sunlight lie across her bed.
When there is a window and no blind to it, the sunlight has a
way of pouring in,
And of falling in the direction which is most natural to itself.
* * * * *
The sunlight did not move,
So the woman covered her eyes.
And sleep came upon the woman and she dreamed.
* * * * *
Now in her dream the woman saw a hole.
It was a round hole, and it was red inside and very deep
And the woman looked down at the hole and said--'What hole is
this?'
And a loud voice answered her, saying--
'That hole is Hell!'
And the woman looked up, and, lo! there was God laughing at her.
* * * * *
And the woman looked down again at the hole, and saw how red it was
and how very deep.
And she knelt down, with both arms leaning on the brink of the
hole.
And she said to God: 'I like this place.'
And God answered: 'Ay, dost thou so?'
And God laughed again.
And the woman said again: 'I like this place. It seems warm.'
And God said: 'Ay, it _is_ warm.'
And the woman said: 'I think I will go in thither.'
And God said: 'Ay, go by all means!'
And the woman went.
* * * * *
The hole was very wide and red and deep.
And the woman had plenty of space to slide down.
She slid; and the hole got wider and redder and deeper, but still
she slid on.
And presently she caught a creature by the hair.
And she said to the creature: 'Who art thou?'
And the creature answered: 'I am X. Y. Z. of the _Athenæum_,
Bream's Buildings, Chancery Lane.
And the woman said: 'Good, I like thee. Give me thy hand, and we
will go together.'
And the creature went with the woman.
* * * * *
The hole grew deeper, and it began to be more hot than warm.
And further on the woman saw another creature saying mock prayers.
And the woman asked: 'To whom dost thou say mock prayers?'
And the creature said: 'To God up there. I want him not to
laugh at me.'
Then the woman said: 'Who art thou that God should laugh?'
And the creature writhed, and answered: 'I am the religious Spirit
of the _Pall Mall_, abiding in the street called Northumberland,
off Strand.'
And the woman said again: 'And doth God laugh at thee?'
And the creature answered: 'Ay, he laugheth sore.'
And the woman said: 'Nay, he shall not laugh. I will tell him
to protect thee. Come with me.'
And the creature ceased praying mock prayers, and followed the
woman.
* * * * *
And presently the woman from South Africa grew weary.
She desired to get out of the hole.
And she called aloud to God: 'I wish to leave Hell.'
And God said: 'Leave it then.'
And she left it.
* * * * *
Outside the sun was shining.
There was no hole anywhere to be seen.
And the woman looked up, and lo! there was God laughing at her.
Then said the woman: 'There is no hole.'
And God gaily answered, 'No.'
Then the woman asked: 'Where is Hell?'
And God, very much amused, replied: 'I haven't the least idea!'
And the woman smiled right joyously, and said: 'I have had bad
Dreams.'
And God said: 'You have!'
* * * * *