would take a large allowance of sugar, and he had the tradition about
himself that he was a man of the most moderate habits; hence, with this
conviction, he was naturally disgusted at the saccharine excesses of
Avis.
I have sometimes thought that this facility of men in believing that
they are still what they once meant to be--this undisturbed
appropriation of a traditional character which is often but a melancholy
relic of early resolutions, like the worn and soiled testimonial to
soberness and honesty carried in the pocket of a tippler whom the need
of a dram has driven into peculation--may sometimes diminish the
turpitude of what seems a flat, barefaced falsehood. It is notorious
that a man may go on uttering false assertions about his own acts till
he at last believes in them: is it not possible that sometimes in the
very first utterance there may be a shade of creed-reciting belief, a
reproduction of a traditional self which is clung to against all
evidence? There is no knowing all the disguises of the lying serpent.
When we come to examine in detail what is the sane mind in the sane
body, the final test of completeness seems to be a security of
distinction between what we have professed and what we have done; what
we have aimed at and what we have achieved; what we have invented and
what we have witnessed or had evidenced to us; what we think and feel in
the present and what we thought and felt in the past.
I know that there is a common prejudice which regards the habitual
confusion of _now_ and _then_, of _it was_ and _it is_, of _it seemed
so_ and _I should like it to be so_, as a mark of high imaginative
endowment, while the power of precise statement and description is rated
lower, as the attitude of an everyday prosaic mind. High imagination is
often assigned or claimed as if it were a ready activity in fabricating
extravagances such as are presented by fevered dreams, or as if its
possessors were in that state of inability to give credible testimony
which would warrant their exclusion from the class of acceptable
witnesses in a court of justice; so that a creative genius might fairly
be subjected to the disability which some laws have stamped on dicers,
slaves, and other classes whose position was held perverting to their
sense of social responsibility.
This endowment of mental confusion is often boasted of by persons whose
imaginativeness would not otherwise be known, unless it were by the slow
process of detecting that their descriptions and narratives were not to
be trusted. Callista is always ready to testify of herself that she is
an imaginative person, and sometimes adds in illustration, that if she
had taken a walk and seen an old heap of stones on her way, the account
she would give on returning would include many pleasing particulars of
her own invention, transforming the simple heap into an interesting
castellated ruin. This creative freedom is all very well in the right
place, but before I can grant it to be a sign of unusual mental power, I
must inquire whether, on being requested to give a precise description
of what she saw, she would be able to cast aside her arbitrary
combinations and recover the objects she really perceived so as to make
them recognisable by another person who passed the same way. Otherwise
her glorifying imagination is not an addition to the fundamental power
of strong, discerning perception, but a cheaper substitute. And, in
fact, I find on listening to Callista's conversation, that she has a
very lax conception even of common objects, and an equally lax memory of
events. It seems of no consequence to her whether she shall say that a
stone is overgrown with moss or with lichen, that a building is of
sandstone or of granite, that Meliboeus once forgot to put on his cravat
or that he always appears without it; that everybody says so, or that
one stock-broker's wife said so yesterday; that Philemon praised
Euphemia up to the skies, or that he denied knowing any particular evil
of her. She is one of those respectable witnesses who would testify to
the exact moment of an apparition, because any desirable moment will be
as exact as another to her remembrance; or who would be the most worthy
to witness the action of spirits on slates and tables because the action
of limbs would not probably arrest her attention. She would describe the
surprising phenomena exhibited by the powerful Medium with the same
freedom that she vaunted in relation to the old heap of stones. Her
supposed imaginativeness is simply a very usual lack of discriminating
perception, accompanied with a less usual activity of misrepresentation,
which, if it had been a little more intense, or had been stimulated by
circumstance, might have made her a profuse writer unchecked by the
troublesome need of veracity.
These characteristics are the very opposite of such as yield a fine
imagination, which is always based on a keen vision, a keen
consciousness of what _is_, and carries the store of definite knowledge
as material for the construction of its inward visions. Witness Dante,
who is at once the most precise and homely in his reproduction of actual
objects, and the most soaringly at large in his imaginative
combinations. On a much lower level we distinguish the hyperbole and
rapid development in descriptions of persons and events which are lit up
by humorous intention in the speaker--we distinguish this charming play
of intelligence which resembles musical improvisation on a given motive,
where the farthest sweep of curve is looped into relevancy by an
instinctive method, from the florid inaccuracy or helpless exaggeration
which is really something commoner than the correct simplicity often
depreciated as prosaic.
Even if high imagination were to be identified with illusion, there
would be the same sort of difference between the imperial wealth of
illusion which is informed by industrious submissive observation and the
trumpery stage-property illusion which depends on the ill-defined
impressions gathered by capricious inclination, as there is between a
good and a bad picture of the Last Judgment. In both these the subject
is a combination never actually witnessed, and in the good picture the
general combination may be of surpassing boldness; but on examination it
is seen that the separate elements have been closely studied from real
objects. And even where we find the charm of ideal elevation with wrong
drawing and fantastic colour, the charm is dependent on the selective
sensibility of the painter to certain real delicacies of form which
confer the expression he longed to render; for apart from this basis of
an effect perceived in common, there could be no conveyance of aesthetic
meaning by the painter to the beholder. In this sense it is as true to
say of Fra Angelico's Coronation of the Virgin, that it has a strain of
reality, as to say so of a portrait by Rembrandt, which also has its
strain of ideal elevation due to Rembrandt's virile selective
sensibility. To correct such self-flatterers as Callista, it is worth
repeating that powerful imagination is not false outward vision, but
intense inward representation, and a creative energy constantly fed by
susceptibility to the veriest minutiae of experience, which it
reproduces and constructs in fresh and fresh wholes; not the habitual
confusion of provable fact with the fictions of fancy and transient
inclination, but a breadth of ideal association which informs every
material object, every incidental fact with far-reaching memories and
stored residues of passion, bringing into new light the less obvious
relations of human existence. The illusion to which it is liable is not
that of habitually taking duck-ponds for lilied pools, but of being more
or less transiently and in varying degrees so absorbed in ideal vision
as to lose the consciousness of surrounding objects or occurrences; and
when that rapt condition is past, the sane genius discriminates clearly
between what has been given in this parenthetic state of excitement, and
what he has known, and may count on, in the ordinary world of
experience. Dante seems to have expressed these conditions perfectly in
that passage of the _Purgatorio_ where, after a triple vision which has
made him forget his surroundings, he says--
"Quando l'anima mia tornò di fuori
Alle cose che son fuor di lei vere,
Io riconobbi i miei non falsi errori."--(c xv.)
He distinguishes the ideal truth of his entranced vision from the series
of external facts to which his consciousness had returned. Isaiah gives
us the date of his vision in the Temple--"the year that King Uzziah
died"--and if afterwards the mighty-winged seraphim were present with
him as he trod the street, he doubtless knew them for images of memory,
and did not cry "Look!" to the passers-by.
Certainly the seer, whether prophet, philosopher, scientific discoverer,
or poet, may happen to be rather mad: his powers may have been used up,
like Don Quixote's, in their visionary or theoretic constructions, so
that the reports of common-sense fail to affect him, or the continuous
strain of excitement may have robbed his mind of its elasticity. It is
hard for our frail mortality to carry the burthen of greatness with
steady gait and full alacrity of perception. But he is the strongest
seer who can support the stress of creative energy and yet keep that
sanity of expectation which consists in distinguishing, as Dante does,
between the _cose che son vere_ outside the individual mind, and the
_non falsi errori_ which are the revelations of true imaginative power.
XIV.
THE TOO READY WRITER
One who talks too much, hindering the rest of the company from taking
their turn, and apparently seeing no reason why they should not rather
desire to know his opinion or experience in relation to all subjects, or
at least to renounce the discussion of any topic where he can make no
figure, has never been praised for this industrious monopoly of work
which others would willingly have shared in. However various and
brilliant his talk may be, we suspect him of impoverishing us by
excluding the contributions of other minds, which attract our curiosity
the more because he has shut them up in silence. Besides, we get tired
of a "manner" in conversation as in painting, when one theme after
another is treated with the same lines and touches. I begin with a
liking for an estimable master, but by the time he has stretched his
interpretation of the world unbrokenly along a palatial gallery, I have
had what the cautious Scotch mind would call "enough" of him. There is
monotony and narrowness already to spare in my own identity; what comes
to me from without should be larger and more impartial than the judgment
of any single interpreter. On this ground even a modest person, without
power or will to shine in the conversation, may easily find the
predominating talker a nuisance, while those who are full of matter on
special topics are continually detecting miserably thin places in the
web of that information which he will not desist from imparting. Nobody
that I know of ever proposed a testimonial to a man for thus
volunteering the whole expense of the conversation.
Why is there a different standard of judgment with regard to a writer
who plays much the same part in literature as the excessive talker plays
in what is traditionally called conversation? The busy Adrastus, whose
professional engagements might seem more than enough for the nervous
energy of one man, and who yet finds time to print essays on the chief
current subjects, from the tri-lingual inscriptions, or the Idea of the
Infinite among the prehistoric Lapps, to the Colorado beetle and the
grape disease in the south of France, is generally praised if not
admired for the breadth of his mental range and his gigantic powers of
work. Poor Theron, who has some original ideas on a subject to which he
has given years of research and meditation, has been waiting anxiously
from month to month to see whether his condensed exposition will find a
place in the next advertised programme, but sees it, on the contrary,
regularly excluded, and twice the space he asked for filled with the
copious brew of Adrastus, whose name carries custom like a celebrated
trade-mark. Why should the eager haste to tell what he thinks on the
shortest notice, as if his opinion were a needed preliminary to
discussion, get a man the reputation of being a conceited bore in
conversation, when nobody blames the same tendency if it shows itself in
print? The excessive talker can only be in one gathering at a time, and
there is the comfort of thinking that everywhere else other
fellow-citizens who have something to say may get a chance of delivering
themselves; but the exorbitant writer can occupy space and spread over
it the more or less agreeable flavour of his mind in four "mediums" at
once, and on subjects taken from the four winds. Such restless and
versatile occupants of literary space and time should have lived earlier
when the world wanted summaries of all extant knowledge, and this
knowledge being small, there was the more room for commentary and
conjecture. They might have played the part of an Isidor of Seville or a
Vincent of Beauvais brilliantly, and the willingness to write everything
themselves would have been strictly in place. In the present day, the
busy retailer of other people's knowledge which he has spoiled in the
handling, the restless guesser and commentator, the importunate hawker
of undesirable superfluities, the everlasting word-compeller who rises
early in the morning to praise what the world has already glorified, or
makes himself haggard at night in writing out his dissent from what
nobody ever believed, is not simply "gratis anhelans, multa agendo nihil
agens"--he is an obstruction. Like an incompetent architect with too
much interest at his back, he obtrudes his ill-considered work where
place ought to have been left to better men.
Is it out of the question that we should entertain some scruple about
mixing our own flavour, as of the too cheap and insistent nutmeg, with
that of every great writer and every great subject?--especially when our
flavour is all we have to give, the matter or knowledge having been
already given by somebody else. What if we were only like the Spanish
wine-skins which impress the innocent stranger with the notion that the
Spanish grape has naturally a taste of leather? One could wish that even
the greatest minds should leave some themes unhandled, or at least leave
us no more than a paragraph or two on them to show how well they did in
not being more lengthy.
Such entertainment of scruple can hardly be expected from the young; but
happily their readiness to mirror the universe anew for the rest of
mankind is not encouraged by easy publicity. In the vivacious Pepin I
have often seen the image of my early youth, when it seemed to me
astonishing that the philosophers had left so many difficulties
unsolved, and that so many great themes had raised no great poet to
treat them. I had an elated sense that I should find my brain full of
theoretic clues when I looked for them, and that wherever a poet had not
done what I expected, it was for want of my insight. Not knowing what
had been said about the play of Romeo and Juliet, I felt myself capable
of writing something original on its blemishes and beauties. In relation
to all subjects I had a joyous consciousness of that ability which is
prior to knowledge, and of only needing to apply myself in order to
master any task--to conciliate philosophers whose systems were at
present but dimly known to me, to estimate foreign poets whom I had not
yet read, to show up mistakes in an historical monograph that roused my
interest in an epoch which I had been hitherto ignorant of, when I
should once have had time to verify my views of probability by looking
into an encyclopaedia. So Pepin; save only that he is industrious while
I was idle. Like the astronomer in Rasselas, I swayed the universe in my
consciousness without making any difference outside me; whereas Pepin,
while feeling himself powerful with the stars in their courses, really
raises some dust here below. He is no longer in his spring-tide, but
having been always busy he has been obliged to use his first impressions
as if they were deliberate opinions, and to range himself on the
corresponding side in ignorance of much that he commits himself to; so
that he retains some characteristics of a comparatively tender age, and
among them a certain surprise that there have not been more persons
equal to himself. Perhaps it is unfortunate for him that he early gained
a hearing, or at least a place in print, and was thus encouraged in
acquiring a fixed habit of writing, to the exclusion of any other
bread-winning pursuit. He is already to be classed as a "general
writer," corresponding to the comprehensive wants of the "general
reader," and with this industry on his hands it is not enough for him to
keep up the ingenuous self-reliance of youth: he finds himself under an
obligation to be skilled in various methods of seeming to know; and
having habitually expressed himself before he was convinced, his
interest in all subjects is chiefly to ascertain that he has not made a
mistake, and to feel his infallibility confirmed. That impulse to
decide, that vague sense of being able to achieve the unattempted, that
dream of aerial unlimited movement at will without feet or wings, which
were once but the joyous mounting of young sap, are already taking shape
as unalterable woody fibre: the impulse has hardened into "style," and
into a pattern of peremptory sentences; the sense of ability in the
presence of other men's failures is turning into the official arrogance
of one who habitually issues directions which he has never himself been
called on to execute; the dreamy buoyancy of the stripling has taken on
a fatal sort of reality in written pretensions which carry consequences.
He is on the way to become like the loud-buzzing, bouncing Bombus who
combines conceited illusions enough to supply several patients in a
lunatic asylum with the freedom to show himself at large in various
forms of print. If one who takes himself for the telegraphic centre of
all American wires is to be confined as unfit to transact affairs, what
shall we say to the man who believes himself in possession of the
unexpressed motives and designs dwelling in the breasts of all
sovereigns and all politicians? And I grieve to think that poor Pepin,
though less political, may by-and-by manifest a persuasion hardly more
sane, for he is beginning to explain people's writing by what he does
not know about them. Yet he was once at the comparatively innocent stage
which I have confessed to be that of my own early astonishment at my
powerful originality; and copying the just humility of the old Puritan,
I may say, "But for the grace of discouragement, this coxcombry might
have been mine."
Pepin made for himself a necessity of writing (and getting printed)
before he had considered whether he had the knowledge or belief that
would furnish eligible matter. At first perhaps the necessity galled him
a little, but it is now as easily borne, nay, is as irrepressible a
habit as the outpouring of inconsiderate talk. He is gradually being
condemned to have no genuine impressions, no direct consciousness of
enjoyment or the reverse from the quality of what is before him: his
perceptions are continually arranging themselves in forms suitable to a
printed judgment, and hence they will often turn out to be as much to
the purpose if they are written without any direct contemplation of the
object, and are guided by a few external conditions which serve to
classify it for him. In this way he is irrevocably losing the faculty of
accurate mental vision: having bound himself to express judgments which
will satisfy some other demands than that of veracity, he has blunted
his perceptions by continual preoccupation. We cannot command veracity
at will: the power of seeing and reporting truly is a form of health
that has to be delicately guarded, and as an ancient Rabbi has solemnly
said, "The penalty of untruth is untruth." But Pepin is only a mild
example of the fact that incessant writing with a view to printing
carries internal consequences which have often the nature of disease.
And however unpractical it may be held to consider whether we have
anything to print which it is good for the world to read, or which has
not been better said before, it will perhaps be allowed to be worth
considering what effect the printing may have on ourselves. Clearly
there is a sort of writing which helps to keep the writer in a
ridiculously contented ignorance; raising in him continually the sense
of having delivered himself effectively, so that the acquirement of more
thorough knowledge seems as superfluous as the purchase of costume for a
past occasion. He has invested his vanity (perhaps his hope of income)
in his own shallownesses and mistakes, and must desire their prosperity.
Like the professional prophet, he learns to be glad of the harm that
keeps up his credit, and to be sorry for the good that contradicts him.
It is hard enough for any of us, amid the changing winds of fortune and
the hurly-burly of events, to keep quite clear of a gladness which is
another's calamity; but one may choose not to enter on a course which
will turn such gladness into a fixed habit of mind, committing ourselves
to be continually pleased that others should appear to be wrong in order
that we may have the air of being right.
In some cases, perhaps, it might be urged that Pepin has remained the
more self-contented because he has _not_ written everything he believed
himself capable of. He once asked me to read a sort of programme of the
species of romance which he should think it worth while to write--a
species which he contrasted in strong terms with the productions of
illustrious but overrated authors in this branch. Pepin's romance was to
present the splendours of the Roman Empire at the culmination of its
grandeur, when decadence was spiritually but not visibly imminent: it
was to show the workings of human passion in the most pregnant and
exalted of human circumstances, the designs of statesmen, the
interfusion of philosophies, the rural relaxation and converse of
immortal poets, the majestic triumphs of warriors, the mingling of the
quaint and sublime in religious ceremony, the gorgeous delirium of
gladiatorial shows, and under all the secretly working leaven of
Christianity. Such a romance would not call the attention of society to
the dialect of stable-boys, the low habits of rustics, the vulgarity of
small schoolmasters, the manners of men in livery, or to any other form
of uneducated talk and sentiments: its characters would have virtues and
vices alike on the grand scale, and would express themselves in an
English representing the discourse of the most powerful minds in the
best Latin, or possibly Greek, when there occurred a scene with a Greek
philosopher on a visit to Rome or resident there as a teacher. In this
way Pepin would do in fiction what had never been done before: something
not at all like 'Rienzi' or 'Notre Dame de Paris,' or any other attempt
of that kind; but something at once more penetrating and more
magnificent, more passionate and more philosophical, more panoramic yet
more select: something that would present a conception of a gigantic
period; in short something truly Roman and world-historical.