UNDER THE HILL
AND OTHER ESSAYS IN
PROSE AND VERSE BY
AUBREY BEARDSLEY
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS
JOHN LANE PUBLISHER THE BODLEY HEAD
LONDON & NEW YORK MDCCCCIV
[ILLUSTRATION: AUBREY BEARDSLEY AT MENTONE, IN THE ROOM
IN WHICH HE DIED.]
PUBLISHER'S NOTE
To those who are acquainted with Aubrey Beardsley's essays into
the domain of literature no apology for this re-publication is
needed--indeed Beardsley's most intimate friends have averred that
if his master genius had been turned seriously towards the world of
letters, his success would have been as undoubted there as it was in
the world of art.
Admirers frequently have expressed a wish to see the literary remains
of Beardsley. This volume, in which are gathered together various
fragments and personalia, will, I trust, meet the case.
A few of my random recollections of Beardsley's association with "The
Yellow Book" perhaps will not be amiss.
Until the publication of the first volume of "The Yellow Book" in
1894, Beardsley was practically unknown, his drawings for "Le Morte
D'Arthur" and his marvellous designs illustrating "Salomé" constituting
his artistic record. It was at this time, then, that one morning he,
with Mr. Henry Harland and myself, during half an hour's chat over our
cigarettes at the Hogarth Club, founded the much discussed "Yellow
Book." Beardsley became Art Editor, whilst Mr. Harland accepted the
post of Literary Editor.
Many will remember the sensation caused by the appearance of the first
volume. Perhaps the _Westminster Gazette_ and the _Times_ were the most
severe in their strictures, at any rate on the Art in general and on
Beardsley in particular.
The _Westminster Gazette_ said:
"Mr. Aubrey Beardsley achieves excesses hitherto undreamt
of. He seems to have conceived the disagreeable idea of
taking certain arrangements of lines invented by the
Japanese, and specially suited to blithe and pleasant
peaks of decoration, and applying them to the most morbid
of grotesque. His offence is the less to be condoned
because he has undoubted skill as a line draughtsman and
has shown himself capable of refined and delicate work.
But as regards certain of his inventions in this number,
the thing called 'The Sentimental Education,' and that
other thing to which the name of Mrs. Patrick Campbell
has somehow become attached, we do not know that anything
would meet the case except a short Act of Parliament to
make this kind of thing illegal."
The _Times_ said:
"'The Yellow Book' is, we suppose, destined to be the
organ of the New Literature and the New Art. If the New
Art is represented by the cover of this wonderful volume,
it is scarcely calculated to attract by its intrinsic
beauty or merit; possibly, however, it may be intended
to attract by its very repulsiveness and insolence, and
in that case it is not unlikely to be successful. Its
note appears to be a combination of English rowdyism
with French lubricity.... Sir Frederick Leighton, who
contributes two graceful studies, finds himself cheek
by jowl with such advanced and riotous representatives
of the New Art as Mr. Aubrey Beardsley and Mr. Walter
Sickert. On the whole the New Art and the New Literature
appear to us to compare in this singular volume far from
favourably with the old."
It may interest the _Times_ critic to know that Sir Frederick Leighton
was a great admirer of Beardsley's work. At one of Sir Frederick's
periodical visits to the Bodley Head to see how the New Art and the New
Literature were developing, he playfully suggested that if he was not
"performing an R.A. duty he was doing a neighbourly one." He asked to
see the originals of Beardsley's "Yellow Book" pictures (Vol. I.), and
then remarked: "Ah! what wonderful line! What a great artist!" and then
_sotto voce,_ "if he could only draw." My retort was, "Sir Frederick,
I am tired of seeing men who can _only_ draw." "Oh! yes," said Sir
Frederick, "I know what you mean, and you are quite right too."
There was indeed a universal howl against the cover and title-page
designs, which it will be remembered were both the work of Beardsley.
However the conductors of "The Yellow Book" were nothing daunted
and proceeded to announce that for each volume in the future Mr.
Beardsley would complete new cover and title-page designs. This was an
entirely fresh idea, and has since been adopted by most of the leading
illustrated magazines both in England and America.
An interesting and original contribution to Volume II. of "The Yellow
Book," one which did not fulfil its object however, was a criticism of
the contents of Volume I. by the late P. G. Hammerton. Mr. Hammerton,
being merely an art critic and not a humorist, did not fulfil the
commission quite in the spirit in which it was given him; the
conductors of the quarterly desired criticism, even though adverse to
themselves. I am sure that nothing would have delighted the two editors
more than a good slating in their own pages, but Mr. Hammerton, always
conscientious, found nothing but praise for its contents, especially
for Beardsley's work.
Beardsley's defect as Art Editor was youth. He would not take himself
seriously: as an editor and draughtsman he was almost a practical
joker, for one had, so to speak, to place his drawings under a
microscope, and look at them upside down. This tendency on the eve of
the production of Vol. V., during my first visit to the United States,
rendered it necessary to omit his work from that volume.
Beardsley was responsible for the art of the first four volumes, and it
must be frankly confessed that, when he severed his connection with the
magazine, the quarterly suffered an irretrievable loss.
Soon after this period, Mr. Arthur Symonds started "The Savoy," as a
rival, to which Beardsley, again as Art Editor, contributed another
fine series of drawings.
I well remember being interviewed in New York regarding the alleged
decadence in Beardsley's work. I said then, and repeat now, that he
merely lashed the follies of his time, that he was the Hogarth of his
day, and that he had no more sympathy with decadence than Hogarth had
for the vices depicted in "The Rake's Progress" and "Marriage à la
Mode." Knowledge must never be confounded with sympathy. I will go
farther, and declare that Beardsley, by his grotesque and powerful
pictures of several hideous phases or life, dealt a death blow to
decadence. Had he lived till now, it is quite possible that the Royal
Academy might have justified its existence by recognising in him the
greatest exponent of the most vital of the graphic arts--namely,
Black and White. In support of this theory it may be well to point
out that Mr. Harland is now the delight or millions by his charming
love romances, and that "Max" in his brilliant weekly articles in the
_Saturday Review_ pleads eloquently for an intelligent drama.
It was not often that Beardsley took up his pen to write to the
newspapers, preferring to allow the hostile and adverse criticism
with which he was continually assailed to confute themselves. On two
occasions, however, he did so, and the letters he wrote will be round
included in this volume. The first, I think, with the accompanying
illustration, explains itself. The second was the outcome of the
following criticism by the _DAILY Chronicle._ March I, 1894, on the
frontispiece of Mr. John Davidson's "Plays".
"AN ERROR OF TASTE"
"Mr. Beardsley has contributed a frontispiece à propos of 'Scaramouch
in Naxos' in which one or two well-known faces of the day are to be
recognised--an error or taste which is to be regretted."
The subjects of Beardsley's two portraits were Mr. Wilde and Sir
Augustus Harris; the latter Beardsley considered his debtor by virtue
of his having taken half a crown at Covent Garden Theatre without
providing him with a seat.
Aubrey Beardsley was born on August 21, 1872, and died on March 16,
1898. During his short life he carried the art of Black and White
further than any man since Albert Dürer. On his death prophetic
assurances were not wanting that the "Beardsley cult" or "craze," as it
was generally called, was doomed to extinction with the death of its
high priest, but so far from this anticipation being realised, his work
now enjoys a greater appreciation and more intelligent sympathy than
was granted to it, save by an esoteric few, during his lifetime.
Although it is impossible, with any degree of accuracy, to state to
what extent Beardsley's popularity has increased during the last few
years, evidence is not wanting to show that his following is both
enthusiastic and loyal. This applies not only to Great Britain, but
equally to America, whilst in Germany, France, Belgium, Russia and
Holland, it is safe to affirm that his reputation is steadily growing,
especially in Germany. Indeed, it is obvious to the most superficial
observer that there is hardly a Black and White artist working to-day
who has not in some subtle way been influenced by the master.
More than three-fourths of Beardsley's work passed through my hands,
and to my knowledge he never used Chinese White. I am the fortunate
possessor of the originals of over eighty of his principal drawings.
I get applications from would-be purchasers of these from different
parts of the world almost daily, but as yet I have withstood all
temptations to part with these treasures, which I regard as the chief
monument of the greatest, most brilliant, the wittiest, and the most
lovable man it has ever been my privilege to know.
JOHN LANE.
THE BODLEY HEAD,
VIGO STREET, W. _July_ 1903.
CONTENTS
DEDICATION TO "UNDER THE HILL"
UNDER THE HILL
THE THREE MUSICIANS
THE BALLAD OF A BARBER
TRANSLATION OF CATULLUS: CARMEN CI
TABLE TALK OF AUBREY BEARDSLEY
TWO LETTERS OF AUBREY BEARDSLEY
ILLUSTRATIONS
_AUBREY BEARDSLEY AT MENTONE, IN THE ROOM IN
WHICH HE DIED Frontispiece_
_THE ABBÉ_
_THE TOILET OF HELEN_
_THE FRUIT BEARERS_
_THE ASCENSION OF SAINT ROSE OF LIMA_
_FOR THE THIRD TABLEAU OF "DAS RHEINGOLD_"
_THE THREE MUSICIANS_
_THE THREE MUSICIANS_
_TAILPIECE TO "THE THREE MUSICIANS"_
_THE COIFFING_
_CUL-DE-LAMPE TO "THE BARBER_"
_ATE ATQUE VALE_
_TITLE-PAGE TO VOL. I. OF "THE YELLOW BOOK"_
_FRONTISPIECE TO "PLAYS" BY JOHN DAVIDSON _
_ARBUSCULA_
_PORTRAIT SKETCHES_
_L'ABBÉ MOURET_
UNDER THE HILL
A ROMANTIC NOVEL
TO
THE MOST EMINENT AND REVEREND PRINCE
GIULIO POLDO PEZZOLI
CARDINAL OF THE HOLY ROMAN CHURCH
TITULAR BISHOP OF S. MARIA IN TRASTAVERE
ARCHBISHOP OF OSTIA AND VELLETRI
NUNCIO TO THE HOLY SEE
IN
NICARAGUA AND PATAGONIA
A FATHER TO THE POOR
A REFORMER OF ECCLESIASTICAL DISCIPLINE
A PATTERN OF LEARNING
WISDOM AND HOLINESS OF LIFE
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED WITH DUE REVERENCE
BY HIS HUMBLE SERVITOR
A SCRIVENER AND LIMNER OF WORLDLY THINGS
WHO MADE THIS BOOK
AUBREY BEARDSLEY
_Most Eminent Prince_,
I know not by what mischance the writing of epistles dedicatory has
fallen into disuse, whether through the vanity of authors or the
humility of patrons. But the practice seems to me so very beautiful
and becoming that I have ventured to make an essay in the modest art,
and lay with formalities my first book at your feet. I have it must
be confessed many fears lest I shall be arraigned of presumption in
choosing so exalted a name as your own to place at the beginning of
this history; but I hope that such a censure will not be too lightly
passed upon me, for if I am guilty it is but of a most natural pride
that the accidents of my life should allow me to sail the little
pinnace of my wit under your protection.
But though I can clear myself of such a charge, I am still minded to
use the tongue of apology, for with what face can I offer you a book
treating of so vain and fantastical a thing as love? I know that in
the judgment of many the amorous passion is accounted a shameful thing
and ridiculous; indeed it must be confessed that more blushes have
risen for love's sake than for any other cause and that lovers are an
eternal laughing-stock. Still, as the book will be found to contain
matter of deeper import than mere venery, inasmuch as it treats of the
great contrition of its chiefest character, and of canonical things in
certain pages, I am not without hopes that your Eminence will pardon my
writing of a loving Abbé, for which extravagance let my youth excuse me.
Then I must crave your forgiveness for addressing you in a language
other than the Roman, but my small freedom in Latinity forbids me to
wander beyond the idiom of my vernacular. I would not for the world
that your delicate Southern ear should be offended by a barbarous
assault of rude and Gothic words; but methinks no language is rude
that can boast polite writers, and not a few such have flourished
in this country in times past, bringing our common speech to very
great perfection. In the present age, alas! our pens are ravished by
unlettered authors and unmannered critics, that make a havoc rather
than a building, a wilderness rather than a garden. But, alack! what
boots it to drop tears upon the preterit?
It is not of our own shortcomings though, but of your own great merits
that I should speak, else I should be forgetful of the duties I have
drawn upon myself in electing to address you in a dedication. It is of
your noble virtues (though all the world know of 'em), your taste and
wit, your care for letters, and very real regard for the arts that I
must be the proclaimer.
Though it be true that all men have sufficient wit to pass a judgment
on this or that, and not a few sufficient impudence to print the same
(these last being commonly accounted critics), I have ever held that
the critical faculty is more rare than the inventive. It is a faculty
your Eminence possesses in so great a degree that your praise or blame
is something oracular, your utterance infallible as great genius or as
a beautiful woman. Your mind, I know, rejoicing in fine distinctions
and subtle procedures of thought, beautifully discursive rather than
hastily conclusive, has found in criticism its happiest exercise. It is
a pity that so perfect a Mecænas should have no Horace to befriend, no
Georgies to accept; for the offices and function of patron or critic
must of necessity be lessened in an age of little men and little work.
In times past it was nothing derogatory for great princes and men of
State to extend their loves and favour to poets, for thereby they
received as much honour as they conferred. Did not Prince Festus with
pride take the masterwork of Julian into his protection, and was not
the Æneis a pretty thing to offer Cæsar?
Learning without appreciation is a thing of naught, but I know not
which is greatest in you--your love of the arts, or your knowledge of
'em. What wonder then that I am studious to please you, and desirous
of your protection. How deeply thankful I am for your past affections
you know well, your great kindness and liberality having far outgone my
slight merits and small accomplishment that seemed scarce to warrant
any favour. Alas I 'tis a slight offering I make you now, but if after
glancing into its pages (say of an evening upon your terrace) you
should deem it worthy of the remotest place in your princely library,
the knowledge that it rested there would be reward sufficient for my
labours, and a crowning happiness to my pleasure in the writing of this
slender book.
The humble and obedient servant of your Eminence,
AUBREY BEARDSLEY.
UNDER THE HILL
A ROMANTIC NOVEL
CHAPTER I
The Abbé Fanfreluche, having lighted off his horse, stood doubtfully
for a moment beneath the ombre gateway of the mysterious Hill, troubled
with an exquisite fear lest a day's travel should have too cruelly
undone the laboured niceness of his dress. His hand, slim and gracious
as La Marquise du Deffand's in the drawing by Carmontelle, played
nervously about the gold hair that fell upon his shoulders like a
finely-curled peruke, and from point to point of a precise toilet the
fingers wandered, quelling the little mutinies of cravat and ruffle.
It was taper-time; when the tired earth puts on its cloak of mists and
shadows, when the enchanted woods are stirred with light footfalls and
slender voices of the fairies, when all the air is full of delicate
influences, and even the beaux, seated at their dressing-tables, dream
a little.
A delicious moment, thought Fanfreluche, to slip into exile.
The place where he stood waved drowsily with strange flowers, heavy
with perfume, dripping with odours. Gloomy and nameless weeds not to
be found in Mentzelius. Huge moths, so richly winged they must have
banqueted upon tapestries and royal stuffs, slept on the pillars that
flanked either side of the gateway, and the eyes of all the moths
remained open and were burning and bursting with a mesh of veins.
The pillars were fashioned in some pale stone and rose up like hymns
in the praise of pleasure, for from cap to base, each one was carved
with loving sculptures, showing such a cunning invention and such a
curious knowledge, that Fanfreluche lingered not a little in reviewing
them. They surpassed all that Japan has ever pictured from her maisons
vertes, all that was ever painted in the cool bath-rooms of Cardinal
La Motte, and even outdid the astonishing illustrations to Jones's
"Nursery Numbers."
"A pretty portal," murmured the Abbé, correcting his sash.
As he spoke, a faint sound of singing was breathed out from the
mountain, faint music as strange and distant as sea-legends that are
heard in shells.
"The Vespers of Helen, I take it," said Fanfreluche, and struck a few
chords of accompaniment, ever so lightly, upon his little lute. Softly
across the spell-bound threshold the song floated and wreathed itself
about the subtle columns, till the moths were touched with passion
and moved quaintly in their sleep. One of them was awakened by the
intenser notes of the Abbé's lute-strings, and fluttered into the cave.
Fanfreluche felt it was his cue for entry.
[Illustration: "The Abbé"]
"Adieu," he exclaimed with an inclusive gesture, and "good-bye,
Madonna," as the cold circle of the moon began to show, beautiful and
full of enchantments. There was a shadow of sentiment in his voice as
he spoke the words.
"Would to heaven," he sighed, "I might receive the assurance of a
looking-glass before I make my debut! However, as she is a Goddess, I
doubt not her eyes are a little sated with perfection, and may not be
displeased to see it crowned with a tiny fault."
A wild rose had caught upon the trimmings of his ruff, and in the first
flush of displeasure he would have struck it brusquely away, and most
severely punished the offending flower. But the ruffled mood lasted
only a moment, for there was something so deliciously incongruous in
the hardy petal's invasion of so delicate a thing, that Fanfreluche
withheld the finger of resentment and vowed that the wild rose should
stay where it had clung--a passport, as it were, from the upper to the
under world.
"The very excess and violence of the fault," he said, "will be its
excuse;" and, undoing a tangle in the tassel of his stick, stepped into
the shadowy corridor that ran into the bosom of the wan hill--stepped
with the admirable aplomb and unwrinkled suavity of Don John.