some old tapestries in Auxerre, the figure of a 'flaxen and flowery
creature, sometimes wellnigh naked among the vine-leaves, sometimes
muffled in skins against the cold, sometimes in the dress of a monk, but
always with a strong impress of real character and incident from the
veritable streets' of the town itself. From this strange design Mr.
Pater has fashioned a curious mediaeval myth of the return of Dionysus
among men, a myth steeped in colour and passion and old romance, full of
wonder and full of worship, Denys himself being half animal and half god,
making the world mad with a new ecstasy of living, stirring the artists
simply by his visible presence, drawing the marvel of music from reed and
pipe, and slain at last in a stage-play by those who had loved him. In
its rich affluence of imagery this story is like a picture by Mantegna,
and indeed Mantegna might have suggested the description of the pageant
in which Denys rides upon a gaily-painted chariot, in soft silken raiment
and, for head-dress, a strange elephant scalp with gilded tusks.
If Denys l'Auxerrois symbolises the passion of the senses and Sebastian
Van Storck the philosophic passion, as they certainly seem to do, though
no mere formula or definition can adequately express the freedom and
variety of the life that they portray, the passion for the imaginative
world of art is the basis of the story of Duke Carl of Rosenmold. Duke
Carl is not unlike the late King of Bavaria, in his love of France, his
admiration for the Grand Monarque and his fantastic desire to amaze and
to bewilder, but the resemblance is possibly only a chance one. In fact
Mr. Pater's young hero is the precursor of the Aufklarung of the last
century, the German precursor of Herder and Lessing and Goethe himself,
and finds the forms of art ready to his hand without any national spirit
to fill them or make them vital and responsive. He too dies, trampled to
death by the soldiers of the country he so much admired, on the night of
his marriage with a peasant girl, the very failure of his life lending
him a certain melancholy grace and dramatic interest.
On the whole, then, this is a singularly attractive book. Mr. Pater is
an intellectual impressionist. He does not weary us with any definite
doctrine or seek to suit life to any formal creed. He is always looking
for exquisite moments and, when he has found them, he analyses them with
delicate and delightful art and then passes on, often to the opposite
pole of thought or feeling, knowing that every mood has its own quality
and charm and is justified by its mere existence. He has taken the
sensationalism of Greek philosophy and made it a new method of art
criticism. As for his style, it is curiously ascetic. Now and then, we
come across phrases with a strange sensuousness of expression, as when he
tells us how Denys l'Auxerrois, on his return from a long journey, 'ate
flesh for the first time, tearing the hot, red morsels with his delicate
fingers in a kind of wild greed,' but such passages are rare. Asceticism
is the keynote of Mr. Pater's prose; at times it is almost too severe in
its self-control and makes us long for a little more freedom. For
indeed, the danger of such prose as his is that it is apt to become
somewhat laborious. Here and there, one is tempted to say of Mr. Pater
that he is 'a seeker after something in language, that is there in no
satisfying measure, or not at all.' The continual preoccupation with
phrase and epithet has its drawbacks as well as its virtues. And yet,
when all is said, what wonderful prose it is, with its subtle
preferences, its fastidious purity, its rejection of what is common or
ordinary! Mr. Pater has the true spirit of selection, the true tact of
omission. If he be not among the greatest prose writers of our
literature he is, at least, our greatest artist in prose; and though it
may be admitted that the best style is that which seems an unconscious
result rather than a conscious aim, still in these latter days when
violent rhetoric does duty for eloquence and vulgarity usurps the name of
nature, we should be grateful for a style that deliberately aims at
perfection of form, that seeks to produce its effect by artistic means
and sets before itself an ideal of grave and chastened beauty.
Imaginary Portraits. By Walter Pater, M.A., Fellow of Brasenose College,
Oxford. (Macmillan and Co.)
A GOOD HISTORICAL NOVEL
(Pall Mall Gazette, August 8, 1887.)
Most modern Russian novelists look upon the historical novel as a faux
genre, or a sort of fancy dress ball in literature, a mere puppet show,
not a true picture of life. Yet their own history is full of such
wonderful scenes and situations, ready for dramatist or novelist to treat
of, that we are not surprised that, in spite of the dogmas of the ecole
naturaliste, Mr. Stephen Coleridge has taken the Russia of the sixteenth
century as the background for his strange tale. Indeed, there is much to
be said in favour of a form remote from actual experience. Passion
itself gains something from picturesqueness of surroundings; distance of
time, unlike distance of space, makes objects larger and more vivid; over
the common things of contemporary life there hangs a mist of familiarity
that often makes their meaning obscure. There are also moments when we
feel that but little artistic pleasure is to be gained from the study of
the modern realistic school. Its works are powerful but they are
painful, and after a time we tire of their harshness, their violence and
their crudity. They exaggerate the importance of facts and underrate the
importance of fiction. Such, at any rate, is the mood--and what is
criticism itself but a mood?--produced in us by a perusal of Mr.
Coleridge's Demetrius. It is the story of a young lad of unknown
parentage who is brought up in the household of a Polish noble. He is a
tall, fair-looking youth, by name Alexis, with a pride of bearing and
grace of manner that seem strange in one of such low station. Suddenly
he is recognised by an exiled Russian noble as Demetrius, the son of Ivan
the Terrible who was supposed to have been murdered by the usurper Boris.
His identity is still further established by a strange cross of seven
emeralds that he wears round his neck, and by a Greek inscription in his
book of prayers which discloses the secret of his birth and the story of
his rescue. He himself feels that the blood of kings beats in his veins,
and appeals to the nobles of the Polish Diet to espouse his cause. By
his passionate utterance he makes them acknowledge him as the true Tsar
and invades Russia at the head of a large army. The people throng to him
from every side, and Marfa, the widow of Ivan the Terrible, escapes from
the convent in which she has been immured by Boris and comes to meet her
son. At first she seems not to recognise him, but the music of his voice
and the wonderful eloquence of his pleading win her over, and she
embraces him in presence of the army and admits him to be her child. The
usurper, terrified at the tidings, and deserted by his soldiers, commits
suicide, and Alexis enters Moscow in triumph, and is crowned in the
Kremlin. Yet he is not the true Demetrius, after all. He is deceived
himself and he deceives others. Mr. Coleridge has drawn his character
with delicate subtlety and quick insight, and the scene in which he
discovers that he is no son of Ivan's and has no right to the name he
claims, is exceedingly powerful and dramatic. One point of resemblance
does exist between Alexis and the real Demetrius. Both of them are
murdered, and with the death of this strange hero Mr. Coleridge ends his
remarkable story.
On the whole, Mr. Coleridge has written a really good historical novel
and may be congratulated on his success. The style is particularly
interesting, and the narrative parts of the book are deserving of high
praise for their clearness, dignity and sobriety. The speeches and
passages of dialogue are not so fortunate, as they have an awkward
tendency to lapse into bad blank verse. Here, for instance, is a speech
printed by Mr. Coleridge as prose, in which the true music of prose is
sacrificed to a false metrical system which is at once monotonous and
tiresome:
But Death, who brings us freedom from all falsehood,
Who heals the heart when the physician fails,
Who comforts all whom life cannot console,
Who stretches out in sleep the tired watchers;
He takes the King and proves him but a beggar!
He speaks, and we, deaf to our Maker's voice,
Hear and obey the call of our destroyer!
Then let us murmur not at anything;
For if our ills are curable, 'tis idle,
And if they are past remedy, 'tis vain.
The worst our strongest enemy can do
Is take from us our life, and this indeed
Is in the power of the weakest also.
This is not good prose; it is merely blank verse of an inferior quality,
and we hope that Mr. Coleridge in his next novel will not ask us to
accept second-rate poetry as musical prose. For, that Mr. Coleridge is a
young writer of great ability and culture cannot be doubted and, indeed,
in spite of the error we have pointed out, Demetrius remains one of the
most fascinating and delightful novels that has appeared this season.
Demetrius. By the Hon. Stephen Coleridge. (Kegan Paul.)
NEW NOVELS
(Saturday Review, August 20, 1887.)
Teutonic fiction, as a rule, is somewhat heavy and very sentimental; but
Werner's Her Son, excellently translated by Miss Tyrrell, is really a
capital story and would make a capital play. Old Count Steinruck has two
grandsons, Raoul and Michael. The latter is brought up like a peasant's
child, cruelly treated by his grandfather and by the peasant to whose
care he is confided, his mother, the Countess Louis Steinruck, having
married an adventurer and a gambler. He is the rough hero of the tale,
the Saint Michael of that war with evil which is life; while Raoul,
spoiled by his grandfather and his French mother, betrays his country and
tarnishes his name. At every step in the narrative these two young men
come into collision. There is a war of character, a clash of
personalities. Michael is proud, stern and noble. Raoul is weak,
charming and evil. Michael has the world against him and conquers. Raoul
has the world on his side and loses. The whole story is full of movement
and life, and the psychology of the characters is displayed by action not
by analysis, by deeds not by description. Though there are three long
volumes, we do not tire of the tale. It has truth, passion and power,
and there are no better things than these in fiction.
The interest of Mr. Sale Lloyd's Scamp depends on one of those
misunderstandings which is the stock-in-trade of second-rate novelists.
Captain Egerton falls in love with Miss Adela Thorndyke, who is a sort of
feeble echo of some of Miss Broughton's heroines, but will not marry her
because he has seen her talking with a young man who lives in the
neighbourhood and is one of his oldest friends. We are sorry to say that
Miss Thorndyke remains quite faithful to Captain Egerton, and goes so far
as to refuse for his sake the rector of the parish, a local baronet, and
a real live lord. There are endless pages of five o'clock tea-prattle
and a good many tedious characters. Such novels as Scamp are possibly
more easy to write than they are to read.
James Hepburn belongs to a very different class of book. It is not a
mere chaos of conversation, but a strong story of real life, and it
cannot fail to give Miss Veitch a prominent position among modern
novelists. James Hepburn is the Free Church minister of Mossgiel, and
presides over a congregation of pleasant sinners and serious hypocrites.
Two people interest him, Lady Ellinor Farquharson and a handsome young
vagabond called Robert Blackwood. Through his efforts to save Lady
Ellinor from shame and ruin he is accused of being her lover; through his
intimacy with Robert Blackwood he is suspected of having murdered a young
girl in his household. A meeting of the elders and office-bearers of the
church is held to consider the question of the minister's resignation, at
which, to the amazement of every one, Robert Blackwood comes forth and
confesses to the crime of which Hepburn is accused. The whole story is
exceedingly powerful, and there is no extravagant use of the Scotch
dialect, which is a great advantage to the reader.
The title-page of Tiff informs us that it was written by the author of
Lucy; or, a Great Mistake, which seems to us a form of anonymity, as we
have never heard of the novel in question. We hope, however, that it was
better than Tiff, for Tiff is undeniably tedious. It is the story of a
beautiful girl who has many lovers and loses them, and of an ugly girl
who has one lover and keeps him. It is a rather confused tale, and there
are far too many love-scenes in it. If this 'Favourite Fiction' Series,
in which Tiff appears, is to be continued, we would entreat the publisher
to alter the type and the binding. The former is far too small: while,
as for the cover, it is of sham crocodile leather adorned with a blue
spider and a vulgar illustration of the heroine in the arms of a young
man in evening dress. Dull as Tiff is--and its dulness is quite
remarkable--it does not deserve so detestable a binding.
(1) Her Son. Translated from the German of E. Werner by Christina
Tyrrell. (Richard Bentley and Son.)
(2) Scamp. By J. Sale Lloyd. (White and Co.)
(3) James Hepburn. By Sophie Veitch. (Alexander Gardner.)
(4) Tiff. By the Author of Lucy; or, A Great Mistake. 'Favourite
Fiction' Series. (William Stevens.)
TWO BIOGRAPHIES OF KEATS
(Pall Mall Gazette, September 27, 1887.)
A poet, said Keats once, 'is the most unpoetical of all God's creatures,'
and whether the aphorism be universally true or not, this is certainly
the impression produced by the two last biographies that have appeared of
Keats himself. It cannot be said that either Mr. Colvin or Mr. William
Rossetti makes us love Keats more or understand him better. In both
these books there is much that is like 'chaff in the mouth,' and in Mr.
Rossetti's there is not a little that is like 'brass on the palate.' To
a certain degree this is, no doubt, inevitable nowadays. Everybody pays
a penalty for peeping through keyholes, and the keyhole and the
backstairs are essential parts of the method of the modern biographers.
It is only fair, however, to state at the outset that Mr. Colvin has done
his work much better than Mr. Rossetti. The account Mr. Colvin gives of
Keats's boyhood, for instance, is very pleasing, and so is the sketch of
Keats's circle of friends, both Leigh Hunt and Haydon being admirably
drawn. Here and there, trivial family details are introduced without
much regard to proportion, and the posthumous panegyrics of devoted
friends are not really of so much value, in helping us to form any true
estimate of Keats's actual character, as Mr. Colvin seems to imagine. We
have no doubt that when Bailey wrote to Lord Houghton that common-sense
and gentleness were Keats's two special characteristics the worthy
Archdeacon meant extremely well, but we prefer the real Keats, with his
passionate wilfulness, his fantastic moods and his fine inconsistence.
Part of Keats's charm as a man is his fascinating incompleteness. We do
not want him reduced to a sand-paper smoothness or made perfect by the
addition of popular virtues. Still, if Mr. Colvin has not given us a
very true picture of Keats's character, he has certainly told the story
of his life in a pleasant and readable manner. He may not write with the
ease and grace of a man of letters, but he is never pretentious and not
often pedantic.
Mr. Rossetti's book is a great failure. To begin with, Mr. Rossetti
commits the great mistake of separating the man from the artist. The
facts of Keats's life are interesting only when they are shown in their
relation to his creative activity. The moment they are isolated they are
either uninteresting or painful. Mr. Rossetti complains that the early
part of Keats's life is uneventful and the latter part depressing, but
the fault lies with the biographer, not with the subject.
The book opens with a detailed account of Keats's life, in which he
spares us nothing, from what he calls the 'sexual misadventure at Oxford'
down to the six weeks' dissipation after the appearance of the Blackwood
article and the hysterical and morbid ravings of the dying man. No
doubt, most if not all of the things Mr. Rossetti tells us are facts; but
there is neither tact shown in the selection that is made of the facts
nor sympathy in the use to which they are put. When Mr. Rossetti writes
of the man he forgets the poet, and when he criticises the poet he shows
that he does not understand the man. His first error, as we have said,
is isolating the life from the work; his second error is his treatment of
the work itself. Take, for instance, his criticism of that wonderful Ode
to a Nightingale, with all its marvellous magic of music, colour and
form. He begins by saying that 'the first point of weakness' in the poem
is the 'surfeit of mythological allusions,' a statement which is
absolutely untrue, as out of the eight stanzas of the poem only three
contain any mythological allusions at all, and of these not one is either
forced or remote. Then coming to the second verse,
Oh for a draught of vintage, that hath been
Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country-green,
Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth!
Mr. Rossetti exclaims in a fine fit of 'Blue Ribbon' enthusiasm: 'Surely
nobody wants wine as a preparation for enjoying a nightingale's music,
whether in a literal or in a fanciful relation'! 'To call wine "the
true, the blushful Hippocrene" . . . seems' to him 'both stilted and
repulsive'; 'the phrase "with beaded bubbles winking at the brim" is
(though picturesque) trivial'; 'the succeeding image, "Not charioted by
Bacchus and his pards"' is 'far worse'; while such an expression as
'light-winged Dryad of the trees' is an obvious pleonasm, for Dryad
really means Oak-nymph! As for that superb burst of passion,
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Mr. Rossetti tells us that it is a palpable, or rather 'palpaple (sic)
fact that this address . . . is a logical solecism,' as men live longer
than nightingales. As Mr. Colvin makes very much the same criticism,
talking of 'a breach of logic which is also . . . a flaw in the poetry,'
it may be worth while to point out to these two last critics of Keats's
work that what Keats meant to convey was the contrast between the
permanence of beauty and the change and decay of human life, an idea
which receives its fullest expression in the Ode on a Grecian Urn. Nor
do the other poems fare much better at Mr. Rossetti's hands. The fine
invocation in Isabella--
Moan hither, all ye syllables of woe,
From the deep throat of sad Melpomene!
Through bronzed lyre in tragic order go,
And touch the strings into a mystery,
seems to him 'a fadeur'; the Indian Bacchante of the fourth book of
Endymion he calls a 'sentimental and beguiling wine-bibber,' and, as for
Endymion himself, he declares that he cannot understand 'how his human
organism, _with respirative and digestive processes_, continues to
exist,' and gives us his own idea of how Keats should have treated the
subject. An eminent French critic once exclaimed in despair, 'Je trouve
des physiologistes partout!'; but it has been reserved for Mr. Rossetti
to speculate on Endymion's digestion, and we readily accord to him all
the distinction of the position. Even where Mr. Rossetti seeks to
praise, he spoils what he praises. To speak of Hyperion as 'a monument
of Cyclopean architecture in verse' is bad enough, but to call it 'a
Stonehenge of reverberance' is absolutely detestable; nor do we learn
much about The Eve of St. Mark by being told that its 'simplicity is full-
blooded as well as quaint.' What is the meaning, also, of stating that
Keats's Notes on Shakespeare are 'somewhat strained and _bloated_'? and
is there nothing better to be said of Madeline in The Eve of St. Agnes
than that 'she is made a very charming and loveable figure, _although she
does nothing very particular except to undress without looking behind
her, and to elope_'? There is no necessity to follow Mr. Rossetti any
further as he flounders about through the quagmire that he has made for
his own feet. A critic who can say that 'not many of Keats's poems are
highly admirable' need not be too seriously treated. Mr. Rossetti is an
industrious man and a painstaking writer, but he entirely lacks the
temper necessary for the interpretation of such poetry as was written by
John Keats.
It is pleasant to turn again to Mr. Colvin, who criticises always with
modesty and often with acumen. We do not agree with him when he accepts
Mrs. Owens's theory of a symbolic and allegoric meaning underlying
Endymion, his final judgment on Keats as 'the most Shaksperean spirit
that has lived since Shakspere' is not very fortunate, and we are
surprised to find him suggesting, on the evidence of a rather silly story
of Severn's, that Sir Walter Scott was privy to the Blackwood article.
There is nothing, however, about his estimate of the poet's work that is
harsh, irritating or uncouth. The true Marcellus of English song has not
yet found his Virgil, but Mr. Colvin makes a tolerable Statius.
(1) Keats. By Sidney Colvin. 'English Men of Letters' Series.
(Macmillan and Co.)
(2) Life of John Keats. By William Michael Rossetti. 'Great Writers'
Series. (Walter Scott.)
A SCOTCHMAN ON SCOTTISH POETRY
(Pall Mall Gazette, October 24, 1887.)
A distinguished living critic, born south of the Tweed, once whispered in
confidence to a friend that he believed that the Scotch knew really very
little about their own national literature. He quite admitted that they
love their 'Robbie Burns' and their 'Sir Walter' with a patriotic
enthusiasm that makes them extremely severe upon any unfortunate southron
who ventures to praise either in their presence, but he claimed that the
works of such great national poets as Dunbar, Henryson and Sir David
Lyndsay are sealed books to the majority of the reading public in
Edinburgh, Aberdeen and Glasgow, and that few Scotch people have any idea
of the wonderful outburst of poetry that took place in their country
during the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, at a time when there was
little corresponding development in England. Whether this terrible
accusation be absolutely true, or not, it is needless to discuss at
present. It is probable that the archaism of language alone will always
prevent a poet like Dunbar from being popular in the ordinary acceptation
of the word. Professor Veitch's book, however, shows that there are
some, at any rate, in the 'land o' cakes' who can admire and appreciate
their marvellous early singers, and whose admiration for The Lord of the
Isles and the verses To a Mountain Daisy does not blind them to the
exquisite beauties of The Testament of Cresseid, The Thistle and the
Rose, and the Dialog betwix Experience and ane Courteour.