THE contemporary writing which is commonly called “decadent” has one
quality which is likely to be fatal to its permanence,—it wears out the
reader’s interest. On the first reading it has a certain newness of
manner, a certain unconventionality of form and idea, which catch the
attention; but these qualities catch the attention, they do not hold
it; with each successive reading the spell weakens until it is largely
spent. We discover that the manner which caught us, so to speak, at the
start, is either self-conscious or tricky; and both qualities are fatal
to permanence. There is nothing so inimical to the highest success in
art as self-consciousness, and nothing is so soon discovered as a trick
of style. It is, of course, both unintelligent and idle to characterize
a considerable mass of writing in general terms; but, even with such
differences of insight and ability as the decadent literature reveals,
it has certain characteristics in common, and these characteristics
disclose its essential qualities. They are significant enough to
furnish a basis for a dispassionate opinion.
With the revolt against the conventional and the commonplace,
especially on the part of the youngest men, every lover of sound
writing must be heartily in sympathy. In a time when Edwin Arnold,
Alfred Austin, and Lewis Morris are gravely brought forward as fit
candidates for the laureateship which Wordsworth and Tennyson held in
succession, it is not surprising that young men with a real feeling
for literature fall to cursing and take refuge in eccentricity of
all kinds. It must frankly be confessed that a great deal of current
writing, while uncommonly good as regards form and taste, is devoid
of anything approaching freshness of feeling or originality of idea.
Its prime characteristic is well-bred, well-dressed, and well-mannered
mediocrity; of contact with life it gives no faintest evidence; of
imagination, passion, and feeling—those prime qualities out of which
great literature is compounded—it is as innocent as the average
Sunday-School publication. It is not without form, but it is utterly
void.
That men who are conscious, even in a blind way, of the tragic
elements of life should revolt against this widespread dominion of the
commonplace is matter neither for astonishment nor regret; if they
have blood in their veins and vitality in their brains, they cannot do
otherwise. The responsibility for excesses and eccentricities generally
rests with the conditions which have set the reaction in motion. When
men begin to suffocate, windows are likely to be broken as well as
opened; when Philistia waxes prosperous and boastful, Bohemia receives
sudden and notable accessions of population.
Among English-speaking people at least, it is chiefly as a reaction
that decadent literature is significant. It is an attempt to get away
from the mortal dulness of the mass of contemporary writing,—an effort
to see life anew and feel it afresh. In many cases, it is, however,
mistaken not only in morals, but in method: it confuses mannerism with
originality, and unconventionality with power. A manner may be novel
and, at the same time, bad; one may be unconventional and, at the same
time, essentially weak. In moments of hot and righteous indignation a
little cursing of the right sort may be pardonable; but cursing has no
lasting quality.
A revolt against too many clothes, or against a deadly uniformity
of cut and style, is always justifiable; but nudity is not the only
alternative; there is an intermediate position in which one may be both
clothed _and_ in his right mind.
Now, there is nothing more certain than that the originality of the
greater and more enduring books is free from self-consciousness,
mannerism, and eccentricity in any form. As a rule, the greater the
work the greater the difficulty of classifying it, of putting one’s
hand on the secret of its charm, of describing it in a phrase. The
contrast between Shakespeare and Maeterlinck is, in this respect,
so striking that one wonders how the admirers of the gifted Belgian
were led into the blunder of forcing it upon contemporary readers.
Maeterlinck has unmistakable power; his skill in introducing
atmospheric effects, in assailing the senses of his readers without
awakening their consciousness that powerful influences are in the
air, his genius in the use of suggestion, are evident almost at a
glance. But when one has read “The Intruder” or “The Princess Maleine”
one has, in a way, read all these powerful and intensely individual
dramas. They are all worked out by a single method, and that method is
instantly detected. Maeterlinck’s manner is so obvious that no one can
overlook or mistake it. With Shakespeare, on the other hand, there is
the greatest difficulty in discovering any manner at all. At his best
Shakespeare is magical; there is no getting at his way of doing things.
His method is so free, so natural, so varied, and moves along such
simple lines that we take it for granted, as if it were a part of the
order of things. There is a kind of elemental unconsciousness in him
which gives his artistic processes the apparent ease, the fulness, and
range of the processes of nature.
“The great merit, it seems to me,” writes Mr. Lowell to Professor
Norton, “of the old painters was that they did not try to be original.
‘To say a thing,’ says Goethe, ‘that everybody else has said before,
as quietly as if nobody had ever said it, _that_ is originality.’”
In other words, originality consists not in saying new things, but
in saying true things. It is for this reason that the great writers
have no surprises for us; they lift into the light of clear expression
things that have lain silent at the bottom of our natures; things
profoundly felt, but never spoken. In like manner, originality in form
and style is not a matter of novelty, but of deeper feeling and surer
touch. A piece of work which, like a popular song, has a rhythm or
manner which catches the senses, may have a lusty life, but is certain
to have a brief one. There is nothing “catching” or striking, in the
superficial sense, in the greater works of art. Their very simplicity
hides their superiority, and the world makes acquaintance with them
very slowly.
A genuine reaction, of the kind which predicts a true liberation of the
imagination, is only momentarily a revolt against outgrown methods and
the feebleness of a purely imitative art; it is essentially a return to
the sources of power. It begins in revolt, but it does not long rest in
that negative stage; it passes on to reconstruction, to creative work
in a new and independent spirit. Goethe and Schiller went _through_
the _Sturm and Drang_ period; they did not stay in it. “The Sorrows of
Werther” and “Goetz” were followed by “Tasso” and “Faust;” and “The
Robbers” soon gave place to “William Tell.” The Romanticists who made
such an uproar when “Hernani” was put on the stage, did not long wear
red waistcoats and flowing locks; they went to work and brought forth
the solid fruits of genius.
The man on the barricade is a picturesque figure, but he must not
stay too long or he becomes ridiculous; the insurrection, if it means
anything, must issue in a permanent social or political order. Even
genius will not redeem perpetual revolt from monotony, as the case
of Byron clearly shows. Revolt is inspiring if it is the prelude to
a new and better order; if it falls short of this achievement, it is
only a disturbance of the peace. It means, in that case, that there is
dissatisfaction, but that the reaction has no more real power than the
tyranny or stupidity against which it takes up arms. The new impulse
in literature, when it comes, will evidence its presence neither by
indecency nor by eccentricity; but by a certain noble simplicity, by
the sanity upon which a great authority always ultimately rests, by
the clearness of its insight, and the depth of its sympathy with that
deeper life of humanity, in which are the springs of originality and
productiveness.