she was brought up in a Court that studied the works of Brantôme."
* * * * *
We often talked of Farrar's book and Maurice's opinions on Eternal
Punishment. The Poet was fond of quoting Dante's line:
Fecemi somma Sapienza ed il sommo Amore,
insisting on Dante's intense belief in a God of Love. He more than once
repeated the famous lines of Moschus,[70] adding, "I think those the
finest lines in all Greek antiquity."
* * * * *
_T._ "My friend, Sir Henry Taylor, on being called a Christian Jupiter,
remarked, 'I wish I was much more of a jovial Christian.'"
_T._ "I once asked Rogers, 'Did you ever write a sonnet?' He answered,
'No, I never dance in fetters.'"
* * * * *
_T._ "I am told that the best prose version of the _Odyssey_ is by
Professor Palmer of Cambridge University, America. Since Matthew Arnold's
lectures on Homer, a new translation has appeared annually in that
country. It would take me ten years to translate the _Iliad_ into Bible
English." He liked Worsley's translation of the _Odyssey_.
* * * * *
"The purest English is talked in South Lincolnshire. The dialect begins at
Spilsby in Mid-Lincolnshire, and that is the dialect of my Lincolnshire
poems."
He was fond of telling Lincolnshire stories. _T._ "An old farmer, at the
time when railways were beginning, receiving a visit from the parson,
moved uneasily in his bed, crying out, 'What with faäth, and what with
real bad harvests, and what with them graät, horrid steäm-kettles, and
what with the soön goin' raound the earth, and the earth goin' raound the
soön, as soom saäy she do, I am cleän maäzed an' the sooner I gits out of
this 'ere world, the better;' and he turned his face to the wall and
died."
* * * * *
I close my chapter of fragments and echoes still abiding with me; men
privileged as I was can hear the voice and hate a gramophone. My aim has
been to show the everyday life, the plain unvarnished words which were the
daily change with the first man of his age and a rank-and-file
acquaintance just able, and no more, to appreciate such kindness.
_Haec olim meminisse iuvabit._
MUSIC, TENNYSON, AND JOACHIM
By SIR CHARLES STANFORD
My acquaintance, or rather my friendship, with Alfred Tennyson (for he had
an all-compelling power of making real friends of, and being a true friend
to, those far junior to himself) dated only from 1879, when he was in
years seventy, but in mental vigour the contemporary of the youngest man
he happened to be with. Previously, however, in 1875, I had had experience
of his thoughtful kindness. He had chosen me, an unknown and untried
composer, to write the incidental music to his tragedy of "Queen Mary" for
its production at the Lyceum Theatre, then under the management of Mrs.
Bateman. Many difficulties were put in the way of the performance of the
music, into the causes of which I had neither the wish nor the means to
penetrate. Finally, however, the management gave as an explanation that
the music could not be performed, as the number of orchestral players
required for its proper presentment would necessitate the sacrifice of two
rows of stalls. To my young and disappointed soul came the news of a
generous action which would have been a source of pride to many a composer
of assured position and fame. The Poet had offered, unknown to me, to bear
the expense of the sacrificed seats for many nights, in order to allow my
small share of the work to be heard. The offer was refused, but the
generous action remains--one amongst the thousands of such quiet and
stealthy kindnesses which came as second nature to him, and were probably
as speedily forgotten by himself as they were lastingly remembered by
their recipients.[71]
He little knew that, when I was in my early 'teens and had the most
absurdly exaggerated notions of my song-writing powers, I had had the
presumption to ask my cousin, Mr. Stephen Spring Rice, if he would induce
his old friend to send me a MS. poem to set. Happily, I only got a kindly
but necessary rap over the knuckles for my impertinence; the request was
consigned to the waste-paper basket and mercifully never reached
Farringford. I tremble now to recall the incident, although I verily
believe that if Mr. Spring Rice had been cruel enough to send my letter
on, the smile which it must have provoked would in no wise have been a
contemptuous one. I can imagine his saying then, what I have often heard
him say in later days, "Maxima debetur pueris reverentia." I had seen so
much of Aubrey de Vere all through my boyhood that I almost felt as if I
knew Tennyson too, so vivid were his accounts of him, and his descriptions
of his ways and surroundings.
Joachim also, who all through the British part of his international career
was in close touch with the Tennyson circle, used often to speak of him
with the deep reverence and whole-hearted enthusiasm which he reserved for
a very few. On the staircase at Farringford hangs Mrs. Cameron's early
(and still unsurpassed) photograph of the great violinist. My host pointed
at it one day as he passed upstairs: "That's Joachim. He's a fine fellow.
Why did he cover up that fine jowl with a beard?"--quite forgetful of the
possible retort that he had committed the same wickedness himself. On the
comparatively rare occasions when he came up to London, and was surrounded
by all the stars in the literary and political firmament, Joachim and his
Stradivarius were as brilliant a centre of attraction as any of his
guests. Joachim's setting of Merlin's song in "The Coming of Arthur" was
an especial favourite of his, as both in atmosphere and in declamation it
exactly fulfilled the intention of his verse. Joachim once told me that he
always had great hankerings after setting "The Revenge," but that he
repressed them because he felt that it could only be tackled in the true
English spirit by a Britisher.
The clue to Tennyson's great critical power in declamation was obvious to
any one who heard him recite his own work. His manner of reading poetry
has often been described. It was a chant rather than a declamation. A
voice of deep and penetrating power, varied only by alteration of note and
by intensity of quality. The notes were few, and he rarely read on more
than two, except at the cadence of a passage, when the voice would
slightly fall. He often accompanied his reading by gentle rippling
gestures with his fingers. As a rule he adhered more to the quantity of a
line than the ordinary reciter, for he had the rare gift of making the
accent felt, without perceptibly altering the prosody. Without being a
musician, he had a great appreciation of the fitness of music to its
subjects, and was an unfailing judge of musical declamation. As he
expressed it himself, he disliked music which went up when it ought to go
down, and went down when it ought to go up. I never knew him wrong in his
suggestions on this point. The most vivid instance I can recall was about
a line in "The Revenge":
Was he devil or man? He was devil for aught they knew.
When I played him my setting, the word "devil" was set to a higher note in
the question than it was in the answer, and the penultimate word "they"
was unaccented. He at once corrected me, saying that the second word
"devil" must be higher and stronger than the first, and the "they" must be
marked. He was perfectly right, and I altered it accordingly. It was
apparently a small point, but it was this insisting on perfection of
detail which made him the most valuable teacher of accurate declamation
that it was possible for a composer to learn from. Of all his poems which
I heard him read, those he made most impressive were "The Revenge" and the
"Ode on the Duke of Wellington." It may be interesting to record a point
in the latter which, he said, was often misread. The line
Let the bell be toll'd,
he read with strong emphasis upon the first as well as the third and fifth
words:
- u - u -
not
u u - u -
He said it wanted three strokes of the bell, not two. "Maud" he also read
with a most extraordinary warmth and charm, particularly the climax of
"Come into the garden," and still more the stanza about the shell (Part
II.), which he gave in a peculiarly thin and ghostly tone of voice, a
quality he also used with great mastery in the Choric Song of the "Lotus
Eaters." Nor was he less impressive when reciting Greek or German. Greek
he vastly preferred as pronounced in the English fashion. He said it lost
all its sonority and grandeur if modernized; and, indeed, to hear his
illustration was in itself sufficient to convince. German he pronounced
with a strong English accent, and yet I feel sure that Goethe himself
would have acknowledged his reading of "Kennst du das Land" to be a
masterpiece. He was a great admirer of Goethe, and especially of this
poem. He only disliked one line--
O mein Beschützer, ziehn,
of which he said, "How could Goethe break one's teeth with those z's,
while the rest is so musical?" Curiously enough, it is now known that
Goethe erased "Beschützer" and substituted "Geliebter." He once read to me
from his works for nearly half an hour.
He was extremely particular about clear diction in singing, the lack of
which in the majority of singers of his day was far more marked than it is
nowadays. He intuitively grasped the true basis of that most difficult of
tasks, the composing of a good song which is at once practical and
grateful to sing. He knew that the poem should be the key to the work, and
should be so clearly enunciated that every word can reach the listener;
and that the composer must never over-balance the voice with the
illustrative detail of the accompaniment. When I was setting "The Voyage
of the Mældune" I happened to be at Freshwater; and after finishing the
solo quartet, "The Under-sea Isle," four amateurs sang it through for him.
His only (and I fear very just) comment on the performance was, "I did not
hear a word you said from beginning to end." But he thought afterwards
that we might feel somewhat crushed, and as I was going away some little
time later, and was passing his door, he put his head out and said with a
humorous smile, "I'm afraid I was rather rude just now, but I liked the
way your music rippled away when they fall into the water." This was a
most curious instance of his faculty for recognizing a subtle piece of
musical characterization as rapidly as, and often more rapidly than, a
listener who was fully equipped with musical technique.
His ear was capable of such fine distinctions of vowel quality, that it
has always been a mystery to me why this gift, so highly developed in him,
did not bring a mastery of music in its train. By one of the odd
dispensations of nature, Robert Browning, who had none of this fineness
of ear, knew enough of music to be able even to read it from a score with
his eyes. Such words as "true" and "too," which in most people's mouths
have an identical vowel sound, were differentiated by him, the "oo" full
and round, the "ue" inclining imperceptibly to "u." His "a" also had far
more varied colours than is usual even with singers. One modification in
especial, the quality of which can best be described as approaching that
of "_Eh_, mon," in broad Scotch, gave a breadth and a dignity to such
words as "Nation," "Lamentation," "Pageant" (he never used the horrible
pronunciation "Padgent"), which added vastly to the musical values of his
verse. It is this perfection of vowel balance which makes his poetry so
difficult to set to music satisfactorily. So musical is it in itself that
very little is left for actual music to supply. It is often the very
incompleteness of some poetry which makes it suggestive to a composer, the
qualities lacking in the one calling out for the assistance of the other
to supply them, a condition of combination which Wagner deliberately
carried to a fine art in his double capacity of poet and composer. With
Tennyson there is no gap to fill, and all that music can do is to
illustrate the surrounding atmosphere, and to leave the poetry to tell its
own story with its declamation and inflections accurately preserved.
The best reproduction of the peculiar quality of Tennyson's reading which
I have heard was Irving's rendering of the lines about the bird in the
last act of "Becket":
We came upon
A wild-fowl sitting on her nest, so still,
I reach'd my hand and touch'd; she did not stir;
The snow had frozen round her, and she sat
Stone-dead upon a heap of ice-cold eggs.
The mastery of sound-painting in this line, the chilly "o's" and "e's"
which the Poet knew so well how to place, Irving declaimed with a quiet
reverence which made the sentence so pathetic that it will always live in
the memory of those who heard it. It is interesting to record that all the
actors I have met who witnessed the play invariably hit on those lines as
the high-water mark of Irving's powers.
The rehearsals of "Becket," many of which I was privileged to witness,
soon made it clear that Irving's Becket was going to be, as it eventually
proved to be, the finest both in conception and in accomplishment of all
his creations. The part fitted him like a glove. So completely did he live
in it, that a friend of his (who related his experience to me), who went
round to see him after a performance, was dismissed by him on leaving with
a fervent benediction delivered with up-raised hand, so sincerely and
impressively delivered that he positively seemed to be an actual Prince of
the Church.
With Irving's arrangement of the play I never wholly agreed. He made of it
as a whole a workable piece, but in doing so he sacrificed one scene
which, beyond all question, is one of the most vivid and most
characteristic in the play, the scene of the beggars' feast. He lost sight
of the fact that its omission spoilt the balance of the middle section.
There was no foil to the brilliancy of the Council at Northampton.
Tennyson (like Shakespeare) knew better the value of contrast, and put in
at this point that touch of divine humour which only heightens pathos. The
drama needed it. He balanced the traitorous splendour of the nobles with
the homely loyalty of the halt, maimed, and blind. Irving also omitted the
poem which gave the true lyrical touch to the first Bower scene; a little
dialogue which, if it had been sung as was intended after the curtain rose
on an empty stage, would have given the same atmosphere to the act, which
the Rainbow song at its close drives home. These were, however, almost the
only blots upon an otherwise admirably reverent adaptation. Irving told
me that he always came down to listen behind the curtain to the last
_entr'acte_ (the Martyrdom), in order to get into the right mood for the
final scene. Coming from an actor, who knew nothing of musical technique
beyond an extraordinarily acute sense of what was fitting or not fitting
for stage purposes, this was a great gratification and a still greater
encouragement to one of the many composers whom he so loyally befriended.
The production of "Becket" was a memorable red-letter day for the modern
English stage; the more so as the tragedy came and conquered a public
which was little prepared for the finest specimen of its type which had
been seen since the days of Shakespeare. It was fitting that the reign of
the greatest Queen since Elizabeth should have such a play inscribed in
its annals, an appropriate and worthy counterpart to those of her great
predecessor's days.
THE ATTITUDE OF TENNYSON TOWARDS SCIENCE
By SIR OLIVER LODGE, F.R.S.
Henry Sidgwick wrote in 1860 concerning Tennyson that he "regarded him as
pre-eminently the Poet of Science"; and to explain his meaning he
contrasts the attitude of Wordsworth to Nature with that of Tennyson:
The Nature for which Wordsworth stirred our feelings was Nature as
known by simple observation and interpreted by religious and
sympathetic intuition.
--an attitude which left Science unregarded. But, for Tennyson,
the physical world is always the world as known to us through physical
science; the scientific view of it dominates his thought about it, and
his general acceptance of this view is real and sincere, even when he
utters the intensest feeling of its inadequacy to satisfy our deepest
needs.
It is probable that what was then written is now a commonplace of letters,
and requires no emphasizing, but as a professed Student of Science, whose
life has extended over the greater part of the time which has elapsed
since "In Memoriam" was published, I welcome the opportunity of adding my
testimony in continued support of the estimate made by Professor Sidgwick
half a century ago.
It is generally admitted, and has been recently emphasized, that wherever
reference is made to facts of nature in the poems or the fringe of
Science touched on,--as it so often is,--the reference is satisfying and
the touch precise. Observers of Nature have often called attention to the
beautiful accuracy with which natural phenomena are described, with every
mark of first-hand personal experience, as distinct from merely remembered
conventional modes of expression; and the same sort of feeling is aroused
in the mind of a Student of Science as he comes across one after another
of the subjects which have kindled discussion during the Victorian
epoch,--he is inevitably struck with the clear comprehension of the
fundamental aspects of the themes treated which the poems display, he sees
that the Poet is never led into misrepresentation or sacrifice of
precision in the quest for beauty of form. The two are wedded together
"like noble music unto perfect words."
To quote examples might only be tedious, and would assuredly be
misleading. It is not that the bare facts of Science are recorded,--such
record could not constitute poetry--certainly not high poetry,--it is not
merely his acquaintance with contemporary scientific discovery, natural to
a man who numbered leading men of Science among his friends;--it is not
any of this that arouses our feeling of admiring fellowship, but it is
that with all his lordship of language and power of expression so
immensely superior to our own, he yet moves in the atmosphere of Science
not as an alien, but as an understanding and sympathetic friend.
Look back upon the epoch in which he lived--what a materialistic welter it
seems! The mind of man was going through a period of storm; antiquated
beliefs were being jettisoned and everything spiritual seemed to be going
by the board; the point of view of man was rapidly changing and the whole
of existence appeared capable of reducing itself to refined and intricate
mechanism.
Poets generally must have felt it as a terrible time. What refuge existed
for a poet save to isolate himself from the turmoil, shut himself into his
cabin, and think of other times and other surroundings, away from the
uproar and the gale. Those who did not thus shelter themselves were liable
to bewail the time because the days were evil; as Arnold did, and Clough.
But thus did not Tennyson. Out through the tempest he strode, open-eyed
and bare-headed, with figure erect, glorying in the conflict of the
elements, and summoning the men of his generation to reverence and
worship.
Doubt, yes doubt he justified--doubt, so it were straightforward and
honest. Forms and accessories--these he was willing to let go--though
always with respect and care for the weaker brothers and sisters to whom
they stood for things of value; but Faith beyond those forms he clung to,
faith fearless and triumphant, uprising out of temporary moods of
despondency into ever securer conviction of righteous guidance throughout
creation and far-seeing divine Purpose at the heart of things.
Other men retained their faith too, but many only attained security by
resolutely closing their eyes and bolting the doors of their water-tight
compartments. But the glory of Tennyson's faith was that it never led him
to be unfaithful to the kinds of truth that were being revealed to his
age. That, too, was an age of revelation, and he knew it; the science of
his epoch was true knowledge, as far as it went; it was over-emphatic and
explosive, and to weaker or less inspired minds was full of danger, but it
was genuine cargo, nevertheless, which must be taken on board; there was a
real overload of superstition which had to be discarded; and it was his
mission, and that of a few other noble souls, to help us to accomplish
with calmness and something like wisdom the task of that revolutionary
age.
In the conflict between Science and Faith our business was to accept the
one without rejecting the other: and that he achieved. Never did his
acceptance of the animal ancestry of man, for instance, upset his belief
in the essential divinity of the human soul, its immortality, its
supremacy, its eternal destiny. Never did his recognition of the
materialistic aspect of nature cloud his perception of its spiritual
aspect as supplementing and completing and dominating the mechanism. His
was a voice from other centuries, as it were, sounding through the
nineteenth; and by his strong majestic attitude he saved the faith of
thousands who else would have been overwhelmed; and his writings convey to
our own age a magnificent expression of that which we too have still not
fully accepted, but which we are on the way to believe.
If asked to quote in support of this statement I will not quote more than
the titles of some of the chief poems to which I appeal. Not always the
greatest poems perhaps do I here refer to, but those which most clearly
uphold the contention of the Poet's special service to humanity during the
period of revolution in thought through which mankind has been passing.
Let me instance, therefore, first and most obviously, "In Memoriam"; and
thereafter poems such as "De Profundis," "The Two Voices," "The Ancient
Sage," "Ulysses," "Vastness," "By an Evolutionist," "Demeter and
Persephone," "Akbar's Dream," "God and the Universe," "Flower in the
Crannied Wall," "The Higher Pantheism," "The Voice and the Peak," "Wages,"
and "Morte d'Arthur."
If I do not add to this list the great poem "To Virgil," who in his day
likewise assimilated knowledge of diverse kinds and in the light of
spiritual vision glorified all he touched, it is only because the
atmosphere of the Ancient poet is so like that of the Modern one that it
is not by any single poem that their sympathy and kinship has to be
displayed, but rather by the similarity of their whole attitude to the
Universe.
By the term "Poet of Science" I understand one who assimilates the known
truths of Science and Philosophy, through the pores, so to speak, without
effort and with intuitive accuracy, one who bears them lightly and raises
them above the region of bare fact into the realm of poetry. Such a poet
is one who transfuses fact with beauty, he is ready to accept the
discoveries of his age, no matter how prosaic and lamentable they seem,
and is able to perceive and display the essential beauty and divinity
which runs through them all and threads them all together. That is the
service which a great poet can perform for Science in his day and
generation. The qualities beyond this--exhibited for the most part perhaps
in other poems--which enable him to live for all time, are qualities above
any that I have the right or the power to estimate.
To be overwhelmed and mastered by the material and the mechanical, even to
the extent of being blind to the existence of every other aspect, is
common and human enough. But to recognize to the full the reign of law in
Nature, the sequence of cause and effect, the strength of the chain-armour
of necessity which men of science weave, and yet to discern in it the
living garment of God--that is poetic and divine.
TENNYSON AS A STUDENT AND POET OF NATURE[72]
By SIR NORMAN LOCKYER, F.R.S.
When Tennyson passed from life, not only did England lose one of her
noblest sons, but the world a poet who, beyond all others who have ever
lived, combined the gift of expression with an unceasing interest in the
causes of things and in the working out of Nature's laws.