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Title:      Woolf Essays
Author:     Virginia Woolf
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Language:   English
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A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook

Title:      Woolf Essays
Author:     Virginia Woolf




There is a sentence in Dr. Johnson's Gray which might well be written up
in all those rooms, too humble to be called libraries, yet full of books,
where the pursuit of reading is carried on by private people. " . . . I
rejoice to concur with the common reader; for by the common sense of
readers, uncorrupted by literary prejudices, after all the refinements of
subtilty and the dogmatism of learning, must be finally decided all claim
to poetical honours." It defines their qualities; it dignifies their
aims; it bestows upon a pursuit which devours a great deal of time, and
is yet apt to leave behind it nothing very substantial, the sanction of
the great man's approval.

The common reader, as Dr. Johnson implies, differs from the critic and
the scholar. He is worse educated, and nature has not gifted him so
generously. He reads for his own pleasure rather than to impart knowledge
or correct the opinions of others. Above all, he is guided by an instinct
to create for himself, out of whatever odds and ends he can come by, some
kind of whole--a portrait of a man, a sketch of an age, a theory of the
art of writing. He never ceases, as he reads, to run up some rickety and
ramshackle fabric which shall give him the temporary satisfaction of
looking sufficiently like the real object to allow of affection,
laughter, and argument. Hasty, inaccurate, and superficial, snatching now
this poem, now that scrap of old furniture, without caring where he finds
it or of what nature it may be so long as it serves his purpose and
rounds his structure, his deficiencies as a critic are too obvious to be
pointed out; but if he has, as Dr. Johnson maintained, some say in the
final distribution of poetical honours, then, perhaps, it may be worth
while to write down a few of the ideas and opinions which, insignificant
in themselves, yet contribute to so mighty a result.


Of the hundred years that have passed since Charlotte Bronte was born,
she, the centre now of so much legend, devotion, and literature, lived
but thirty-nine. It is strange to reflect how different those legends
might have been had her life reached the ordinary human span. She might
have become, like some of her famous contemporaries, a figure familiarly
met with in London and elsewhere, the subject of pictures and anecdotes
innumerable, the writer of many novels, of memoirs possibly, removed from
us well within the memory of the middle-aged in all the splendour of
established fame. She might have been wealthy, she might have been
prosperous. But it is not so. When we think of her we have to imagine
some one who had no lot in our modern world; we have to cast our minds
back to the 'fifties of the last century, to a remote parsonage upon the
wild Yorkshire moors. In that parsonage, and on those moors, unhappy and
lonely, in her poverty and her exaltation, she remains for ever.

These circumstances, as they affected her character, may have left their
traces on her work. A novelist, we reflect, is bound to build up his
structure with much very perishable material which begins by lending it
reality and ends by cumbering it with rubbish. As we open JAYNE EYRE
once more we cannot stifle the suspicion that we shall find her world of
imagination as antiquated, mid-Victorian, and out of date as the
parsonage on the moor, a place only to be visited by the curious, only
preserved by the pious. So we open JAYNE EYRE; and in two pages every
doubt is swept clean from our minds.

   Folds of scarlet drapery shut in my view to the right hand; to the
left were the clear panes of glass, protecting, but not separating me
from the drear November day. At intervals, while turning over the
leaves of my book, I studied the aspect of that winter afternoon.
Afar, it offered a pale blank of mist and cloud; near, a scene of wet
lawn and storm-beat shrub, with ceaseless rain sweeping away wildly
before a long and lamentable blast.

There is nothing there more perishable than the moor itself, or more
subject to the sway of fashion than the "long and lamentable blast". Nor
is this exhilaration short-lived. It rushes us through the entire
volume, without giving us time to think, without letting us lift our eyes
from the page. So intense is our absorption that if some one moves in the
room the movement seems to take place not there but up in Yorkshire. The
writer has us by the hand, forces us along her road, makes us see what
she sees, never leaves us for a moment or allows us to forget her. At the
end we are steeped through and through with the genius, the vehemence,
the indignation of Charlotte Bronte. Remarkable faces, figures of strong
outline and gnarled feature have flashed upon us in passing; but it is
through her eyes that we have seen them. Once she is gone, we seek for
them in vain. Think of Rochester and we have to think of JAYNE EYRE. Think
of the moor, and again there is JAYNE EYRE. Think of the drawing-room,
[Note, below] even, those "white carpets on which seemed laid brilliant
garlands of flowers", that "pale Parian mantelpiece" with its Bohemia
glass of "ruby red" and the "general blending of snow and fire"--what is
all that except JAYNE EYRE?

[Note: Charlotte and Emily Brontë had much the same sense of colour.
". . . we saw--ah! it was beautiful--a splendid place carpeted with crimson,
and crimson-covered chairs and tables, and a pure white ceiling bordered
by gold, a shower of glass drops hanging in silver chains from the
centre, and shimmering with little soft tapers " (WUTHERING HEIGHTS).
"Yet it was merely a very pretty drawing-room, and within it a boudoir,
both spread with white carpets, on which seemed laid brilliant garlands
of flowers; both ceiled with snowy mouldings of white grapes and vine
leaves, beneath which glowed in rich contrast crimson couches and
ottomans; while the ornaments on the pale Parian mantelpiece were of
sparkling Bohemia glass, ruby red; and between the windows large mirrors
repeated the general blending of snow and fire" (JANE EYRE).]

The drawbacks of being Jane Eyre are not far to seek. Always to be a
governess and always to be in love is a serious limitation in a world
which is full, after all, of people who are neither one nor the other.
The characters of a Jane Austen or of a Tolstoi have a million facets
compared with these. They live and are complex by means of their effect
upon many different people who serve to mirror them in the round. They
move hither and thither whether their creators watch them or not, and the
world in which they live seems to us an independent world which we can
visit, now that they have created it, by ourselves. Thomas Hardy is more
akin to Charlotte Bronte in the power of his personality and the
narrowness of his vision. But the differences are vast. As we read JUDE
THE OBSCURE we are not rushed to a finish; we brood and ponder and drift
away from the text in plethoric trains of thought which build up round
the characters an atmosphere of question and suggestion of which they are
themselves, as often as not, unconscious. Simple peasants as they are, we
are forced to confront them with destinies and questionings of the hugest
import, so that often it seems as if the most important characters in a
Hardy novel are those which have no names. Of this power, of this
speculative curiosity, Charlotte Brontë has no trace. She does not
attempt to solve the problems of human life; she is even unaware that
such problems exist; all her force, and it is the more tremendous for
being constricted, goes into the assertion, "I love", "I hate",
"I suffer".

For the self-centred and self-limited writers have a power denied the
more catholic and broad-minded. Their impressions are close packed and
strongly stamped between their narrow walls. Nothing issues from their
minds which has not been marked with their own impress. They learn little
from other writers, and what they adopt they cannot assimilate. Both
Hardy and Charlotte Brontë appear to have founded their styles upon a
stiff and decorous journalism. The staple of their prose is awkward and
unyielding. But both with labour and the most obstinate integrity, by
thinking every thought until it has subdued words to itself, have forged
for themselves a prose which takes the mould of their minds entire; which
has, into the bargain, a beauty, a power, a swiftness of its own.
Charlotte Brontë, at least, owed nothing to the reading of many books.
She never learnt the smoothness of the professional writer, or acquired
his ability to stuff and sway his language as he chooses. "I could never
rest in communication with strong, discreet, and refined minds, whether
male or female", she writes, as any leader-writer in a provincial journal
might have written; but gathering fire and speed goes on in her own
authentic voice "till I had passed the outworks of conventional reserve
and crossed the threshold of confidence, and won a place by their hearts'
very hearthstone". It is there that she takes her seat; it is the red
and fitful glow of the heart's fire which illumines her page. In other
words, we read Charlotte Brontë not for exquisite observation of
character--her characters are vigorous and elementary; not for comedy--hers
is grim and crude; not for a philosophic view of life--hers is that of a
country parson's daughter; but for her poetry. Probably that is so with
all writers who have, as she has, an overpowering personality, so that,
as we say in real life, they have only to open the door to make
themselves felt. There is in them some untamed ferocity perpetually at
war with the accepted order of things which makes them desire to create
instantly rather than to observe patiently. This very ardour, rejecting
half shades and other minor impediments, wings its way past the daily
conduct of ordinary people and allies itself with their more inarticulate
passions. It makes them poets, or, if they choose to write in prose,
intolerant of its restrictions. Hence it is that both Emily and Charlotte
are always invoking the help of nature. They both feel the need of some
more powerful symbol of the vast and slumbering passions in human nature
than words or actions can convey. It is with a description of a storm
that Charlotte ends her finest novel VILLETTE. "The skies hang full and
dark--a wrack sails from the west; the clouds cast themselves into
strange forms." So she calls in nature to describe a state of mind which
could not otherwise be expressed. But neither of the sisters observed
nature accurately as Dorothy Wordsworth observed it, or painted it
minutely as Tennyson painted it. They seized those aspects of the earth
which were most akin to what they themselves felt or imputed to their
characters, and so their storms, their moors, their lovely spaces of
summer weather are not ornaments applied to decorate a dull page or
display the writer's powers of observation-they carry on the emotion and
light up the meaning of the book.

The meaning of a book, which lies so often apart from what happens and
what is said and consists rather in some connection which things in
themselves different have had for the writer, is necessarily hard to
grasp. Especially this is so when, like the Brontës, the writer is
poetic, and his meaning inseparable from his language, and itself rather
a mood than a particular observation. WUTHERING HEIGHTS is a more
difficult book to understand than JAYNE EYRE, because Emily was a greater
poet than Charlotte. When Charlotte wrote she said with eloquence and
splendour and passion "I love ", "I hate", "I suffer". Her experience,
though more intense, is on a level with our own. But there is
no "I" in WUTHERING HEIGHTS. There are no governesses. There are no
employers. There is love, but it is not the love of men and women. Emily
was inspired by some more general conception. The impulse which urged her
to create was not her own suffering or her own injuries. She looked out
upon a world cleft into gigantic disorder and felt within her the power
to unite it in a book. That gigantic ambition is to be felt throughout
the novel--a struggle, half thwarted but of superb conviction, to say
something through the mouths of her characters which is not merely "I
love" or "I hate", but "we, the whole human race " and "you, the
eternal powers . . ." the sentence remains unfinished. It is not strange
that it should be so; rather it is astonishing that she can make us feel
what she had it in her to say at all. It surges up in the half-articulate
words of Catherine Earnshaw, "If all else perished and HE remained, I
should still continue to be; and if all else remained and he were
annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger; I should not
seem part of it". It breaks out again in the presence of the dead. I see a
repose that neither earth nor hell can break, and I feel an assurance of
the endless and shadowless hereafter--the eternity they have entered--where
life is boundless in its duration, and love in its sympathy and joy in
its fulness." It is this suggestion of power underlying the apparitions
of human nature and lifting them up into the presence of greatness that
gives the book its huge stature among other novels. But it was not enough
for Emily Brontë to write a few lyrics, to utter a cry, to express a
creed. In her poems she did this once and for all, and her poems will
perhaps outlast her novel. But she was novelist as well as poet. She must
take upon herself a more laborious and a more ungrateful task. She must
face the fact of other existences, grapple with the mechanism of external
things, build up, in recognisable shape, farms and houses and report the
speeches of men and women who existed independently of herself. And so we
reach these summits of emotion not by rant or rhapsody but by hearing a
girl sing old songs to herself as she rocks in the branches of a tree; by
watching the moor sheep crop the turf; by listening to the soft wind
breathing through the grass. The life at the farm with all its
absurdities and its improbability is laid open to us. We are given every
opportunity of comparing WUTHERING HEIGHTS with a real farm and
Heathcliff with a real man. How, we are allowed to ask, can there be
truth or insight or the finer shades of emotion in men and women who so
little resemble what we have seen ourselves? But even as we ask it we see
in Heathcliff the brother that a sister of genius might have seen; he is
impossible we say, but nevertheless no boy in literature has a more vivid
existence than his. So it is with the two Catherines; never could women
feel as they do or act in their manner, we say. All the same, they are
the most lovable women in English fiction. It is as if she could tear up
all that we know human beings by, and fill these unrecognisable
transparences with such a gust of life that they transcend reality. Hers,
then, is the rarest of all powers. She could free life from its
dependence on facts; with a few touches indicate the spirit of a face so
that it needs no body; by speaking of the moor make the wind blow and the
thunder roar


Young men and women beginning to write are generally given the plausible
but utterly impracticable advice to write what they have to write as
shortly as possible, as clearly as possible, and without other thought in
their minds except to say exactly what is in them. Nobody ever adds on
these occasions the one thing needful: "And be sure you choose your
patron wisely", though that is the gist of the whole matter. For a book
is always written for somebody to read, and, since the patron is not
merely the paymaster, but also in a very subtle and insidious way the
instigator and inspirer of what is written, it is of the utmost
importance that he should be a desirable man.

But who, then, is the desirable man--the patron who will cajole the best
out of the writer's brain and bring to birth the most varied and vigorous
progeny of which he is capable? Different ages have answered the question
differently. The Elizabethans, to speak roughly, chose the aristocracy to
write for and the playhouse public. The eighteenth-century patron was a
combination of coffee-house wit and Grub Street bookseller. In the
nineteenth century the great writers wrote for the half-crown magazines
and the leisured classes. And looking back and applauding the splendid
results of these different alliances, it all seems enviably simple, and
plain as a pikestaff compared with our own predicament--for whom should we
write? For the present supply of patrons is of unexampled and bewildering
variety. There is the daily Press, the weekly Press, the monthly Press;
the English public and the American public; the best-seller public and the
worst-seller public; the highbrow public and the red-blood public; all
now organised self-conscious entities capable through their various
mouthpieces of making their needs known and their approval or displeasure
felt. Thus the writer who has been moved by the sight of the first crocus
in Kensington Gardens has, before he sets pen to paper, to choose from a
crowd of competitors the particular patron who suits him best. It is
futile to say, "Dismiss them all; think only of your crocus", because
writing is a method of communication; and the crocus is an imperfect
crocus until it has been shared. The first man or the last may write for
himself alone, but he is an exception and an unenviable one at that, and
the gulls are welcome to his works if the gulls can read them.

Granted, then, that every writer has some public or other at the end of
his pen, the high-minded will say that it should be a submissive public,
accepting obediently whatever he likes to give it. Plausible as the
theory sounds, great risks are attached to it. For in that case the
writer remains conscious of his public, yet is superior to it--an
uncomfortable and unfortunate combination, as the works of Samuel Butler,
George Meredith, and Henry James may be taken to prove. Each despised the
public; each desired a public; each failed to attain a public; and each
wreaked his failure upon the public by a succession, gradually increasing
in intensity, of angularities, obscurities, and affectations which no
writer whose patron was his equal and friend would have thought it
necessary to inflict. Their crocuses, in consequence, are tortured
plants, beautiful and bright, but with something wry-necked about them,
malformed, shrivelled on the one side, overblown on the other. A touch of
the sun would have done them a world of good. Shall we then rush to the
opposite extreme and accept (if in fancy alone) the flattering proposals
which the editors of the Times and the Daily News may be supposed to make
us--"Twenty pounds down for your crocus in precisely fifteen hundred
words, which shall blossom upon every breakfast table from John o' Groats
to the Land's End before nine o'clock to-morrow morning with the writer's
name attached"?

But will one crocus be enough, and must it not be a very brilliant yellow
to shine so far, to cost so much, and to have one's name attached to it?
The Press is undoubtedly a great multiplier of crocuses. But if we look
at some of these plants, we shall find that they are only very distantly
related to the original little yellow or purple flower which pokes up
through the grass in Kensington Gardens early in March every year. The
newspaper crocus is an amazing but still a very different plant. It fills
precisely the space allotted to it. It radiates a golden glow. It is
genial, affable, warm-hearted. It is beautifully finished, too, for let
nobody think that the art of "our dramatic critic" of the Times or of
Mr. Lynd of the Daily News is an easy one. It is no despicable feat to
start a million brains running at nine o'clock in the morning, to give
two million eyes something bright and brisk and amusing to look at. But
the night comes and these flowers fade. So little bits of glass lose
their lustre if you take them out of the sea; great prima donnas howl
like hyenas if you shut them up in telephone boxes; and the most
brilliant of articles when removed from its element is dust and sand and
the husks of straw. Journalism embalmed in a book is unreadable.

The patron we want, then, is one who will help us to preserve our flowers
from decay. But as his qualities change from age to age, and it needs
considerable integrity and conviction not to be dazzled by the
pretensions or bamboozled by the persuasions of the competing crowd, this
business of patron-finding is one of the tests and trials of authorship.
To know whom to write for is to know how to write. Some of the modern
patron's qualities are, however, fairly plain. The writer will require at
this moment, it is obvious, a patron with the book-reading habit rather
than the play-going habit. Nowadays, too, he must be instructed in the
literature of other times and races. But there are other qualities which
our special weaknesses and tendencies demand in him. There is the
question of indecency, for instance, which plagues us and puzzles us much
more than it did the Elizabethans. The twentieth-century patron must be
immune from shock. He must distinguish infallibly between the little clod
of manure which sticks to the crocus of necessity, and that which is
plastered to it out of bravado. He must be a judge, too, of those social
influences which inevitably play so large a part in modern literature,
and able to say which matures and fortifies, which inhibits and makes
sterile. Further, there is emotion for him to pronounce on, and in no
department can he do more useful work than in bracing a writer against
sentimentality on the one hand and a craven fear of expressing his
feeling on the other. It is worse, he will say, and perhaps more common,
to be afraid of feeling than to feel too much. He will add, perhaps,
something about language, and point out how many words Shakespeare used
and how much grammar Shakespeare violated, while we, though we keep our
fingers so demurely to the black notes on the piano, have not appreciably
improved upon ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. And if you can forget your sex
altogether, he will say, so much the better; a writer has none. But all
this is by the way--elementary and disputable. The patron's prime quality
is something different, only to be expressed perhaps by the use of that
convenient word which cloaks so much--atmosphere. It is necessary that
the patron should shed and envelop the crocus in an atmosphere which
makes it appear a plant of the very highest importance, so that to
misrepresent it is the one outrage not to be forgiven this side of the
grave. He must make us feel that a single crocus, if it be a real crocus,
is enough for him; that he does not want to be lectured, elevated,
instructed, or improved; that he is sorry that he bullied Carlyle into
vociferation, Tennyson into idyllics, and Ruskin into insanity; that he
is now ready to efface himself or assert himself as his writers require;
that he is bound to them by a more than maternal tie; that they are twins
indeed, one dying if the other dies, one flourishing if the other
flourishes; that the fate of literature depends upon their happy
alliance--all of which proves, as we began by saying, that the choice of a
patron is of the highest importance. But how to choose rightly? How to
write well? Those are the questions.


As Mr. Rhys truly says, it is unnecessary to go profoundly into the
history and origin of the essay--whether it derives from Socrates or
Siranney the Persian--since, like all living things, its present is more
important than its past. Moreover, the family is widely spread; and while
some of its representatives have risen in the world and wear their
coronets with the best, others pick up a precarious living in the gutter
near Fleet Street. The form, too, admits variety. The essay can be short
or long, serious or trifling, about God and Spinoza, or about turtles and
Cheapside. But as we turn over the pages of these five little volumes,
[MODEM ENGLISH ESSAYS, edited by Ernest Rhys, 5 vols. (Dent).] containing
essays written between 1870 and 1920, certain principles appear to
control the chaos, and we detect in the short period under review
something like the progress of history.

Of all forms of literature, however, the essay is the one which least
calls for the use of long words. The principle which controls it is
simply that it should give pleasure; the desire which impels us when we
take it from the shelf is simply to receive pleasure. Everything in an
essay must be subdued to that end. It should lay us under a spell with
its first word, and we should only wake, refreshed, with its last. In the
interval we may pass through the most various experiences of amusement,
surprise, interest, indignation; we may soar to the heights of fantasy
with Lamb or plunge to the depths of wisdom with Bacon, but we must never
be roused. The essay must lap us about and draw its curtain across the

So great a feat is seldom accomplished, though the fault may well be as
much on the reader's side as on the writer's. Habit and lethargy have
dulled his palate. A novel has a story, a poem rhyme; but what art can
the essayist use in these short lengths of prose to sting us wide awake
and fix us in a trance which is not sleep but rather an intensification
of life--a basking, with every faculty alert, in the sun of pleasure? He
must know--that is the first essential--how to write. His learning may be
as profound as Mark Pattison's, but in an essay it must be so fused by the
magic of writing that not a fact juts out, not a dogma tears the surface
of the texture. Macaulay in one way, Froude in another, did this superbly
over and over again. They have blown more knowledge into us in the course
of one essay than the innumerable chapters of a hundred text-books. But
when Mark Pattison has to tell us, in the space of thirty-five little
pages, about Montaigne, we feel that he had not previously assimilated M.
Grün. M. Grün was a gentleman who once wrote a bad book. M. Grün and his
book should have been embalmed for our perpetual delight in amber. But
the process is fatiguing; it requires more time and perhaps more temper
than Pattison had at his command. He served M. Grün up raw, and he
remains a crude berry among the cooked meats, upon which our teeth must
grate for ever. Something of the sort applies to Matthew Arnold and a
certain translator of Spinoza. Literal truth-telling and finding fault
with a culprit for his good are out of place in an essay, where
everything should be for our good and rather for eternity than for the
March number of the FORTNIGHTLY REVIEW. But if the voice of the scold
should never be heard in this narrow plot, there is another voice which
is as a plague of locusts--the voice of a man stumbling drowsily among
loose words, clutching aimlessly at vague ideas, the voice, for example,
of Mr. Hutton in the following passage:

Add to this that his married life was very brief, only seven years and a
half, being unexpectedly cut short, and that his passionate reverence for
his wife's memory and genius--in his own words, "a religion"--was one
which, as he must have been perfectly sensible, he could not make to
appear otherwise than extravagant, not to say an hallucination, in the
eyes of the rest of mankind, and yet that he was possessed by an
irresistible yearning to attempt to embody it in all the tender and
enthusiastic hyperbole of which it is so pathetic to find a man who
gained his fame by his "dry-light" a master, and it is impossible not
to feel that the human incidents in Mr. Mill's career are very sad.

A book could take that blow, but it sinks an essay. A biography in two
volumes is indeed the proper depository; for there, where the licence is
so much wider, and hints and glimpses of outside things make part of the
feast (we refer to the old type of Victorian volume), these yawns and
stretches hardly matter, and have indeed some positive value of their
own. But that value, which is contributed by the reader, perhaps
illicitly, in his desire to get as much into the book from all possible
sources as he can, must be ruled out here.

There is no room for the impurities of literature in an essay. Somehow or
other, by dint of labour or bounty of nature, or both combined, the essay
must be pure--pure like water or pure like wine, but pure from dullness,
deadness, and deposits of extraneous matter. Of all writers in the first
volume, Walter Pater best achieves this arduous task, because before
setting out to write his essay ("Notes on Leonardo da Vinci") he has
somehow contrived to get his material fused. He is a learned man, but it
is not knowledge of Leonardo that remains with us, but a vision, such as
we get in a good novel where everything contributes to bring the writer's
conception as a whole before us. Only here, in the essay, where the
bounds are so strict and facts have to be used in their nakedness, the
true writer like Walter Pater makes these limitations yield their own
quality. Truth will give it authority; from its narrow limits he will get
shape and intensity; and then there is no more fitting place for some of
those ornaments which the old writers loved and we, by calling them
ornaments, presumably despise. Nowadays nobody would have the courage to
embark on the once famous description of Leonardo's lady who has

learned the secrets of the grave; and has been a diver in deep seas and
keeps their fallen day about her; and trafficked for strange webs with
Eastern merchants; and, as Leda, was the mother of Helen of Troy, and, as
Saint Anne, the mother of Mary. . . .

The passage is too thumb-marked to slip naturally into the context. But
when we come unexpectedly upon "the smiling of women and the motion of
great waters", or upon "full of the refinement of the dead, in sad,
earth-coloured raiment, set with pale stones", we suddenly remember that
we have ears and we have eyes, and that the English language fills a long
array of stout volumes with innumerable words, many of which are of more
than one syllable. The only living Englishman who ever looks into these
volumes is, of course, a gentleman of Polish extraction. But doubtless
our abstention saves us much gush, much rhetoric, much high-stepping and
cloud-prancing, and for the sake of the prevailing sobriety and
hard-headedness we should be willing to barter the splendour of Sir
Thomas Browne and the vigour of Swift.

Yet, if the essay admits more properly than biography or fiction of
sudden boldness and metaphor, and can be polished till every atom of its
surface shines, there are dangers in that too. We are soon in sight of
ornament. Soon the current, which is the life-blood of literature, runs
slow; and instead of sparkling and flashing or moving with a quieter
impulse which has a deeper excitement, words coagulate together in frozen
sprays which, like the grapes on a Christmas-tree, glitter for a single
night, but are dusty and garish the day after. The temptation to decorate
is great where the theme may be of the slightest. What is there to
interest another in the fact that one has enjoyed a walking tour, or has
amused oneself by rambling down Cheapside and looking at the turtles in
Mr. Sweeting's shop window? Stevenson and Samuel Butler chose very
different methods of exciting our interest in these domestic themes.
Stevenson, of course, trimmed and polished and set out his matter in the
traditional eighteenth-century form. It is admirably done, but we cannot
help feeling anxious, as the essay proceeds, lest the material may give
out under the craftsman's fingers. The ingot is so small, the
manipulation so incessant. And perhaps that is why the peroration

To sit still and contemplate--to remember the faces of women without
desire, to be pleased by the great deeds of men without envy, to be
everything and everywhere in sympathy and yet content to remain where and
what you are

has the sort of insubstantiality which suggests that by the time he got
to the end he had left himself nothing solid to work with. Butler adopted
the very opposite method. Think your own thoughts, he seems to say, and
speak them as plainly as you can. These turtles in the shop window which
appear to leak out of their shells through heads and feet suggest a fatal
faithfulness to a fixed idea. And so, striding unconcernedly from one
idea to the next, we traverse a large stretch of ground; observe that a
wound in the solicitor is a very serious thing; that Mary Queen of Scots
wears surgical boots and is subject to fits near the Horse Shoe in
Tottenham Court Road; take it for granted that no one really cares about
Aeschylus; and so, with many amusing anecdotes and some profound
reflections, reach the peroration, which is that, as he had been told not
to see more in Cheapside than he could get into twelve pages of the
Universal Review, he had better stop. And yet obviously Butler is at
least as careful of our pleasure as Stevenson; and to write like oneself
and call it not writing is a much harder exercise in style than to write
like Addison and call it writing well.

But, however much they differ individually, the Victorian essayists yet
had something in common. They wrote at greater length than is now usual,
and they wrote for a public which had not only time to sit down to its
magazine seriously, but a high, if peculiarly Victorian, standard of
culture by which to judge it. It was worth while to speak out upon
serious matters in an essay; and there was nothing absurd in writing as
well as one possibly could when, in a month or two, the same public which
had welcomed the essay in a magazine would carefully read it once more in
a book. But a change came from a small audience of cultivated people to a
larger audience of people who were not quite so cultivated. The change
was not altogether for the worse. In volume iii. we find Mr. Birrell and
Mr. Beerbohm. It might even be said that there was a reversion to the
classic type, and that the essay by losing its size and something of its
sonority was approaching more nearly the essay of Addison and Lamb. At
any rate, there is a great gulf between Mr. Birrell on Carlyle and the
essay which one may suppose that Carlyle would have written upon Mr.
Birrell. There is little similarity between A CLOUD OF PINAFORES, by Max
Beerbohm, and A CYNIC'S APOLOGY, by Leslie Stephen. But the essay is
alive; there is no reason to despair. As the conditions change so the
essayist, most sensitive of all plants to public opinion, adapts himself,
and if he is good makes the best of the change, and if he is bad the
worst. Mr. Birrell is certainly good; and so we find that, though he has
dropped a considerable amount of weight, his attack is much more direct
and his movement more supple. But what did Mr. Beerbohm give to the essay
and what did he take from it? That is a much more complicated question,
for here we have an essayist who has concentrated on the work and is
without doubt the prince of his profession.

What Mr. Beerbohm gave was, of course, himself. This presence, which has
haunted the essay fitfully from the time of Montaigne, had been in exile
since the death of Charles Lamb. Matthew Arnold was never to his readers
Matt, nor Walter Pater affectionately abbreviated in a thousand homes to
Wat. They gave us much, but that they did not give. Thus, some time in
the nineties, it must have surprised readers accustomed to exhortation,
information, and denunciation to find themselves familiarly addressed by
a voice which seemed to belong to a man no larger than themselves. He was
affected by private joys and sorrows, and had no gospel to preach and no
learning to impart. He was himself, simply and directly, and himself he
has remained. Once again we have an essayist capable of using the
essayist's most proper but most dangerous and delicate tool. He has
brought personality into literature, not unconsciously and impurely, but
so consciously and purely that we do not know whether there is any
relation between Max the essayist and Mr. Beerbohm the man. We only know
that the spirit of personality permeates every word that he writes. The
triumph is the triumph of style. For it is only by knowing how to write
that you can make use in literature of your self; that self which, while
it is essential to literature, is also its most dangerous  antagonist.
Never to be yourself and yet always--that is the problem. Some of the
essayists in Mr. Rhys' collection, to be frank, have not altogether
succeeded in solving it. We are nauseated by the sight of trivial
personalities decomposing in the eternity of print.  As talk, no doubt,
it was charming, and certainly the writer is a good fellow to meet over a
bottle of beer. But literature is stern; it is no use being charming,
virtuous, or even learned and brilliant into the bargain, unless, she
seems to reiterate, you fulfil her first condition--to know how to write.

This art is possessed to perfection by Mr. Beerbohm. But he has not
searched the dictionary for polysyllables. He has not moulded firm
periods or seduced our ears with intricate cadences and strange melodies.
Some of his companions--Henley and Stevenson, for example--are momentarily
more impressive. But A CLOUD OF PINAFORES has in it that indescribable
inequality, stir, and final expressiveness which belong to life and to
life alone. You have not finished with it because you have read it, any
more than friendship is ended because it is time to part. Life wells up
and alters and adds. Even things in a book-case change if they are alive;
we find ourselves wanting to meet them again; we find them altered. So we
look back upon essay after essay by Mr. Beerbohm, knowing that, come
September or May, we shall sit down with them and talk. Yet it is true
that the essayist is the most sensitive of all writers to public opinion.
The drawing-room is the place where a great deal of reading is done
nowadays, and the essays of Mr. Beerbohm lie, with an exquisite
appreciation of all that the position exacts, upon the drawing-room
table. There is no gin about; no strong tobacco; no puns, drunkenness, or
insanity. Ladies and gentlemen talk together, and some things, of course,
are not said.

But if it would be foolish to attempt to confine Mr. Beerbohm to one
room, it would be still more foolish, unhappily, to make him, the artist,
the man who gives us only his best, the representative of our age. There
are no essays by Mr. Beerbohm in the fourth or fifth volumes of the
present collection. His age seems already a little distant, and the
drawing-room table, as it recedes, begins to look rather like an altar
where, once upon a time, people deposited offerings--fruit from their own
orchards, gifts carved with their own hands. Now once more the conditions
have changed. The public needs essays as much as ever, and perhaps even
more. The demand for the light middle not exceeding fifteen hundred
words, or in special cases seventeen hundred and fifty, much exceeds the
supply. Where Lamb wrote one essay and Max perhaps writes two, Mr. Belloc
at a rough computation produces three hundred and sixty-five. They are
very short, it is true. Yet with what dexterity the practised essayist
will utilise his space--beginning as close to the top of the sheet as
possible, judging precisely how far to go, when to turn, and how, without
sacrificing a hair's-breadth of paper, to wheel about and alight
accurately upon the last word his editor allows! As a feat of skill it is
well worth watching. But the personality upon which Mr. Belloc, like Mr.
Beerbohm, depends suffers in the process. It comes to us not with the
natural richness of the speaking voice, but strained and thin and full of
mannerisms and affectations, like the voice of a man shouting through a
megaphone to a crowd on a windy day. "Little friends, my readers", he
says in the essay called "An Unknown Country", and he goes on to tell
us how

There was a shepherd the other day at Findon Fair who had come from the
east by Lewes with sheep, and who had in his eyes that reminiscence of
horizons which makes the eyes of shepherds and of mountaineers different
from the eyes of other men. . . . I went with him to hear what he had to
say, for shepherds talk quite differently from other men.

Happily this shepherd had little to say, even under the stimulus of the
inevitable mug of beer, about the Unknown Country, for the only remark
that he did make proves him either a minor poet, unfit for the care of
sheep, or Mr. Belloc himself masquerading with a fountain pen. That is
the penalty which the habitual essayist must now be prepared to face. He
must masquerade. He cannot afford the time either to be himself or to be
other people. He must skim the surface of thought and dilute the strength
of personality. He must give us a worn weekly halfpenny instead of a
solid sovereign once a year.

But it is not Mr. Belloc only who has suffered from the prevailing
conditions. The essays which bring the collection to the year 1920 may
not be the best of their authors' work, but, if we except writers like
Mr. Conrad and Mr. Hudson, who have strayed into essay writing
accidentally, and concentrate upon those who write essays habitually, we
shall find them a good deal affected by the change in their
circumstances. To write weekly, to write daily, to write shortly, to
write for busy people catching trains in the morning or for tired people
coming home in the evening, is a heart-breaking task for men who know
good writing from bad. They do it, but instinctively draw out of harm's
way anything precious that might be damaged by contact with the public,
or anything sharp that might irritate its skin. And so, if one reads Mr.
Lucas, Mr. Lynd, or Mr. Squire in the bulk, one feels that a common
greyness silvers everything. They are as far removed from the extravagant
beauty of Walter Pater as they are from the intemperate candour of Leslie
Stephen. Beauty and courage are dangerous spirits to bottle in a column
and a half; and thought, like a brown paper parcel in a waistcoat pocket,
has a way of spoiling the symmetry of an article. It is a kind, tired,
apathetic world for which they write, and the marvel is that they never
cease to attempt, at least, to write well.

But there is no need to pity Mr. Clutton Brock for this change in the
essayist's conditions. He has clearly made the best of his circumstances
and not the worst. One hesitates even to say that he has had to make any
conscious effort in the matter, so naturally has he effected the
transition from the private essayist to the public, from the drawing-room
to the Albert Hall. Paradoxically enough, the shrinkage in size has
brought about a corresponding expansion of individuality. We have no
longer the "I" of Max and of Lamb, but the "we" of public bodies and
other sublime personages. It is "we" who go to hear the MAGIC FLUTE; "we"
who ought to profit by it; "we", in some mysterious way, who, in our
corporate capacity, once upon a time actually wrote it. For music and
literature and art must submit to the same generalisation or they will
not carry to the farthest recesses of the Albert Hall. That the voice of
Mr. Clutton Brock, so sincere and so disinterested, carries such a
distance and reaches so many without pandering to the weakness of the
mass or its passions must be a matter of legitimate satisfaction to us
all. But while "we" are gratified, "I", that unruly partner in the
human fellowship, is reduced to despair. "I" must always think things
for himself, and feel things for himself. To share them in a diluted form
with the majority of well-educated and well-intentioned men and women is
for him sheer agony; and while the rest of us listen intently and profit
profoundly, "I" slips off to the woods and the fields and rejoices in a
single blade of grass or a solitary potato.

In the fifth volume of modern essays, it seems, we have got some way from
pleasure and the art of writing. But in justice to the essayists of 1920
we must be sure that we are not praising the famous because they have
been praised already and the dead because we shall never meet them
wearing spats in Piccadilly. We must know what we mean when we say that
they can write and give us pleasure. We must compare them; we must bring
out the quality. We must point to this and say it is good because it is
exact, truthful, and imaginative:

Nay, retire men cannot when they would; neither will they, when it were
Reason; but are impatient of Privateness, even in age and sickness, which
require the shadow: like old Townsmen: that will still he sitting at
their street door, though therby they offer Age to Scorn . . .

and to this, and say it is bad because it is loose, plausible, and

With courteous and precise cynicism on his lips, he thought of quiet
virginal chambers, of waters singing under the moon, of terraces where
taintless music sobbed into the open night, of pure maternal mistresses
with protecting arms and vigilant eyes, of fields slumbering in the
sunlight, of leagues of ocean heaving under warm tremulous heavens, of
hot ports, gorgeous and perfumed. . .

It goes on, but already we are bemused with sound and neither feel nor
hear. The comparison makes us suspect that the art of writing has for
backbone some fierce attachment to an idea. It is on the back of an idea,
something believed in with conviction or seen with precision and thus
compelling words to its shape, that the diverse company which includes
Lamb and Bacon, and Mr. Beerbohm and Hudson, and Vernon Lee and Mr.
Conrad, and Leslie Stephen and Butler and Walter Pater reaches the
farther shore. Very various talents have helped or hindered the passage
of the idea into words. Some scrape through painfully; others fly with
every wind favouring. But Mr. Belloc and Mr. Lucas and Mr. Squire are not
fiercely attached to anything in itself. They share the contemporary
dilemma--that lack of an obstinate conviction which lifts ephemeral sounds
through the misty sphere of anybody's language to the land where there is
a perpetual marriage, a perpetual union. Vague as all definitions are, a
good essay must have this permanent quality about it; it must draw its
curtain round us but it must be a curtain that shuts us in, not out.


Moths that fly by day are not properly to be called moths; they do not
excite that pleasant sense of dark autumn nights and ivy-blossom which
the commonest yellow-underwing asleep in the shadow of the curtain never
fails to rouse in us. They are hybrid creatures, neither gay like
butterflies nor sombre like their own species. Nevertheless the present
specimen, with his narrow hay-coloured wings, fringed with a tassel of
the same colour, seemed to be content with life. It was a pleasant
morning, mid-September, mild, benignant, yet with a keener breath than
that of the summer months. The plough was already scoring the field
opposite the window, and where the share had been, the earth was pressed
flat and gleamed with moisture. Such vigour came rolling in from the
fields and the down beyond that it was difficult to keep the eyes
strictly turned upon the book. The rooks too were keeping one of their
annual festivities; soaring round the tree tops until it looked as if a
vast net with thousands of black knots in it had been cast up into the
air; which, after a few moments sank slowly down upon the trees until
every twig seemed to have a knot at the end of it. Then, suddenly, the
net would be thrown into the air again in a wider circle this time, with
the utmost clamour and vociferation, as though to be thrown into the air
and settle slowly down upon the tree tops were a tremendously exciting

The same energy which inspired the rooks, the ploughmen, the horses, and
even, it seemed, the lean bare-backed downs, sent the moth fluttering
from side to side of his square of the window-pane. One could not help
watching him. One was, indeed, conscious of a queer feeling of pity for
him. The possibilities of pleasure seemed that morning so enormous and
so various that to have only a moth's part in life, and a day moth's at
that, appeared a hard fate, and his zest in enjoying his meagre
opportunities to the full, pathetic. He flew vigorously to one corner of
his compartment, and, after waiting there a second, flew across to the
other. What remained for him but to fly to a third corner and then to a
fourth? That was all he could do, in spite of the size of the downs, the
width of the sky, the far-off smoke of houses, and the romantic voice,
now and then, of a steamer out at sea. What he could do he did. Watching
him, it seemed as if a fibre, very thin but pure, of the enormous energy
of the world had been thrust into his frail and diminutive body. As
often as he crossed the pane, I could fancy that a thread of vital light
became visible. He was little or nothing but life.

Yet, because he was so small, and so simple a form of the energy that
was rolling in at the open window and driving its way through so many
narrow and intricate corridors in my own brain and in those of other
human beings, there was something marvellous as well as pathetic about
him. It was as if someone had taken a tiny bead of pure life and decking
it as lightly as possible with down and feathers, had set it dancing and
zig-zagging to show us the true nature of life. Thus displayed one could
not get over the strangeness of it. One is apt to forget all about life,
seeing it humped and bossed and garnished and cumbered so that it has to
move with the greatest circumspection and dignity. Again, the thought of
all that life might have been had he been born in any other shape caused
one to view his simple activities with a kind of pity.

After a time, tired by his dancing apparently, he settled on the window
ledge in the sun, and, the queer spectacle being at an end, I forgot
about him. Then, looking up, my eye was caught by him. He was trying to
resume his dancing, but seemed either so stiff or so awkward that he
could only flutter to the bottom of the window-pane; and when he tried
to fly across it he failed. Being intent on other matters I watched
these futile attempts for a time without thinking, unconsciously waiting
for him to resume his flight, as one waits for a machine, that has
stopped momentarily, to start again without considering the reason of
its failure. After perhaps a seventh attempt he slipped from the wooden
ledge and fell, fluttering his wings, on to his back on the window sill.
The helplessness of his attitude roused me. It flashed upon me that he
was in difficulties; he could no longer raise himself; his legs
struggled vainly. But, as I stretched out a pencil, meaning to help him
to right himself, it came over me that the failure and awkwardness were
the approach of death. I laid the pencil down again.

The legs agitated themselves once more. I looked as if for the enemy
against which he struggled. I looked out of doors. What had happened
there? Presumably it was midday, and work in the fields had stopped.
Stillness and quiet had replaced the previous animation. The birds had
taken themselves off to feed in the brooks. The horses stood still. Yet
the power was there all the same, massed outside indifferent,
impersonal, not attending to anything in particular. Somehow it was
opposed to the little hay-coloured moth. It was useless to try to do
anything. One could only watch the extraordinary efforts made by those
tiny legs against an oncoming doom which could, had it chosen, have
submerged an entire city, not merely a city, but masses of human beings;
nothing, I knew, had any chance against death. Nevertheless after a
pause of exhaustion the legs fluttered again. It was superb this last
protest, and so frantic that he succeeded at last in righting himself.
One's sympathies, of course, were all on the side of life. Also, when
there was nobody to care or to know, this gigantic effort on the part of
an insignificant little moth, against a power of such magnitude, to
retain what no one else valued or desired to keep, moved one strangely.
Again, somehow, one saw life, a pure bead. I lifted the pencil again,
useless though I knew it to be. But even as I did so, the unmistakable
tokens of death showed themselves. The body relaxed, and instantly grew
stiff. The struggle was over. The insignificant little creature now knew
death. As I looked at the dead moth, this minute wayside triumph of so
great a force over so mean an antagonist filled me with wonder. Just as
life had been strange a few minutes before, so death was now as strange.
The moth having righted himself now lay most decently and uncomplainingly
composed. O yes, he seemed to say, death is stronger than I am.


Evening is kind to Sussex, for Sussex is no longer young, and she is
grateful for the veil of evening as an elderly woman is glad when a
shade is drawn over a lamp, and only the outline of her face remains.
The outline of Sussex is still very fine. The cliffs stand out to sea,
one behind another. All Eastbourne, all Bexhill, all St. Leonards, their
parades and their lodging houses, their bead shops and their sweet shops
and their placards and their invalids and chars-á-bancs, are all
obliterated. What remains is what there was when William came over from
France ten centuries ago: a line of cliffs running out to sea. Also the
fields are redeemed. The freckle of red villas on the coast is washed
over by a thin lucid lake of brown air, in which they and their redness
are drowned. It was still too early for lamps; and too early for stars.

But, I thought, there is always some sediment of irritation when the
moment is as beautiful as it is now. The psychologists must explain; one
looks up, one is overcome by beauty extravagantly greater than one could
expect--there are now pink clouds over Battle; the fields are mottled,
marbled--one's perceptions blow out rapidly like air balls expanded by
some rush of air, and then, when all seems blown to its fullest and
tautest, with beauty and beauty and beauty, a pin pricks; it collapses.
But what is the pin? So far as I could tell, the pin had something to do
with one's own impotency. I cannot hold this--I cannot express this--I
am overcome by it--I am mastered. Somewhere in that region one's
discontent lay; and it was allied with the idea that one's nature
demands mastery over all that it receives; and mastery here meant the
power to convey what one saw now over Sussex so that another person
could share it. And further, there was another prick of the pin: one was
wasting one's chance; for beauty spread at one's right hand, at one's
left; at one's back too; it was escaping all the time; one could only
offer a thimble to a torrent that could fill baths, lakes.

But relinquish, I said (it is well known how in circumstances like these
the self splits up and one self is eager and dissatisfied and the other
stern and philosophical), relinquish these impossible aspirations; be
content with the view in front of us, and believe me when I tell you
that it is best to sit and soak; to be passive; to accept; and do not
bother because nature has given you six little pocket knives with which
to cut up the body of a whale.

While these two selves then held a colloquy about the wise course to
adopt in the presence of beauty, I (a third party now declared itself)
said to myself, how happy they were to enjoy so simple an occupation.
There they sat as the car sped along, noticing everything: a hay stack;
a rust red roof; a pond; an old man coming home with his sack on his
back; there they sat, matching every colour in the sky and earth from
their colour box, rigging up little models of Sussex barns and
farmhouses in the red light that would serve in the January gloom. But
I, being somewhat different, sat aloof and melancholy. While they are
thus busied, I said to myself: Gone, gone; over, over; past and done
with, past and done with. I feel life left behind even as the road is
left behind. We have been over that stretch, and are already forgotten.
There, windows were lit by our lamps for a second; the light is out now.
Others come behind us.

Then suddenly a fourth self (a self which lies in ambush, apparently
dormant, and jumps upon one unawares. Its remarks are often entirely
disconnected with what has been happening, but must be attended to
because of their very abruptness) said: "Look at that." It was a light;
brilliant, freakish; inexplicable. For a second I was unable to name it.
"A star"; and for that second it held its odd flicker of
unexpectedness and danced and beamed. "I take your meaning," I said.
"You, erratic and impulsive self that you are, feel that the light over
the downs there emerging, dangles from the future. Let us try to
understand this. Let us reason it out. I feel suddenly attached not to
the past but to the future. I think of Sussex in five hundred years to
come. I think much grossness will have evaporated. Things will have been
scorched up, eliminated. There will be magic gates. Draughts fan-blown
by electric power will cleanse houses. Lights intense and firmly
directed will go over the earth, doing the work. Look at the moving
light in that hill; it is the headlight of a car. By day and by night
Sussex in five centuries will be full of charming thoughts, quick,
effective beams."

The sun was now low beneath the horizon. Darkness spread rapidly. None
of my selves could see anything beyond the tapering light of our
headlamps on the hedge. I summoned them together. "Now," I said,
"comes the season of making up our accounts. Now we have got to collect
ourselves; we have got to be one self. Nothing is to be seen any more,
except one wedge of road and bank which our lights repeat incessantly.
We are perfectly provided for. We are warmly wrapped in a rug; we are
protected from wind and rain. We are alone. Now is the time of
reckoning. Now I, who preside over the company, am going to arrange in
order the trophies which we have all brought in. Let me see; there was a
great deal of beauty brought in to-day: farmhouses; cliffs standing out
to sea; marbled fields; mottled fields; red feathered skies; all that.
Also there was disappearance and the death of the individual. The
vanishing road and the window lit for a second and then dark. And then
there was the sudden dancing light, that was hung in the future. What we
have made then to-day," I said, "is this: that beauty; death of the
individual; and the future. Look, I will make a little figure for your
satisfaction; here he comes. Does this little figure advancing through
beauty, through death, to the economical, powerful and efficient future
when houses will be cleansed by a puff of hot wind satisfy you? Look at
him; there on my knee." We sat and looked at the figure we had made that
day. Great sheer slabs of rock, tree tufted, surrounded him. He was for
a second very, very solemn. Indeed it seemed as if the reality of things
were displayed there on the rug. A violent thrill ran through us; as if
a charge of electricity had entered in to us. We cried out together:
"Yes, yes," as if affirming something, in a moment of recognition.

And then the body who had been silent up to now began its song, almost
at first as low as the rush of the wheels: "Eggs and bacon; toast and
tea; fire and a bath; fire and a bath; jugged hare," it went on, "and
red currant jelly; a glass of wine with coffee to follow, with coffee to
follow--and then to bed and then to bed."

"Off with you," I said to my assembled selves. "Your work is done. I
dismiss you. Good-night."

And the rest of the journey was performed in the delicious society of my
own body.

THREE PICTURES (Written in June 1929.)


It is impossible that one should not see pictures; because if my father
was a blacksmith and yours was a peer of the realm, we must needs be
pictures to each other. We cannot possibly break out of the frame of the
picture by speaking natural words. You see me leaning against the door
of the smithy with a horseshoe in my hand and you think as you go by:
"How picturesque!" I, seeing you sitting so much at your ease in the
car, almost as if you were going to bow to the populace, think what a
picture of old luxurious aristocratical England! We are both quite
wrong in our judgments no doubt, but that is inevitable.

So now at the turn of the road I saw one of these pictures. It might
have been called "The Sailor's Homecoming" or some such title. A fine
young sailor carrying a bundle; a girl with her hand on his arm;
neighbours gathering round; a cottage garden ablaze with flowers; as one
passed one read at the bottom of that picture that the sailor was back
from China, and there was a fine spread waiting for him in the parlour;
and he had a present for his young wife in his bundle; and she was soon
going to bear him their first child. Everything was right and good and
as it should be, one felt about that picture.

There was something wholesome and satisfactory in the sight of such
happiness; life seemed sweeter and more enviable than before.

So thinking I passed them, filling in the picture as fully, as
completely as I could, noticing the colour of her dress, of his eyes,
seeing the sandy cat slinking round the cottage door.

For some time the picture floated in my eyes, making most things appear
much brighter, warmer, and simpler than usual; and making some things
appear foolish; and some things wrong and some things right, and more
full of meaning than before. At odd moments during that day and the next
the picture returned to one's mind, and one thought with envy, but with
kindness, of the happy sailor and his wife; one wondered what they were
doing, what they were saying now. The imagination supplied other
pictures springing from that first one, a picture of the sailor cutting
firewood, drawing water; and they talked about China; and the girl set
his present on the chimney-piece where everyone who came could see it;
and she sewed at her baby clothes, and all the doors and windows were
open into the garden so that the birds were flittering and the bees
humming, and Rogers--that was his name--could not say how much to his
liking all this was after the China seas. As he smoked his pipe, with
his foot in the garden.


In the middle of the night a loud cry rang through the village. Then
there was a sound of something scuffling; and then dead silence. All
that could be seen out of the window was the branch of lilac tree
hanging motionless and ponderous across the road. It was a hot still
night. There was no moon. The cry made everything seem ominous. Who had
cried? Why had she cried? It was a woman's voice, made by some extremity
of feeling almost sexless, almost expressionless. It was as if human
nature had cried out against some iniquity, some inexpressible horror.
There was dead silence. The stars shone perfectly steadily. The fields
lay still. The trees were motionless. Yet all seemed guilty, convicted,
ominous. One felt that something ought to be done. Some light ought to
appear tossing, moving agitatedly. Someone ought to come running down
the road. There should be lights in the cottage windows. And then
perhaps another cry, but less sexless, less wordless, comforted,
appeased. But no light came. No feet were heard. There was no second
cry. The first had been swallowed up, and there was dead silence.

One lay in the dark listening intently. It had been merely a voice.
There was nothing to connect it with. No picture of any sort came to
interpret it, to make it intelligible to the mind. But as the dark arose
at last all one saw was an obscure human form, almost without shape,
raising a gigantic arm in vain against some overwhelming iniquity.


The fine weather remained unbroken. Had it not been for that single cry
in the night one would have felt that the earth had put into harbour;
that life had ceased to drive before the wind; that it had reached some
quiet cove and there lay anchored, hardly moving, on the quiet waters.
But the sound persisted. Wherever one went, it might be for a long walk
up into the hills, something seemed to turn uneasily beneath the surface,
making the peace, the stability all round one seem a little unreal.
There were the sheep clustered on the side of the hill; the valley broke
in long tapering waves like the fall of smooth waters. One came on
solitary farmhouses. The puppy rolled in the yard. The butterflies
gambolled over the gorse. All was as quiet, as safe could be. Yet, one
kept thinking, a cry had rent it; all this beauty had been an accomplice
that night; had consented; to remain calm, to be still beautiful; at
any moment it might be sundered again. This goodness, this safety were
only on the surface.

And then to cheer oneself out of this apprehensive mood one turned to
the picture of the sailor's homecoming. One saw it all over again
producing various little details--the blue colour of her dress, the
shadow that fell from the yellow flowering tree--that one had not used
before. So they had stood at the cottage door, he with his bundle on his
back, she just lightly touching his sleeve with her hand. And a sandy
cat had slunk round the door. Thus gradually going over the picture in
every detail, one persuaded oneself by degrees that it was far more
likely that this calm and content and good will lay beneath the surface
than anything treacherous, sinister. The sheep grazing, the waves of the
valley, the farmhouse, the puppy, the dancing butterflies were in fact
like that all through. And so one turned back home, with one's mind
fixed on the sailor and his wife, making up picture after picture of
them so that one picture after another of happiness and satisfaction
might be laid over that unrest, that hideous cry, until it was crushed
and silenced by their pressure out of existence.

Here at last was the village, and the churchyard through which one must
pass; and the usual thought came, as one entered it, of the peacefulness
of the place, with its shady yews, its rubbed tombstones, its nameless
graves. Death is cheerful here, one felt. Indeed, look at that picture!
A man was digging a grave, and children were picnicking at the side of
it while he worked. As the shovels of yellow earth were thrown up, the
children were sprawling about eating bread and jam and drinking milk
out of large mugs. The gravedigger's wife, a fat fair woman, had propped
herself against a tombstone and spread her apron on the grass by the
open grave to serve as a tea-table. Some lumps of clay had fallen among
the tea things. Who was going to be buried, I asked. Had old Mr. Dodson
died at last? "Oh! no. It's for young Rogers, the sailor," the woman
answered, staring at me. "He died two nights ago, of some foreign
fever. Didn't you hear his wife?" She rushed into the road and cried
out. . . . "Here, Tommy, you're all covered with earth!"

What a picture it made!


There are moments even in England, now, when even the busiest, most
contented suddenly let fall what they hold--it may be the week's washing.
Sheets and pyjamas crumble and dissolve in their hands, because, though
they do not state this in so many words, it seems silly to take the
washing round to Mrs. Peel when out there over the fields over the
hills, there is no washing; no pinning of clothes to lines; mangling and
ironing no work at all, but boundless rest. Stainless and boundless
rest; space unlimited; untrodden grass; wild birds flying hills whose
smooth uprise continue that wild flight.

Of all this however only seven foot by four could be seen from Mrs.
Grey's corner. That was the size of her front door which stood wide
open, though there was a fire burning in the grate. The fire looked
like a small spot of dusty light feebly trying to escape from the
embarrassing pressure of the pouring sunshine.

Mrs. Grey sat on a hard chair in the corner looking--but at what?
Apparently at nothing. She did not change the focus of her eyes when
visitors came in. Her eyes had ceased to focus themselves; it may be
that they had lost the power. They were aged eyes, blue, unspectacled.
They could see, but without looking. She had never used her eyes on
anything minute and difficult; merely upon faces, and dishes and fields.
And now at the age of ninety-two they saw nothing but a zigzag of pain
wriggling across the door, pain that twisted her legs as it wriggled;
jerked her body to and fro like a marionette. Her body was wrapped round
the pain as a damp sheet is folded over a wire. The wire was
spasmodically jerked by a cruel invisible hand. She flung out a foot, a
hand. Then it stopped. She sat still for a moment.

In that pause she saw herself in the past at ten, at twenty, at
twenty-five. She was running in and out of a cottage with eleven
brothers and sisters. The line jerked. She was thrown forward in her

"All dead. All dead," she mumbled. "My brothers and sisters. And my
husband gone. My daughter too. But I go on. Every morning I pray God to
let me pass."

The morning spread seven foot by four green and sunny. Like a fling of
grain the birds settled on the land. She was jerked again by another
tweak of the tormenting hand.

"I'm an ignorant old woman. I can't read or write, and every morning
when I crawls down stairs, I say I wish it were night; and every night,
when I crawls up to bed, I say, I wish it were day. I'm only an ignorant
old woman. But I prays to God: 0 let me pass. I'm an ignorant old
woman--I can't read or write."

So when the colour went out of the doorway, she could not see the other
page which is then lit up; or hear the voices that have argued, sung,
talked for hundreds of years.

The jerked limbs were still again.

"The doctor comes every week. The parish doctor now. Since my daughter
went, we can't afford Dr. Nicholls. But he's a good man. He says he
wonders I don't go. He says my heart's nothing but wind and water. Yet I
don't seem able to die."

So we--humanity--insist that the body shall still cling to the wire. We
put out the eyes and the ears; but we pinion it there, with a bottle of
medicine, a cup of tea, a dying fire, like a rook on a barn door; but a
rook that still lives, even with a nail through it.


No one perhaps has ever felt passionately towards a lead pencil. But
there are circumstances in which it can become supremely desirable to
possess one; moments when we are set upon having an object, an excuse
for walking half across London between tea and dinner. As the foxhunter
hunts in order to preserve the breed of foxes, and the golfer plays in
order that open spaces may be preserved from the builders, so when the
desire comes upon us to go street rambling the pencil does for a
pretext, and getting up we say: "Really I must buy a pencil," as if
under cover of this excuse we could indulge safely in the greatest
pleasure of town life in winter--rambling the streets of London.

The hour should be the evening and the season winter, for in winter the
champagne brightness of the air and the sociability of the streets are
grateful. We are not then taunted as in the summer by the longing for
shade and solitude and sweet airs from the hayfields. The evening hour,
too, gives us the irresponsibility which darkness and lamplight bestow.
We are no longer quite ourselves. As we step out of the house on a fine
evening between four and six, we shed the self our friends know us by
and become part of that vast republican army of anonymous trampers,
whose society is so agreeable after the solitude of one's own room. For
there we sit surrounded by objects which perpetually express the oddity
of our own temperaments and enforce the memories of our own experience.
That bowl on the mantelpiece, for instance, was bought at Mantua on a
windy day. We were leaving the shop when the sinister old woman plucked
at our skirts and said she would find herself starving one of these
days, but, "Take it!" she cried, and thrust the blue and white china
bowl into our hands as if she never wanted to be reminded of her
quixotic generosity. So, guiltily, but suspecting nevertheless how badly
we had been fleeced, we carried it back to the little hotel where, in
the middle of the night, the innkeeper quarrelled so violently with his
wife that we all leant out into the courtyard to look, and saw the vines
laced about among the pillars and the stars white in the sky. The moment
was stabilized, stamped like a coin indelibly among a million that
slipped by imperceptibly. There, too, was the melancholy Englishman, who
rose among the coffee cups and the little iron tables and revealed the
secrets of his soul--as travellers do. All this--Italy, the windy morning,
the vines laced about the pillars, the Englishman and the secrets of his
soul--rise up in a cloud from the china bowl on the mantelpiece. And
there, as our eyes fall to the floor, is that brown stain on the carpet.
Mr. Lloyd George made that. "The man's a devil!" said Mr. Cummings,
putting the kettle down with which he was about to fill the teapot so
that it burnt a brown ring on the carpet.

But when the door shuts on us, all that vanishes. The shell-like
covering which our souls have excreted to house themselves, to make for
themselves a shape distinct from others, is broken, and there is left of
all these wrinkles and roughnesses a central oyster of perceptiveness,
an enormous eye. How beautiful a street is in winter! It is at once
revealed and obscured. Here vaguely one can trace symmetrical straight
avenues of doors and windows; here under the lamps are floating islands
of pale light through which pass quickly bright men and women, who, for
all their poverty and shabbiness, wear a certain look of unreality, an
air of triumph, as if they had given life the slip, so that life,
deceived of her prey, blunders on without them. But, after all, we are
only gliding smoothly on the surface. The eye is not a miner, not a
diver, not a seeker after buried treasure. It floats us smoothly down a
stream; resting, pausing, the brain sleeps perhaps as it looks.

How beautiful a London street is then, with its islands of light, and
its long groves of darkness, and on one side of it perhaps some
tree-sprinkled, grass-grown space where night is folding herself to
sleep naturally and, as one passes the iron railing, one hears those
little cracklings and stirrings of leaf and twig which seem to suppose
the silence of fields all round them, an owl hooting, and far away the
rattle of a train in the valley. But this is London, we are reminded;
high among the bare trees are hung oblong frames of reddish yellow
light--windows; there are points of brilliance burning steadily like low
stars--lamps; this empty ground, which holds the country in it and its
peace, is only a London square, set about by offices and houses where at
this hour fierce lights burn over maps, over documents, over desks where
clerks sit turning with wetted forefinger the files of endless
correspondences; or more suffusedly the firelight wavers and the
lamplight falls upon the privacy of some drawing-room, its easy chairs,
its papers, its china, its inlaid table, and the figure of a woman,
accurately measuring out the precise number of spoons of tea which----She
looks at the door as if she heard a ring downstairs and somebody asking,
is she in?

But here we must stop peremptorily. We are in danger of digging deeper
than the eye approves; we are impeding our passage down the smooth
stream by catching at some branch or root. At any moment, the sleeping
army may stir itself and wake in us a thousand violins and trumpets in
response; the army of human beings may rouse itself and assert all its
oddities and sufferings and sordidities. Let us dally a little longer,
be content still with surfaces only--the glossy brilliance of the motor
omnibuses; the carnal splendour of the butchers' shops with their yellow
flanks and purple steaks; the blue and red bunches of flowers burning so
bravely through the plate glass of the florists' windows.

For the eye has this strange property: it rests only on beauty; like a
butterfly it seeks colour and basks in warmth. On a winter's night like
this, when nature has been at pains to polish and preen herself, it
brings back the prettiest trophies, breaks off little lumps of emerald
and coral as if the whole earth were made of precious stone. The thing
it cannot do (one is speaking of the average unprofessional eye) is to
compose these trophies in such a way as to bring out the more obscure
angles and relationships. Hence after a prolonged diet of this simple,
sugary fare, of beauty pure and uncomposed, we become conscious of
satiety. We halt at the door of the boot shop and make some little
excuse, which has nothing to do with the real reason, for folding up the
bright paraphernalia of the streets and withdrawing to some duskier
chamber of the being where we may ask, as we raise our left foot
obediently upon the stand: "What, then, is it like to be a dwarf?"

She came in escorted by two women who, being of normal size, looked like
benevolent giants beside her. Smiling at the shop girls, they seemed to
be disclaiming any lot in her deformity and assuring her of their
protection. She wore the peevish yet apologetic expression usual on the
faces of the deformed. She needed their kindness, yet she resented it.
But when the shop girl had been summoned and the giantesses, smiling
indulgently, had asked for shoes for "this lady" and the girl had
pushed the little stand in front of her, the dwarf stuck her foot out
with an impetuosity which seemed to claim all our attention. Look at
that! Look at that! she seemed to demand of us all, as she thrust her
foot out, for behold it was the shapely, perfectly proportioned foot of
a well-grown woman. It was arched; it was aristocratic. Her whole manner
changed as she looked at it resting on the stand. She looked soothed and
satisfied. Her manner became full of self-confidence. She sent for shoe
after shoe; she tried on pair after pair. She got up and pirouetted
before a glass which reflected the foot only in yellow shoes, in fawn
shoes, in shoes of lizard skin. She raised her little skirts and
displayed her little legs. She was thinking that, after all, feet are
the most important part of the whole person; women, she said to herself,
have been loved for their feet alone. Seeing nothing but her feet, she
imagined perhaps that the rest of her body was of a piece with those
beautiful feet. She was shabbily dressed, but she was ready to lavish
any money upon her shoes. And as this was the only occasion upon which
she was hot afraid of being looked at but positively craved attention,
she was ready to use any device to prolong the choosing and fitting.
Look at my feet, she seemed to be saying, as she took a step this way
and then a step that way. The shop girl good-humouredly must have said
something flattering, for suddenly her face lit up in ecstasy. But,
after all, the giantesses, benevolent though they were, had their own
affairs to see to; she must make up her mind; she must decide which to
choose. At length, the pair was chosen and, as she walked out between
her guardians, with the parcel swinging from her finger, the ecstasy
faded, knowledge returned, the old peevishness, the old apology came
back, and by the time she had reached the street again she had become a
dwarf only.

But she had changed the mood; she had called into being an atmosphere
which, as we followed her out into the street, seemed actually to create
the humped, the twisted, the deformed. Two bearded men, brothers,
apparently, stone-blind, supporting themselves by resting a hand on the
head of a small boy between them, marched down the street. On they came
with the unyielding yet tremulous tread of the blind, which seems to
lend to their approach something of the terror and inevitability of the
fate that has overtaken them. As they passed, holding straight on, the
little convoy seemed to cleave asunder the passers-by with the momentum
of its silence, its directness, its disaster. Indeed, the dwarf had
started a hobbling grotesque dance to which everybody in the street now
conformed: the stout lady tightly swathed in shiny sealskin; the
feeble-minded boy sucking the silver knob of his stick; the old man
squatted on a doorstep as if, suddenly overcome by the absurdity of the
human spectacle, he had sat down to look at it--all joined in the hobble
and tap of the dwarf's dance.

In what crevices and crannies, one might ask, did they lodge, this
maimed company of the halt and the blind? Here, perhaps, in the top
rooms of these narrow old houses between Holborn and Soho, where people
have such queer names, and pursue so many curious trades, are gold
beaters, accordion pleaters, cover buttons, or support life, with even
greater fantasticality, upon a traffic in cups without saucers, china
umbrella handles, and highly-coloured pictures of martyred saints. There
they lodge, and it seems as if the lady in the sealskin jacket must find
life tolerable, passing the time of day with the accordion pleater, or
the man who covers buttons; life which is so fantastic cannot be
altogether tragic. They do not grudge us, we are musing, our prosperity;
when, suddenly, turning the corner, we come upon a bearded Jew, wild,
hunger-bitten, glaring out of his misery; or pass the humped body of an
old woman flung abandoned on the step of a public building with a cloak
over her like the hasty covering thrown over a dead horse or donkey. At
such sights the nerves of the spine seem to stand erect; a sudden flare
is brandished in our eyes; a question is asked which is never answered.
Often enough these derelicts choose to lie not a stone's thrown from
theatres, within hearing of barrel organs, almost, as night draws on,
within touch of the sequined cloaks and bright legs of diners and
dancers. They lie close to those shop windows where commerce offers to a
world of old women laid on doorsteps, of blind men, of hobbling dwarfs,
sofas which are supported by the gilt necks of proud swans; tables
inlaid with baskets of many coloured fruit; sideboards paved with green
marble the better to support the weight of boars' heads; and carpets so
softened with age that their carnations have almost vanished in a pale
green sea.

Passing, glimpsing, everything seems accidentally but miraculously
sprinkled with beauty, as if the tide of trade which deposits its burden
so punctually and prosaically upon the shores of Oxford Street had this
night cast up nothing but treasure. With no thought of buying, the eye
is sportive and generous; it creates; it adorns; it enhances. Standing
out in the street, one may build up all the chambers of an imaginary
house and furnish them at one's will with sofa, table, carpet. That rug
will do for the hall. That alabaster bowl shall stand on a carved table
in the window. Our merrymaking shall be reflected in that thick round
mirror. But, having built and furnished the house, one is happily under
no obligation to possess it; one can dismantle it in the twinkling of an
eye, and build and furnish another house with other chairs and other
glasses. Or let us indulge ourselves at the antique jewellers, among the
trays of rings and the hanging necklaces. Let us choose those pearls,
for example, and then imagine how, if we put them on, life would be
changed. It becomes instantly between two and three in the morning; the
lamps are burning very white in the deserted streets of Mayfair. Only
motor-cars are abroad at this hour, and one has a sense of emptiness, of
airiness, of secluded gaiety. Wearing pearls, wearing silk, one steps
out on to a balcony which overlooks the gardens of sleeping Mayfair.
There are a few lights in the bedrooms of great peers returned from
Court, of silk-stockinged footmen, of dowagers who have pressed the
hands of statesmen. A cat creeps along the garden wall. Love-making is
going on sibilantly, seductively in the darker places of the room behind
thick green curtains. Strolling sedately as if he were promenading a
terrace beneath which the shires and counties of England lie sun-bathed,
the aged Prime Minister recounts to Lady So-and-So with the curls and
the emeralds the true history of some great crisis in the affairs of the
land. We seem to be riding on the top of the highest mast of the tallest
ship; and yet at the same time we know that nothing of this sort
matters; love is not proved thus, nor great achievements completed thus;
so that we sport with the moment and preen our feathers in it lightly,
as we stand on the balcony watching the moonlit cat creep along Princess
Mary's garden wall.

But what could be more absurd? It is, in fact, on the stroke of six; it
is a winter's evening; we are walking to the Strand to buy a pencil.
How, then, are we also on a balcony, wearing pearls in June? What could
be more absurd? Yet it is nature's folly, not ours. When she set about
her chief masterpiece, the making of man, she should have thought of one
thing only. Instead, turning her head, looking over her shoulder, into
each one of us she let creep instincts and desires which are utterly at
variance with his main being, so that we are streaked, variegated, all
of a mixture; the colours have run. Is the true self this which stands
on the pavement in January, or that which bends over the balcony in
June? Am I here, or am I there? Or is the true self neither this nor
that, neither here nor there, but something so varied and wandering that
it is only when we give the rein to its wishes and let it take its way
unimpeded that we are indeed ourselves? Circumstances compel unity; for
convenience sake a man must be a whole. The good citizen when he opens
his door in the evening must be banker, golfer, husband, father; not a
nomad wandering the desert, a mystic staring at the sky, a debauchee in
the slums of San Francisco, a soldier heading a revolution, a pariah
howling with scepticism and solitude. When he opens his door, he must
run his fingers through his hair and put his umbrella in the stand like
the rest.

But here, none too soon, are the second-hand bookshops. Here we find
anchorage in these thwarting currents of being; here we balance
ourselves after the splendours and miseries of the streets. The very
sight of the bookseller's wife with her foot on the fender, sitting
beside a good coal fire, screened from the door, is sobering and
cheerful. She is never reading, or only the newspaper; her talk, when it
leaves bookselling, which it does so gladly, is about hats; she likes a
hat to be practical, she says, as well as pretty. 0 no, they don't live
at the shop; they live in Brixton; she must have a bit of green to look
at. In summer a jar of flowers grown in her own garden is stood on the
top of some dusty pile to enliven the shop. Books are everywhere; and
always the same sense of adventure fills us. Second-hand books are wild
books, homeless books; they have come together in vast flocks of
variegated feather, and have a charm which the domesticated volumes of
the library lack. Besides, in this random miscellaneous company we may
rub against some complete stranger who will, with luck, turn into the
best friend we have in the world. There is always a hope, as we reach
down some grayish-white book from an upper shelf, directed by its air of
shabbiness and desertion, of meeting here with a man who set out on
horseback over a hundred years ago to explore the woollen market in the
Midlands and Wales; an unknown traveller, who stayed at inns, drank his
pint, noted pretty girls and serious customs, wrote it all down stiffly,
laboriously for sheer love of it (the book was published at his own
expense); was infinitely prosy, busy, and matter-of-fact, and so let
flow in without his knowing it the very scent of hollyhocks and the hay
together with such a portrait of himself as gives him forever a seat in
the warm corner of the mind's inglenook. One may buy him for eighteen
pence now. He is marked three and sixpence, but the bookseller's wife,
seeing how shabby the covers are and how long the book has stood there
since it was bought at some sale of a gentleman's library in Suffolk,
will let it go at that.

Thus, glancing round the bookshop, we make other such sudden capricious
friendships with the unknown and the vanished whose only record is, for
example, this little book of poems, so fairly printed, so finely
engraved, too, with a portrait of the author. For he was a poet and
drowned untimely, and his verse, mild as it is and formal and
sententious, sends forth still a frail fluty sound like that of a piano
organ played in some back street resignedly by an old Italian
organ-grinder in a corduroy jacket. There are travellers, too, row upon
row of them, still testifying, indomitable spinsters that they were, to
the discomforts that they endured and the sunsets they admired in Greece
when Queen Victoria was a girl. A tour in Cornwall with a visit to the
tin mines was thought worthy of voluminous record. People went slowly up
the Rhine and did portraits of each other in Indian ink, sitting reading
on deck beside a coil of rope; they measured the pyramids; were lost to
civilization for years; converted negroes in pestilential swamps. This
packing up and going off, exploring deserts and catching fevers,
settling in India for a lifetime, penetrating even to China and then
returning to lead a parochial life at Edmonton, tumbles and tosses upon
the dusty floor like an uneasy sea, so restless the English are, with
the waves at their very door. The waters of travel and adventure seem to
break upon little islands of serious effort and lifelong industry stood
in jagged column upon the floor. In these piles of puce-bound volumes
with gilt monograms on the back, thoughtful clergymen expound the
gospels; scholars are to be heard with their hammers and their chisels
chipping clear the ancient texts of Euripides and Aeschylus. Thinking,
annotating, expounding goes on at a prodigious rate all around us and
over everything, like a punctual, everlasting tide, washes the ancient
sea of fiction. Innumerable volumes tell how Arthur loved Laura and they
were separated and they were unhappy and then they met and they were
happy ever after, as was the way when Victoria ruled these islands.

The number of books in the world is infinite, and one is forced to
glimpse and nod and move on after a moment of talk, a flash of
understanding, as, in the street outside, one catches a word in passing
and from a chance phrase fabricates a lifetime. It is about a woman
called Kate that they are talking, how "I said to her quite straight
last night . . . if you don't think I'm worth a penny stamp, I
said . . ." But who Kate is, and to what crisis in their friendship that
penny stamp refers, we shall never know; for Kate sinks under the warmth
of their volubility; and here, at the street corner, another page of the
volume of life is laid open by the sight of two men consulting under the
lamp-post. They are spelling out the latest wire from Newmarket in the
stop press news. Do they think, then, that fortune will ever convert
their rags into fur and broadcloth, sling them with watch-chains, and
plant diamond pins where there is now a ragged open shirt? But the main
stream of walkers at this hour sweeps too fast to let us ask such
questions. They are wrapt, in this short passage from work to home, in
some narcotic dream, now that they are free from the desk, and have the
fresh air on their cheeks. They put on those bright clothes which they
must hang up and lock the key upon all the rest of the day, and are
great cricketers, famous actresses, soldiers who have saved their
country at the hour of need. Dreaming, gesticulating, often muttering a
few words aloud, they sweep over the Strand and across Waterloo Bridge
whence they will be slung in long rattling trains, to some prim little
villa in Barnes or Surbiton where the sight of the clock in the hall and
the smell of the supper in the basement puncture the dream.

But we are come to the Strand now, and as we hesitate on the curb, a
little rod about the length of one's finger begins to lay its bar across
the velocity and abundance of life. "Really I must--really I must"--that
is it. Without investigating the demand, the mind cringes to the
accustomed tyrant. One must, one always must, do something or other; it
is not allowed one simply to enjoy oneself. Was it not for this reason
that, some time ago, we fabricated the excuse, and invented the
necessity of buying something? But what was it? Ah, we remember, it was
a pencil. Let us go then and buy this pencil. But just as we are turning
to obey the command, another self disputes the right of the tyrant to
insist. The usual conflict comes about. Spread out behind the rod of
duty we see the whole breadth of the river Thames--wide, mournful,
peaceful. And we see it through the eyes of somebody who is leaning over
the Embankment on a summer evening, without a care in the world. Let us
put off buying the pencil; let us go in search of this person--and soon
it becomes apparent that this person is ourselves. For if we could stand
there where we stood six months ago, should we not be again as we were
then--calm, aloof, content? Let us try then. But the river is rougher and
greyer than we remembered. The tide is running out to sea. It brings
down with it a tug and two barges, whose load of straw is tightly bound
down beneath tarpaulin covers. There is, too, close by us, a couple
leaning over the balustrade with the curious lack of self-consciousness
lovers have, as if the importance of the affair they are engaged on
claims without question the indulgence of the human race. The sights we
see and the sounds we hear now have none of the quality of the past; nor
have we any share in the serenity of the person who, six months ago,
stood precisely were we stand now. His is the happiness of death; ours
the insecurity of life. He has no future; the future is even now
invading our peace. It is only when we look at the past and take from it
the element of uncertainty that we can enjoy perfect peace. As it is, we
must turn, we must cross the Strand again, we must find a shop where,
even at this hour, they will be ready to sell us a pencil.

It is always an adventure to enter a new room for the lives and
characters of its owners have distilled their atmosphere into it, and
directly we enter it we breast some new wave of emotion. Here, without a
doubt, in the stationer's shop people had been quarrelling. Their
anger shot through the air. They both stopped; the old woman--they were
husband and wife evidently--retired to a back room; the old man whose
rounded forehead and globular eyes would have looked well on the
frontispiece of some Elizabethan folio, stayed to serve us. "A pencil,
a pencil," he repeated, "certainly, certainly." He spoke with the
distraction yet effusiveness of one whose emotions have been roused and
checked in full flood. He began opening box after box and shutting them
again. He said that it was very difficult to find things when they kept
so many different articles. He launched into a story about some legal
gentleman who had got into deep waters owing to the conduct of his wife.
He had known him for years; he had been connected with the Temple for
half a century, he said, as if he wished his wife in the back room to
overhear him. He upset a box of rubber bands. At last, exasperated by
his incompetence, he pushed the swing door open and called out roughly:
"Where d'you keep the pencils?" as if his wife had hidden them. The
old lady came in. Looking at nobody, she put her hand with a fine air of
righteous severity upon the right box. There were pencils. How then
could he do without her? Was she not indispensable to him? In order to
keep them there, standing side by side in forced neutrality, one had to
be particular in one's choice of pencils; this was too soft, that too
hard. They stood silently looking on. The longer they stood there, the
calmer they grew; their heat was going down, their anger disappearing.
Now, without a word said on either side, the quarrel was made up. The
old man, who would not have disgraced Ben Jonson's title-page, reached
the box back to its proper place, bowed profoundly his good-night to us,
and they disappeared. She would get out her sewing; he would read his
newspaper; the canary would scatter them impartially with seed. The
quarrel was over.

In these minutes in which a ghost has been sought for, a quarrel
composed, and a pencil bought, the streets had become completely empty.
Life had withdrawn to the top floor, and lamps were lit. The pavement
was dry and hard; the road was of hammered silver. Walking home through
the desolation one could tell oneself the story of the dwarf, of the
blind men, of the party in the Mayfair mansion, of the quarrel in the
stationer's shop. Into each of these lives one could penetrate a little
way, far enough to give oneself the illusion that one is not tethered to
a single mind, but can put on briefly for a few minutes the bodies and
minds of others. One could become a washerwoman, a publican, a street
singer. And what greater delight and wonder can there be than to leave
the straight lines of personality and deviate into those footpaths that
lead beneath brambles and thick tree trunks into the heart of the forest
where live those wild beasts, our fellow men?

That is true: to escape is the greatest of pleasures; street haunting in
winter the greatest of adventures. Still as we approach our own doorstep
again, it is comforting to feel the old possessions, the old prejudices,
fold us round; and the self, which has been blown about at so many
street corners, which has battered like a moth at the flame of so many
inaccessible lanterns, sheltered and enclosed. Here again is the usual
door; here the chair turned as we left it and the china bowl and the
brown ring on the carpet. And here--let us examine it tenderly, let us
touch it with reverence--is the only spoil we have retrieved from all
the treasures of the city, a lead pencil.


Whether Jones should come before Wilkinson or Wilkinson before Jones is
not a matter likely to agitate many breasts at the present moment,
seeing that more than a hundred and fifty years have rolled over the
gentlemen in question and diminished a lustre which, even in their own
time, round about the year 1750, was not very bright. The Rev. Dr.
Wilkinson might indeed claim precedence by virtue of his office. He was
His Majesty's Chaplain of the Savoy and Chaplain also to his late Royal
Highness, Frederick Prince of Wales. But then Dr. Wilkinson was
transported. Captain James Jones might assert that, as Captain of His
Majesty's third regiment of Guards with a residence by virtue of his
office in Savoy Square, his social position was equal to the Doctor's.
But Captain Jones had to seclude himself beyond the reach of the law at
Mortlake. What, however, renders these comparisons peculiarly odious is
the fact that the Captain and the Doctor were boon companions whose
tastes were congenial, whose incomes were insufficient, whose wives
drank tea together, and whose houses in the Savoy were not two hundred
yards apart. Dr. Wilkinson, for all his sacred offices (he was Rector of
Coyty in Glamorgan, stipendiary curate of Wise in Kent, and, through
Lord Galway, had the right to "open plaister-pits in the honour of
Pontefract"), was a convivial spirit who cut a splendid figure in the
pulpit, preached and read prayers in a voice that was clear, strong and
sonorous so that many a lady of fashion never "missed her pew near the
pulpit," and persons of title remembered him many years after misfortune
had removed the handsome preacher from their sight.

Captain Jones shared many of his friend's qualities. He was vivacious,
witty, and generous, well made and elegant in person and, if he was not
quite as handsome as the doctor, he was perhaps rather his superior in
intellect. Compare them as we may, however, there can be little doubt
that the gifts and tastes of both gentlemen were better adapted for
pleasure than for labour, for society than for solitude, for the hazards
and pleasures of the table rather than for the rigours of religion and
war. It was the gaming-table that seduced Captain Jones, and here, alas,
his gifts and graces stood him in little stead. His affairs became more
and more hopelessly embarrassed, so that shortly, instead of being able
to take his walks at large, he was forced to limit them to the precincts
of St. James's, where, by ancient prerogative, such unfortunates as he
were free from the attentions of the bailiffs.

To so gregarious a spirit the confinement was irksome. His only
resource, indeed, was to get into talk with any such "parksaunterers" as
misfortunes like his own had driven to perambulate the Park, or, when
the weather allowed, to bask and loiter and gossip on its benches. As
chance would have it (and the Captain was a devotee of that goddess) he
found himself one day resting on the same bench with an elderly
gentleman of military aspect and stern demeanour, whose ill-temper the
wit and humour which all allowed to Captain Jones presumably beguiled,
so that whenever the Captain appeared in the Park, the old man sought
his company, and they passed the time until dinner very pleasantly in
talk. On no occasion, however, did the General--for it appeared that the
name of this morose old man was General Skelton--ask Captain Jones to
his house; the acquaintance went no further than the bench in St.
James's Park; and when, as soon fell out, the Captain's difficulties
forced him to the greater privacy of a little cabin at Mortlake, he
forgot entirely the military gentleman who, presumably, still sought an
appetite for dinner or some alleviation of his own sour mood in
loitering and gossiping with the park-saunterers of St. James's.

But among the amiable characteristics of Captain Jones was a love of
wife and child, scarcely to be wondered at, indeed, considering his
wife's lively and entertaining disposition and the extraordinary promise
of that little girl who was later to become the wife of Lord Cornwallis.
At whatever risk to himself, Captain Jones would steal back to revisit
his wife and to hear his little girl recite the part of Juliet which,
under his teaching, she had perfectly by heart. On one such secret
journey he was hurrying to get within the royal sanctuary of St. James's
when a voice called on him to stop. His fears obsessing him, he hurried
the faster, his pursuer close at his heels. Realizing that escape was
impossible, Jones wheeled about and facing his pursuer, whom he
recognized as the Attorney Brown, demanded what his enemy wanted of him.
Far from being his enemy, said Brown, he was the best friend he had ever
had, which he would prove if Jones would accompany him to the first
tavern that came to hand. There, in a private room over a fire, Mr.
Brown disclosed the following astonishing story. An unknown friend, he
said, who had scrutinized Jones's conduct carefully and concluded that
his deserts outweighed his misdemeanours, was prepared to settle all his
debts and indeed to put him beyond the reach of such tormentors in
future. At these words a load was lifted from Jones's heart, and he
cried out "Good God! Who can this paragon of friendship be?" It was none
other, said Brown, than General Skelton. General Skelton, the man whom
he had only met to chat with on a bench in St. James's Park? Jones asked
in wonderment. Yes, it was the General, Brown assured him. Then let him
hasten to throw himself in gratitude at his benefactor's knee! Not so
fast, Brown replied; General Skelton will never speak to you again.
General Skelton died last night.

The extent of Captain Jones's good fortune was indeed magnificent. The
General had left Captain Jones sole heir to all his possessions on no
other condition than that he should assume the name of Skelton instead
of Jones. Hastening through streets no longer dreadful, since every debt
of honour could now be paid, Captain Jones brought his wife the
astonishing news of their good fortune, and they promptly set out to
view that part which lay nearest to hand--the General's great house in
Henrietta Street. Gazing about her, half in dream, half in earnest, Mrs.
Jones Was so overcome with the tumult of her emotions that she could not
stay to gather in the extent of her possessions, but ran to Little
Bedford Street, where Mrs. Wilkinson was then living, to impart her joy.
Meanwhile, the news that General Skelton lay dead in Henrietta Street
without a son to succeed him spread abroad, and those who thought
themselves his heirs arrived in the house of death to take stock of
their inheritance, among them one great and beautiful lady whose avarice
was her undoing, whose misfortunes were equal to her sins, Kitty
Chudleigh, Countess of Bristol, Duchess of Kingston. Miss Chudleigh, as
she then called herself, believed, and who can doubt that with her
passionate nature, her lust for wealth and property, her pistols and her
parsimony, she believed with vehemence and asserted her belief with
arrogance, that all General Skelton's property had legally descended to
her. Later, when the will was read and the truth made public that not
only the house in Henrietta Street, but Pap Castle in Cumberland and the
lands and lead mines pertaining to it, were left without exception to an
unknown Captain Jones, she burst out in "terms exceeding all bounds of
delicacy." She cried that her relative the General was an old fool in
his dotage, that Jones and his wife were impudent low upstarts beneath
her notice, and so flounced into her coach "with a scornful quality
toss" to carry on that life of deceit and intrigue and ambition which
drove her later to wander in ignominy, an outcast from her country.

What remains to be told of the fortunes of Captain Jones can be briefly
despatched. Having new furnished the house in Henrietta Street, the
Jones family set out when summer came to visit their estates in
Cumberland. The country was so fair, the Castle so stately, the thought
that now all belonged to them so gratifying that their progress for
three weeks was one of unmixed pleasure and the spot where they were now
to live seemed a paradise. But there was an eagerness, an impetuosity
about James Jones which made him impatient to suffer even the smiles of
fortune passively. He must be active--he must be up and doing. He must
be "let down," for all his friends could do to dissuade him, to view a
lead mine. The consequences as they foretold were disastrous. He was
drawn up, indeed, but already infected with a deadly sickness of which
in a few days he died, in the arms of his wife, in the midst of that
paradise which he had toiled so long to reach and now was to die without

Meanwhile the Wilkinsons--but that name, alas, was no longer applicable
to them, nor did the Dr. and his wife any more inhabit the house in the
Savoy--the Wilkinsons had suffered more extremities at the hands of Fate
than the Joneses themselves. Dr. Wilkinson, it has been said, resembled
his friend Jones in the conviviality of his habits and his inability to
keep within the limits of his income. Indeed, his wife's dowry of two
thousand pounds had gone to pay off the debts of his youth. But by what
means could he pay off the debts of his middle age? He was now past
fifty, and what with good company and good living, was seldom free from
duns, and always pressed for money. Suddenly, from an unexpected
quarter, help appeared. This was none other than the Marriage Act,
passed in 1755, which laid it down that if any person solemnized a
marriage without publishing the banns, unless a marriage licence had
already been obtained, he should be subject to transportation for
fourteen years. Dr. Wilkinson, looking at the matter, it is to be
feared, from his own angle, and with a view to his own necessities,
argued that as Chaplain of the Savoy, which was extra-Parochial and
Royal-exempt, he could grant licences as usual--a privilege which at
once brought him such a glut of business, such a crowd of couples
wishing to be married in a hurry, that the rat-tat-tat never ceased on
his street door, and cash flooded the family exchequer so that even his
little boy's pockets were lined with gold. The duns were paid; the table
sumptuously spread. But Dr. Wilkinson shared another failing with his
friend Jones; he would not take advice. His friends warned him; the
Government plainly hinted that if he persisted they would be forced to
act. Secure in what he imagined to be his right, enjoying the prosperity
it brought him to the full, the Doctor paid no heed. On Easter Day he was
engaged in marrying from eight in the morning till twelve at night. At
last, one Sunday, the King's Messengers appeared. The Doctor escaped by
a secret walk over the leads of the Savoy, made his way to the river
bank, where he slipped upon some logs and fell, heavy and elderly as he
was, in the mud; but nevertheless got to Somerset stairs, took a boat,
and reached the Kentish shore in safety. Even now he brazened it out
that the law was on his side, and came back four weeks later prepared to
stand his trial. Once more, for the last time, company overflowed the
house in the Savoy; lawyers abounded, and, as they ate and drank,
assured Dr. Wilkinson that his case was already won. In July 1756 the
trial began. But what conclusion could there be? The crime had been
committed and persisted in openly in spite of warning. The Doctor was
found guilty and sentenced to fourteen years' transportation.

It remained for his friends to fit him out, like the gentleman he was,
for his voyage to America. There, they argued, his gifts of speech and
person would make him welcome, and later his wife and son could join
him. To them he bade farewell in the dismal precincts of Newgate in
March 1757. But contrary winds beat the ship back to shore; the gout
seized on a body enfeebled by pleasure and adversity; at Plymouth Dr.
Wilkinson was transported finally and for ever. The lead mine undid
Jones; the Marriage Act was the downfall of Wilkinson. Both now sleep in
peace, Jones in Cumberland, Wilkinson, far from his friend (and if their
failings were great, great too were their gifts and graces) on the
shores of the melancholy Atlantic.

"TWELFTH NIGHT" AT THE OLD VIC (* Written in 1933.)

Shakespeareans are divided, it is well known, into three classes; those
who prefer to read Shakespeare in the book; those who prefer to see him
acted on the stage; and those who run perpetually from book to stage
gathering plunder. Certainly there is a good deal to be said for reading
TWELFTH NIGHT in the book if the book can be read in a garden, with no
sound but the thud of an apple falling to the earth, or of the wind
ruffling the branches of the trees. For one thing there is time--time
not only to hear "the sweet sound that breathes upon a bank of violets"
but to unfold the implications of that very subtle speech as the Duke
winds into the nature of love. There is time, too, to make a note in the
margin; time to wonder at queer jingles like "that live in her; when
liver, brain, and heart" . . . "and of a foolish knight that you brought
in one night" and to ask oneself whether it was from them that was born
the lovely, "And what should I do in Illyria? My brother he is in
Elysium." For Shakespeare is writing, it seems, not with the whole of his
mind mobilized and under control but with feelers left flying that sort
and play with words so that the trail of a chance word is caught and
followed recklessly. From the echo of one word is born another word, for
which reason, perhaps, the play seems as we read it to tremble
perpetually on the brink of music. They are always calling for songs in
TWELFTH NIGHT, "0 fellow come, the song we had last night." Yet
Shakespeare was not so deeply in love with words but that he could turn
and laugh at them. "They that do dally with words do quickly make them
wanton." There is a roar of laughter and out burst Sir Toby, Sir Andrew,
Maria. Words on their lips are things that have meaning; that rush and
leap out with a whole character packed in a little phrase. When Sir
Andrew says "I was adored once," we feel that we hold him in the hollow
of our hands; a novelist would have taken three volumes to bring us to
that pitch of intimacy. And Viola, Malvolio, Olivia, the Duke--the mind
so brims and spills over with all that we know and guess about them as
they move in and out among the lights and shadows of the mind's stage
that we ask why should we imprison them within the bodies of real men
and women? Why exchange this garden for the theatre? The answer is that
Shakespeare wrote for the stage and presumably with reason. Since they
are acting TWELFTH NIGHT at the Old Vic, let us compare the two

Many apples might fall without being heard in the Waterloo Road, and as
for the shadows, the electric light has consumed them all. The first
impression upon entering the Old Vic is overwhelmingly positive and
definite. We seem to have issued out from the shadows of the garden upon
the bridge of the Parthenon. The metaphor is mixed, but then so is the
scenery. The columns of the bridge somehow suggest an Atlantic liner and
the austere splendours of a classical temple in combination. But the
body is almost as upsetting as the scenery. The actual persons of
Malvolio, Sir Toby, Olivia and the rest expand our visionary characters
out of all recognition. At first we are inclined to resent it. You are
not Malvolio; or Sir Toby either, we want to tell them; but merely
impostors. We sit gaping at the ruins of the play, at the travesty of
the play. And then by degrees this same body or rather all these bodies
together, take our play and remodel it between them. The play gains
immensely in robustness, in solidity. The printed word is changed out of
all recognition when it is heard by other people. We watch it strike
upon this man or woman; we see them laugh or shrug their shoulders, or
tum aside to hide their faces. The word is given a body as well as a
soul. Then again as the actors pause, or topple over a barrel, or
stretch their hands out, the flatness of the print is broken up as by
crevasses or precipices; all the proportions are changed. Perhaps the
most impressive effect in the play is achieved by the long pause which
Sebastian and Viola make as they stand looking at each other in a silent
ecstasy of recognition. The reader's eye may have slipped over that
moment entirely. Here we are made to pause and think about it; and are
reminded that Shakespeare wrote for the body and for the mind

But now that the actors have done their proper work of solidifying and
intensifying our impressions, we begin to criticize them more minutely
and to compare their version with our own. We make Mr. Quartermaine's
Malvolio stand beside our Malvolio. And to tell the truth, wherever the
fault may lie, they have very little in common. Mr. Quartermaine's
Malvolio is a splendid gentleman, courteous, considerate, well bred; a
man of parts and humour who has no quarrel with the world. He has never
felt a twinge of vanity or a moment's envy in his life. If Sir Toby and
Maria fool him he sees through it, we may be sure, and only suffers it as
a fine gentleman puts up with the games of foolish children. Our Malvolio,
on the other hand, was a fantastic complex creature, twitching with
vanity, tortured by ambition. There was cruelty in his teasing, and a
hint of tragedy in his defeat; his final threat had a momentary terror
in it. But when Mr. Quartermaine says "I'll be revenged on the whole
pack of you," we feel merely that the powers of the law will be soon and
effectively invoked. What, then, becomes of Olivia's "He hath been most
notoriously abused"? Then there is Olivia. Madame Lopokova has by nature
that rare quality which is neither to be had for the asking nor to be
subdued by the will--the genius of personality. She has only to float on
to the stage and everything round her suffers, not a sea change, but a
change into light, into gaiety; the birds sing, the sheep are garlanded,
the air rings with melody and human beings dance towards each other on
the tips of their toes possessed of an exquisite friendliness, sympathy
and delight. But our Olivia was a stately lady; of sombre complexion,
slow moving, and of few sympathies. She could not love the Duke nor
change her feeling. Madame Lopokova loves everybody. She is always
changing. Her hands, her face, her feet, the whole of her body, are
always quivering in sympathy with the moment. She could make the moment,
as she proved when she walked down the stairs with Sebastian, one of
intense and moving beauty; but she was not our Olivia. Compared with her
the comic group, Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, Maria, the fool were more than
ordinarily English. Coarse, humorous, robust, they trolled out their
words, they rolled over their barrels; they acted magnificently. No
reader, one may make bold to say, could outpace Miss Seyler's Maria,
with its quickness, its inventiveness, its merriment; nor add anything
to the humours of Mr. Livesey's Sir Toby. And Miss jeans as Viola was
satisfactory; and Mr. Hare as Antonio was admirable; and Mr. Morland's
clown was a good clown. What, then, was lacking in the play as a whole?
Perhaps that it was not a whole. The fault may lie partly with
Shakespeare. It is easier to act his comedy than his poetry, one may
suppose, for when he wrote as a poet he was apt to write too quick for
the human tongue. The prodigality of his metaphors can be flashed over
by the eye, but the speaking voice falters in the middle. Hence the
comedy was out of proportion to the rest. Then, perhaps, the actors were
too highly charged with individuality or too incongruously cast. They
broke the play up into separate pieces--now we were in the groves of
Arcady, now in some inn at Blackfriars. The mind in reading spins a web
from scene to scene, compounds a background from apples falling, and the
toll of a church bell, and an owl's fantastic flight which keeps the
play together. Here that continuity was sacrificed. We left the theatre
possessed of many brilliant fragments but without the sense of all
things conspiring and combining together which may be the satisfying
culmination of a less brilliant performance. Nevertheless, the play has
served its purpose. It has made us compare our Malvolio with Mr.
Quartermaine's; our Olivia with Madame Lopokova's; our reading of the
whole play with Mr. Guthrie's; and since they all differ back we must go
to Shakespeare. We must read TWELFTH NIGHT again. Mr. Guthrie has made
that necessary and whetted our appetite for the CHERRY ORCHARD, MEASURE
FOR MEASURE, and HENRY THE EIGHTH that are still to come.


This great lady, this robust and fertile letter writer, who in our age
would probably have been one of the great novelists, takes up presumably
as much space in the consciousness of living readers as any figure of
her vanished age. But it is more difficult to fix that figure within an
outline than so to sum up many of her contemporaries. That is partly
because she created her being, not in plays or poems, but in
letters--touch by touch, with repetitions, amassing daily trifles,
writing down what came into her head as if she were talking. Thus the
fourteen volumes of her letters enclose a vast open space, like one of
her own great woods; the rides are crisscrossed with the intricate
shadows of branches, figures roam down the glades, pass from sun to
shadow, are lost to sight, appear again, but never sit down in fixed
attitudes to compose a group.

Thus we live in her presence, and often fall, as with living people,
into unconsciousness. She goes on talking, we half listen. And then
something she says rouses us. We add it to her character, so that the
character grows and changes, and she seems like a living person,

This of course is one of the qualities that all letter writers possess,
and she, because of her unconscious naturalness, her flow and abundance,
possesses it far more than the brilliant Walpole, for example, or the
reserved and self-conscious Gray. Perhaps in the long run we know her
more instinctively, more profoundly, than we know them. We sink deeper
down into her, and know by instinct rather than by reason how she will
feel; this she will be amused by; that will take her fancy; now she will
plunge into melancholy. Her range too is larger than theirs; there is
more scope and more diversity. Everything seems to yield its juice--its
fun, its enjoyment; or to feed her meditations. She has a robust
appetite; nothing shocks her; she gets nourishment from whatever is set
before her. She is an intellectual, quick to enjoy the wit of
La Rochefoucauld, to relish the fine discrimination of Madame de La
Fayette. She has a natural dwelling place in books, so that Josephus or
Pascal or the absurd long romances of the time are not read by her so
much as embedded in her mind. Their verses, their stories rise to her
lips along with her own thoughts. But there is a sensibility in her
which intensifies this great appetite for many things. It is of course
shown at its most extreme, its most irrational, in her love for her
daughter. She loves her as an elderly man loves a young mistress who
tortures him. It was a passion that was twisted and morbid; it caused
her many humiliations; sometimes it made her ashamed of herself. For,
from the daughter's point of view it was exhausting, was embarrassing to
be the object of such intense emotion; and she could not always respond.
She feared that her mother was making her ridiculous in the eyes of her
friends. Also she felt that she was not like that. She was different;
colder, more fastidious, less robust. Her mother was ignoring the real
daughter in this flood of adoration for a daughter who did not exist.
She was forced to curb her; to assert her own identity. It was
inevitable that Madame de Sévigné, with her exacerbated sensibility,
should feel hurt.

Sometimes, therefore, Madame de Sévigné weeps. The daughter does not
love her. That is a thought so bitter, and a fear so perpetual and so
profound, that life loses its savour; she has recourse to sages, to
poets to console her; and reflects with sadness upon the vanity of life;
and how death will come. Then, too, she is agitated beyond what is right
or reasonable, because a letter has not reached her. Then she knows that
she has been absurd; and realizes that she is boring her friends with
this obsession. What is worse, she has bored her daughter. And then when
the bitter drop has fallen, up bubbles quicker and quicker the
ebullition of that robust vitality, of that irrepressible quick
enjoyment, that natural relish for life, as if she instinctively
repaired her failure by fluttering all her feathers; by making every
facet glitter. She shakes herself out of her glooms; makes fun of "les
D'Hacquevilles"; collects a handful of gossip; the latest news of the
King and Madame de Maintenon; how Charles has fallen in love; how the
ridiculous Mademoiselle de Plessis has been foolish again; when she
wanted a handkerchief to spit into, the silly woman tweaked her nose; or
describes how she has been amusing herself by amazing the simple little
girl who lives at the end of the park--la petite personne--with stories
of kings and countries, of all that great world that she who has lived
in the thick of it knows so well. At last, comforted, assured for the
time being at least of her daughter's love, she lets herself relax; and
throwing off all disguises, tells her daughter how nothing in the world
pleases her so well as solitude. She is happiest alone in the country.
She loves rambling alone in her woods. She loves going out by herself at
night. She loves hiding from callers. She loves walking among her trees
and musing. She loves the gardener's chatter; she loves planting. She
loves the gipsy girl who dances, as her own daughter used to dance, but
not of course so exquisitely.

It is natural to use the present tense, because we live in her presence.
We are very little conscious of a disturbing medium between us--that she
is living, after all, by means of written words. But now and then with
the sound of her voice in our ears and its rhythm rising and falling
within us, we become aware, with some sudden phrase, about spring, about
a country neighbour, something struck off in a flash, that we are, of
course, being addressed by one of the great mistresses of the art of

Then we listen for a time, consciously. How, we wonder, does she
contrive to make us follow every word of the story of the cook who
killed himself because the fish failed to come in time for the royal
dinner party; or the scene of the haymaking; or the anecdote of the
servant whom she dismissed in a sudden rage; how does she achieve this
order, this perfection of composition? Did she practise her art? It
seems not. Did she tear up and correct? There is no record of any
painstaking or effort. She says again and again that she writes her
letters as she speaks. She begins one as she sends off another; there is
the page on her desk and she fills it, in the intervals of all her other
avocations. People are interrupting; servants are coming for orders. She
entertains; she is at the beck and call of her friends. It seems then
that she must have been so imbued with good sense, by the age she lived
in, by the company she kept--La Rochefoucauld's wisdom, Madame de La
Fayette's conversation, by hearing now a play by Racine, by reading
Montaigne, Rabelais, or Pascal; perhaps by sermons, perhaps by some of
those songs that Coulanges was always singing--she must have imbibed so
much that was sane and wholesome unconsciously that, when she took up
her pen, it followed unconsciously the laws she had learnt by heart.
Marie de Rabutin it seems was born into a group where the elements were
so richly and happily mixed that it drew out her virtue instead of
opposing it. She was helped, not thwarted. Nothing baffled or contracted
or withered her. What opposition she encountered was only enough to
confirm her judgment. For she was highly conscious of folly, of vice, of
pretention. She was a born critic, and a critic whose judgments were
inborn, unhesitating. She is always referring her impressions to a
standard--hence the incisiveness, the depth and the comedy that make
those spontaneous statements so illuminating. There is nothing naive
about her. She is by no means a simple spectator. Maxims fall from her
pen. She sums up; she judges. But it is done effortlessly. She has
inherited the standard and accepts it without effort. She is heir to a
tradition, which stands guardian and gives proportion. The gaiety, the
colour, the chatter, the many movements of the figures in the foreground
have a background. At Les Rochers there is always Paris and the court;
at Paris there is Les Rochers, with its solitude, its trees, its
peasants. And behind them all again there is virtue, faith, death
itself. But this background, while it gives its scale to the moment, is
so well established that she is secure. She is free, thus anchored, to
explore; to enjoy; to plunge this way and that; to enter wholeheartedly
into the myriad humours, pleasures, oddities, and savours of her well
nourished, prosperous, delightful present moment.

So she passes with free and stately step from Paris to Brittany from
Brittany in her coach and six all across France. She stays with friends
on the road; she is attended by a cheerful company of familiars.
Wherever she alights she attracts at once the love of some boy or girl;
or the exacting admiration of a man of the world like her disagreeable
cousin Bussy Rabutin, who cannot rest under her disapproval, but must be
assured of her good opinion in spite of all his treachery. The famous
and the brilliant also wish to have her company, for she is part of
their world; and can take her share in their sophisticated
conversations. There is something wise and large and sane about her
which draws the confidences of her own son. Feckless and impulsive, the
prey of his own weak and charming nature as he is, Charles nurses her
with the utmost patience through her rheumatic fever. She laughs at his
foibles; knows his failings. She is tolerant and outspoken; nothing need
be hidden from her; she knows all that there is to be known of man and
his passions.

So she takes her way through the world, and sends her letters, radiant
and glowing with all this various traffic from one end of France to the
other, twice weekly. As the fourteen volumes so spaciously unfold their
story of twenty years it seems that this world is large enough to
enclose everything. Here is the garden that Europe has been digging for
many centuries; into which so many generations have poured their blood;
here it is at last fertilized, bearing flowers. And the flowers are not
those rare and solitary blossoms--great men, with their poems, and their
conquests. The flowers in this garden are a whole society of full grown
men and women from whom want and struggle have been removed; growing
together in harmony, each contributing something that the other lacks.
By way of proving it, the letters of Madame de Sévigné are often shared
by other pens; now her son takes up the pen; the Abbé adds his paragraph;
even the simple girl--la petite personne--is not afraid to pipe up on
the same page. The month of May, 1678, at Les Rochers in Brittany, thus
echoes with different voices. There are the birds singing; Pilois is
planting; Madame de Sévigné roams the woods alone; her daughter is
entertaining politicians in Provence; not very far away Monsieur de
Rochefoucauld is engaged in telling the truth with Madame de La Fayette
to prune his words; Racine is finishing the play which soon they will
all be hearing together; and discussing afterwards with the King and
that lady whom in the private language of their set they call Quanto.
The voices mingle; they are all talking together in the garden in 1678.
But what was happening outside?

THE HUMANE ART (* Written in April 1940.)

If at this moment there is little chance of re-reading the sixteen
volumes of the Paget Toynbee edition of Walpole's letters, while the
prospect of possessing the magnificent Yale edition, where all the
letters are to be printed with all the answers, becomes remote, this
sound and sober biography of Horace Walpole by Mr. Ketton-Cremer may
serve at least to inspire some random thoughts about Walpole and the
humane art which owes its origin to the love of friends.

But, according to his latest biographer, Horace Walpole's letters were
inspired not by the love of friends but by the love of posterity. He had
meant to write the history of his own times. After twenty years he gave
it up, and decided to write another kind of history--a history
ostensibly inspired by friends but in fact written for posterity. Thus
Mann stood for politics; Gray for literature; Montagu and Lady Ossory
for society. They were pegs, not friends, each chosen because he was
"particularly connected . . . with one of the subjects about which he
wished to enlighten and inform posterity." But if we believe that Horace
Walpole was a historian in disguise, we are denying his peculiar genius
as a letter writer. The letter writer is no surreptitious historian. He
is a man of short range sensibility; he speaks not to the public at
large but to the individual in private. All good letter writers feel the
drag of the face on the other side of the age and obey it--they take as
much as they give. And Horace Walpole was no exception. There is the
correspondence with Cole to prove it. We can see, in Mr. Lewis's
edition, how the Tory parson develops the radical and the free-thinker
in Walpole, how the middle-class professional man brings to the surface
the aristocrat and the amateur. If Cole had been nothing but a peg there
would have been none of this echo, none of this mingling of voices. It
is true that Walpole had an attitude and a style, and that his letters
have a fine hard glaze upon them that preserves them, like the teeth of
which he was so proud, from the little dents and rubs of familiarity.
And of course--did he not insist that his letters must be kept?--he
sometimes looked over his page at the distant horizon, as Madame de
Sévigné, whom he worshipped, did too, and imagined other people in times
to come reading him. But that he allowed the featureless face of
posterity to stand between him and the very voice and dress of his
friends, how they looked and how they thought, the letters themselves
with their perpetual variety deny. Open them at random. He is writing
about politics--about Wilkes and Chatham and the signs of coming
revolution in France; but also about a snuffbox; and a red riband; and
about two very small black dogs. Voices upon the stairs interrupt him;
more sightseers have come to see Caligula with his silver eyes; a spark
from the fire has burnt the page he was writing; he cannot keep the
pompous, style any longer, nor mend a careless phrase, and so, flexible
as an eel, he winds from high politics to living faces and the past and
its memories----"I tell you we should get together, and comfort
ourselves with the brave days that we have known. . . . I wished for
you; the same scenes strike us both, and the same kind of visions has
amused us both ever since we were born." It is not thus that a man
writes when his correspondent is a peg and he is thinking of posterity.

Nor again was he thinking of the great public, which, in a very few
years, would have paid him handsomely for the brilliant pages that he
lavished upon his friends. Was it, then, the growth of writing as a paid
profession, and the change which that change of focus brought with it
that led, in the nineteenth century, to the decline of this humane art?
Friendship flourished, nor was there any lack of gift. Who could have
described a party more brilliantly than Macaulay or a landscape more
exquisitely than Tennyson? But there, looking them full in the face was
the present moment--the great gluttonous public; and how can a writer turn
at will from that impersonal stare to the little circle in the fire-lit
room? Macaulay, writing to his sister, can no more drop his public
manner than an actress can scrub her cheeks clean of paint and take her
place naturally at the tea table. And Tennyson with his fear of
publicity--"While I live the owls, when I die the ghouls"--left nothing
more succulent for the ghoul to feed upon than a handful of dry little
notes that anybody could read, or print or put under glass in a museum.
News and gossip, the sticks and straws out of which the old letter
writer made his nest, have been snatched away. The wireless and the
telephone have intervened. The letter writer has nothing now to build
with except what is most private; and how monotonous after a page or two
the intensity of the very private becomes! We long that Keats even
should cease to talk about Fanny, and that Elizabeth and Robert Browning
should slam the door of the sick room and take a breath of fresh air in
an omnibus. Instead of letters posterity will have confessions, diaries,
notebooks, like M. Gide's--hybrid books in which the writer talks in the
dark to himself about himself for a generation yet to be born.

Horace Walpole suffered none of these drawbacks. If he was the greatest
of English letter writers it was not only thanks to his gifts but to his
immense good fortune. He had his places to begin with--an income of
Ł2,500 dropped yearly into his mouth from Collectorships and Usherships
and was swallowed without a pang. ". . . nor can I think myself," he
wrote serenely, "as a placeman a more useless or a less legal
engrosser of part of the wealth of the nation than deans and
prebendaries"--indeed the money was well invested. But besides those
places, there was the other--his place in the very centre of the
audience, facing the stage. There he could sit and see without being
seen; contemplate without being called upon to act. Above all he was
blessed in his little public--a circle that surrounded him with that
warm climate in which he could live the life of incessant changes which
is the breath of a letter writer's existence. Besides the wit and the
anecdote and the brilliant descriptions of masquerades and midnight
revelries his friends drew from him something superficial yet profound,
something changing yet entire--himself shall we call it in default of
one word for that which friends elicit but the great public kills? From
that sprang his immortality. For a self that goes on changing is a self
that goes on living. As an historian he would have stagnated among
historians. But as a letter writer he buffets his way among the crowd,
holding out a hand to each generation in turn--laughed at, criticized,
despised, admired, but always in touch with the living. When Macaulay
met him in October 1833, he struck that hand away in a burst of
righteous indignation. "His mind was a bundle of inconstant whims and
affectations. His features were covered by mask within mask." His
letters, like PATÉ DE FOIE GRAS, owed their excellence "to the diseases
of the wretched animal which furnishes it"--such was Macaulay's
greeting. And what greater boon can any writer ask than to be trounced
by Lord Macaulay? We take the reputation he has gored, repair it and
give it another spin and another direction--another lease of life.
Opinion, as Mr. Ketton-Cremer says, is always changing about Walpole.
"The present age looks upon him with a more friendly eye" than the last.
Is it that the present age is deafened with boom and blatancy? Does it
hear in Walpole's low tones things that are more interesting, more
penetrating, more true than can be said by the loud speakers? Certainly
there is something wonderful to the present age in the sight of a whole
human being--of a man so blessed that he could unfold every gift, every
foible, whose long life spreads like a great lake reflecting houses and
friends and wars and snuff boxes and revolutions and lap dogs, the great
and the little, all intermingled, and behind them a stretch of the
serene blue sky. "Nor will [death] I think see me very unwilling to go
with him, though I have no disappointments, but I came into the world so
early, and have seen so much that I am satisfied." Satisfied with his
life in the flesh, he could be still more satisfied with his life in the
spirit. Even now he is being collected and pieced together, letter and
answer, himself and the reflections of himself, so that whoever else may
die, Horace Walpole is immortal. Whatever ruin may befall the map of
Europe in years to come, there will still be people, it is consoling to
reflect, to hang absorbed over the map of one human face.


Since to criticize the Yale edition of Horace Walpole's letters to Cole
is impossible, for there cannot in the whole universe exist a single
human being whose praise or blame of such minute and monumental learning
can be of any value--if such exists his knowledge has been tapped
already--the only course for the reader is to say nothing about the
learning and the industry, the devotion and the skill which have created
these two huge volumes, and to record merely such fleeting thoughts as
have formed in the mind from a single reading. To encourage our selves,
let us assert, though not with entire confidence, that books after all
exist to be read--even the most learned of editors would to some extent
at least agree with that. But how, the question immediately arises, can
we read this magnificent instalment--for these are but the first two
volumes of this edition in which Mr. Lewis will give us the complete
correspondence--of our old friend Horace Walpole's letters? Ought not the
presses to have issued in a supplementary pocket a supplementary pair of
eyes? Then, with the usual pair fixed upon the text, the additional pair
could range the notes, thus sweeping together into one haul not only
what Horace is saying to Cole and what Cole is saying to Horace, but a
multitude of minor men and matters: for example, Thomas Farmer, who ran
away and left two girls with child; Thomas Wood, who was never drunk but
had a bad constitution and was therefore left fifty pounds and bed and
furniture in Cole's will; Cole's broken leg, how it was broken, and why
it was badly mended; Birch, who had (it is thought) an apoplectic fit
riding in the Hampstead Road, fell from his horse, and died; Thomas
Western (1695-1754), who was one of the pall-bearers at the funeral of
Cole's father; Cole's niece, the daughter of a wholesale cheesemonger;
John Woodyer, a man of placid disposition and great probity; Mrs. Allen
Hopkins, who was born Mary Thornhill; and, Lord Montfort, who--but if we
want to know more about that nobleman, his lions and tigers and his
"high-spirited and riotous behaviour," we must look it up for ourselves
in the Harwicke MSS. in the British Museum. There are limits even to
Mr. Lewis.

This little haul, taken at random, is enough to show how great a strain
the new method of editing lays upon the eye. But if the brain is at
first inclined to jib at such perpetual solicitations, and to beg to be
allowed to read the text in peace, it adjusts itself by degrees;
grudgingly admits that many of these little facts are to the point; and
finally becomes not merely a convert but a suppliant--asks not for less
but for more and more and more. Why, to take one instance only, is not
the name of Cole's temporary cook's sister divulged? Thomas Wood was his
servant; Thomas was left fifty pounds and allowed Cole's coach to run
away; Thomas's younger brother James, known as "Jem," ran errands
successfully and had a child ready to be sworn to him; their sister,
Molly, was for one month at least a cook and helped in the kitchen. But
there was another sister and, after learning all about the Woods, it is
positively painful not to know at least her Christian name.

Yet it may be asked, what has the name of Cole's cook's sister got to do
with Horace Walpole? That is a question which it is impossible to answer
briefly; but it is proof of the editor's triumph, justification of his
system, and a complete vindication of his immense labour that he has
convinced us, long before the end, that somehow or other it all hangs
together. The only way to read letters is to read them thus
stereoscopically. Horace is partly Cole; Cole is partly Horace; Cole's
cook is partly Cole; therefore Horace Walpole is partly Cole's cook's
sister. Horace, the whole Horace, is made up of innumerable facts and
reflections of facts. Each is infinitely minute; yet each is essential
to the other. To elicit them and relate them is out of the question. Let
us, then, concentrate for a moment upon the two main figures, in outline.

We have here, then, in conjunction the Honourable Horace Walpole and the
Reverend William Cole. But they were two very different people. Cole, it
is true, had been at Eton with Horace, where he was called by the famous
Walpole group "Tozhy," but he was not a member of that group, and
socially he was greatly Walpole's inferior. His father was a farmer,
Horace's father was a Prime Minister. Cole's niece was the daughter of a
cheesemonger; Horace's niece married a Prince of the Blood Royal. But
Cole was a man of solid good sense who made no bones of this disparity,
and, after leaving Eton and Cambridge, he had become, in his quiet
frequently flooded parsonage, one of the first antiquaries of the time.
It was this common passion that brought the two friends together

For some reason, obscurely hidden in the psychology of the human race,
the middle years of that eighteenth century which seems now a haven of
bright calm and serene civilization, affected some who actually lived in
it with a longing to escape--from its politics, from its wars, from its
follies, from its drabness and its dullness, to the superior charms of
the Middle Ages. "I . . . hope," wrote Cole in 1765, "by the latter end
of the week to be among my admired friends of the twelfth or thirteenth
century. Indeed you judge very right concerning my indifference about
what is going forward in the world, where I live in it as though I was
no way concerned about it except in paying, with my contemporaries, the
usual taxes and impositions. In good truth I am very indifferent about
my Lord Bute or Mr. Pitt, as I have long been convinced and satisfied in
my own mind that all oppositions are from the ins and the outs, and that
power and wealth and dignity are the things struggled for, not the good
of the whole. . . . I hope what I have said will not be offensive." Only
one weekly newspaper, the CAMBRIDGE CHRONICLE, brought him news of the
present moment. There at Bletchley or at Milton he sat secluded, wrapped
up from the least draught, for he was terribly subject to sore throats;
sometimes issuing forth to conduct a service, for he was, incidentally,
a clergyman; driving occasionally to Cambridge to hobnob with his
cronies; but always returning with delight to his study, where he copied
maps, filled in coats of arms, and pored assiduously over those budgets
of old manuscripts which were, as he said, "wife and children" to him.
Now and again, it is true, he looked out of the window at the antics of
his dog, for whose future he was careful to provide, or at those guinea
fowl whose eggs he begged off Horace--for "I have so few amusements and
can see these creatures from my study window when I can't stir out of my

But neither dog nor guinea fowl seriously distracted him. The hundred
and fourteen folio volumes left by him to the British Museum testify to
his professional industry. And it was precisely that quality--his
professional industry--that brought the two so dissimilar men together.
For Horace Walpole was by temperament an amateur. He was not, Cole
admitted, "a true, genuine antiquary"; nor did he think himself one. "Then
I have a wicked quality in an antiquary, nay one that annihilates the
essence; that is, I cannot bring myself to a habit of minute accuracy
about very indifferent points," Horace admitted. ". . . I bequeath free
leave of correction to the microscopic intellects of my continuators."
But he had what Cole lacked--imagination, taste, style, in addition to a
passion for the romantic past, so long as that romantic past was also a
civilized past, for mere "bumps in the ground" or "barrows and tumuli
and Roman camps" bored him to death. Above all, he had a purse long
enough to give visible and tangible expression--in prints, in gates, in
Gothic temples, in bowers, in old manuscripts, in a thousand gimcracks
and "brittle transitory relics" to the smouldering and inarticulate
passion that drove the professional antiquary to delve like some
indefatigable mole underground in the darkness of the past. Horace liked
his brittle relics to be pretty, and to be authentic, and he was always
eager to be put on the track of more.

The greater part of the correspondence thus is concerned with
antiquaries' gossip; with parish registers and cartularies; with coats
of arms and the Christian names of bishops; with the marriages of kings'
daughters; skeletons and prints; old gold rings found in a field; dates
and genealogies; antique chairs in Fen farmhouses; bits of stained glass
and old Apostle spoons. For Horace was furnishing Strawberry Hill; and
Cole was prodigiously adept at stuffing it, until there was scarcely
room to stick another knife or fork, and the gorged owner of all this
priceless lumber had to cry out: "I shudder when the bell rings at the
gate. It is as bad as keeping an inn." All the week he was plagued with
staring crowds.

Were this all it would be, and indeed it sometimes is, a little
monotonous. But they were two very different men. They struck unexpected
sparks in one another. Cole's Walpole was not Conway's Walpole; nor was
Walpole's Cole the good-natured old parson of the diary. Cole, of
course, stressed the antiquary in Walpole; but he also brought out very
clearly the limits of the antiquary in Walpole. Against Cole's
monolithic passion his own appears frivolous and flimsy. On the other
hand, in contrast with Cole's slow-plodding pen, his own shows its
mettle. He cannot flash, it is true--the subject, say, the names of
Edward the Fourth's daughters, forbids it--yet how sweetly English sings
on his side of the page, now in a colloquialism--"a more flannel
climate"--that Cole would never have ventured; now in a strain of
natural music--"Methinks as we grow old, our only business here is to
adorn the graves of our friends or to dig our own." That strain was
called forth by the death of their common friend, Thomas Gray. It was a
death that struck at Cole's heart, too, but produced no such echo in
that robust organ. At the mere threat of Conway's death, Horace was all
of a twitter--his nerves were "so aspen." It was a threat only; "Still
has it operated such a revolution in my mind, as no time, AT MY AGE, can
efface. I have had dreams in which I thought I wished for fame--. . . I
feel, I feel it was confined to the memory of those I love"--to which Cole
replies: "For both your sakes I hope he will soon get well again. It is a
misfortune to have so much sensibility in one's nature as you are endued
with: sufficient are one's own distresses without the additional
encumbrance of those of one's friends."

Nevertheless, Cole was by no means without distresses of his own. There
was that terrible occasion when the horses ran away and his hat blew off
and he sat with his legs in the air anticipating either death at the
tollgate or a bad cold. Mercifully both were spared him. Again, he
suffered tortures when, showing Dr. Gulston his prints, he begged him,
as a matter of form, to take any he liked; whereupon Gulston--"that
Algerine hog"--filled his portfolio with the most priceless. It is true
that Cole made him pay for them in the end, but it was a most
distressing business. And then what an agony it was when some fellow
antiquaries dined with him, and, confined with the gout, he had to let
them visit his study alone, to find next morning that an octavo volume,
and a borrowed volume at that, was missing! "The Master is too
honourable to take such a step," but--he had his suspicions. And what
was he to do? To confess the loss or to conceal it? To conceal it seemed
better, and yet, if the owner found out, "I am undone." Horace was all
sympathy. He loathed the whole tribe of antiquaries--"numskulls" he
called them mumbling manuscripts with their toothless jaws. "Their
understandings seem as much in ruins as the things they describe," he
wrote. "I love antiquities, but I scarce ever knew an antiquary who knew
how to write upon them."

He had all the aristocrat's contempt for the professional drudge, and no
desire whatsoever to be included among the sacred band of professional
authors. "They are always in earnest, and think their profession
serious, and dwell upon trifles, and reverence learning," he snapped
out. And yet, when writing to Cole he could confess what to a man of his
own class he would have concealed--that he, too, reverenced learning
when it was real, and admired no one more than a poet if he were
genuine. "A page in a great author humbles me to the dust," he wrote.
And after deriding his contemporaries added, "Don't think me scornful.
Recollect that I have seen Pope, and lived with Gray."

Certainly Cole's obscure but bulky form revealed a side of Horace
Walpole that was lost in the glitter of the great world. With that solid
man of no social gift but prodigious erudition Horace showed himself not
an antiquary, not a poet, not an historian, but what he was--the
aristocrat of letters, the born expert who knew the sham intellect from
the genuine as surely as the antiquary knew the faked genealogy from the
authentic. When Horace Walpole praised Pope and Gray he knew what he was
saying and meant it; and his shame at being hoisted into such high
society as theirs rings true. "I know not how others feel on such
occasions, but if anyone happens to praise me, all my faults gush into
my face, and make me turn my eyes inward and outward with horror. What am
I but a poor old skeleton, tottering towards the grave, and conscious of
ten thousand weaknesses, follies, and worse! And for talents, what are
mine, but trifling and superficial; and, compared with those of men of
real genius, most diminutive! . . . Does it become us, at past
threescore each, to be saying fine things to one another? Consider how
soon we shall both be nothing!" That is a tone of voice that he does not
use in speaking--for his writing voice was a speaking voice--to his
friends in the great world.

Again, Cole's High Church and Tory convictions when they touched a very
different vein in Walpole sometimes caused explosions. Once or twice the
friends almost came to blows over religion. The Church of England had a
substantial place in Cole's esteem. But to Walpole, "Church and
presbytery are human nonsense invented by knaves to govern fools.
EXALTED NOTIONS OF CHURCH MATTERS are contradictions in terms to the
lowliness and humility of the gospel. There is nothing sublime but the
Divinity. Nothing is sacred but as His work. A tree or a brute stone is
more respectable as such, than a mortal called an archbishop, or an
edifice called a church, which are the puny and perishable productions
of men. . . . A Gothic church or convent fill one with romantic
dreams--but for the mysterious, the Church in the abstract, it is a
jargon that means nothing or a great deal too much, and I reject it and
its apostles from Athanasius to Bishop Keene." Those were outspoken
words to a friend who wore a black coat. Yet they were not suffered to
break up an intimacy of forty years. Cole, to whom Walpole's little
weaknesses were not unknown, contented himself by commenting
sardonically at the end of the letter upon the lowliness and humility of
the aristocracy, observed that "Mr. Walpole is piqued, I can see, at my
reflections on Abbot's flattery"; but in his reply to Mr. Walpole he
referred only to the weather, Mr. Tyson, and the gout.

Horace's politics were equally detestable to Cole. He was, in writing at
least, a red-hot republican, the bitter enemy of all those Tory
principles that Cole revered. That, again, was a difference that
sometimes raised the temperature of the letters to fever heat--happily
for us, for it allows us, reading over their shoulders, to see Horace
Walpole roused--the dilettante become a man of action, chafing at his
own inactivity "sitting with one's arms folded" in a chair; deploring
his country's danger; remembering that if Cole is a country clergyman,
he is a Walpole; the son of a Prime Minister; that his father's son
might have done more than fill Strawberry Hill with Gothic ornaments;
and that his father's reputation is extremely dear to him. And yet did
not gossip whisper that he was not his father's son, and was there not,
somewhere deep within him, an uneasy suspicion that there was a blot on
his scutcheon, a freakish strain in his clear Norfolk blood?

Whoever his father may have been, his mother nature had somehow queered
the pitch of that very complex human being who was called Horace
Walpole. He was not simple; he was not single. As Cole noted with
antiquarian particularity, Mr. Walpole's letter of Friday, May 21St,
1762, was sealed with a "seal of red wax, a cupid with a large mask of a
monkey's face. An antique. Oval." The cupid and the monkey had each set
their stamp on Horace Walpole's wax. He was mischievous and obscene; he
gibbered and mocked and pelted the holy shrines with nutshells. And yet
with what a grace he did it--with what ease and brilliancy and wit! In
body, too, he was a contradiction--lean as a grasshopper, yet tough as
steel. He was lapped in luxury, yet never wore a great-coat, ate and
drank as little as a fasting friar, and walked on wet grass in slippers.
He fribbled away his time collecting bric-a-brac and drinking tea with
old ladies; yet wrote the best letters in the language in the midst of
the chatter; knew everyone; went everywhere; and, as he said, "lived
post." He seemed sometimes as heartless as a monkey; drove Chatterton,
so people said, to suicide, and allowed old Madame du Deffand to die
alone in despair. And yet who but Cupid wrote when Gray was dead, "I
treated him insolently; he loved me and I did not think he did"? Or
again, "One loves to find people care for one, when they can have no
view in it"? But it is futile to make such contradictions clash. There
were a thousand subtler impressions stamped on the wax of Horace
Walpole, and it is only posterity, for whom he had a great affection,
who will be able, when they have read all that he wrote to Mann and
Conway and Gray and the sisters Berry and Madame du Deffand and a score
of others; and what they wrote to him; and the innumerable notes at the
bottom of the page about cooks and scullions and gardeners and old women
in inns--it is only they who will be able, when Mr. Lewis has brought
his magnificent work to an end, to say what indeed Horace Walpole was.
Meanwhile, we, who only catch a fleeting glimpse and set down hastily
what we make of it, can testify that he is the best company in the
world--the most amusing, the most intriguing--the strangest mixture of ape
and Cupid that ever was.

THE REV WILLIAM COLE (* Written in 1932.)


My Dear William,

In my opinion you are keeping something back. Last year when you went to
Paris and did not see Madame du Deffand but measured the exact length of
every nose on every tombstone--I can assure you they have grown no longer
or shorter since--I was annoyed, I admit. But I had the sense to see
that, after all, you were alive, and a clergyman, and from Bletchley--in
fact, you were as much out of place in Paris as a cowslip impaled upon
the diamond horns of a duchess's tiara. Put him back in Bletchley, I
said, plant him in his own soil, let him burble on in his own fashion,
and the miracle will happen. The cows will low; the church bells will
ring; all Bletchley will come alive; and, reading over William's
shoulder, we shall see deep, deep into the hearts of Mrs. Willis and
Mr. Robinson.

I regret to tell you that I was wrong. You are not a cowslip. You do not
bloom. The hearts of Mrs. Willis and Mr. Robinson remain sealed books to
us. You write January 16th, 1766, and it is precisely as if I had
written January 16th, 1932. In other words, you have rubbed all the
bloom off two hundred years and that is so rare a feat--it implies
something so queer in the writer--that I am intrigued and puzzled and
cannot help asking you to enlighten me. Are you simply a bore, William?
No that is out of the question. In the first place, Horace Walpole did
not tolerate bores, or write to them, or go for country jaunts with
them; in the second, Miss Waddell loves you. You shed all round you, in
the eyes of Miss Waddell, that mysterious charm which those we love
impart to their meanest belongings. She loves your parrot; she
commiserates your cat. Every room in your house is familiar to her. She
knows about your Gothic chamber and your neat arched bed; she knows how
many steps led up to the pantry and down to the summer house; she knows,
she approves, how you spent every hour of your day. She sees the
neighbours through the light of your eyes. She laughs at some; she likes
others; she knows who was fat and who was thin, and who told lies, who
had a bad leg, and who was no better than she should have been. Mr. and
Mrs. Barton, Thomas Tansley, Mr. and Mrs. Lord of Mursley, the Diceys,
and Dr. Pettingal are all real and alive to her: so are your roses, your
horses, your nectarines and your knats.

Would that I could see through her eyes! Alas, wherever I look I see
blight and mildew. The moss never grows upon your walls. Your nectarines
never ripen. The blackbird sings, but out of tune. The knats--and you
say "I hardly know a place so pestered with that vermin as
Bletchley"--bite, just like our gnats. As for the human beings they pass
through the same disenchantment. Not that I have any fault to find with
your friends or with Bletchley either. Nobody is very good, but then
nobody is very bad. Tom sometimes hits a hare, oftener he misses; the
fish sometimes bite, but not always; if it freezes it also thaws, and
though the harvest was not bad it might have been better. But now,
William, confess. We know in our hearts, you and I, that England in the
eighteenth century was not like this. We know from Woodforde, from
Walpole, from Thomas Turner, from Skinner, from Gray, from Fielding,
from Jane Austen, from scores of memoirs and letters, from a thousand
forgotten stone masons, bricklayers and cabinet makers, from a myriad
sources, that I have not learning to name or space to quote, that
England was a substantial, beautiful country in the eighteenth century;
aristocratic and common; hand-made and horse-ploughed; an eating,
drinking, bastard-begetting, laughing, cursing, humorous, eccentric,
lovable land. If with your pen in your hand and the dates facing you,
January 16th, 1766, you see none of all this, then the fault is yours.
Some spite has drawn a veil across your eyes. Indeed, there are pouches
under them I could swear. You slouch as you walk. You switch at thistles
half-heartedly with your stick. You do not much enjoy your food. Gossip
has no relish for you. You mention the "scandalous story of Mr. Felton
Hervey, his two daughters and a favourite footman" and add, "I hope it
is not true." So do I, but I cannot put much life into my hoping when
you withhold the facts. You stop Pettingal in the middle of his
boasting--you cut him short with a sarcasm--just as he was proving that
the Greeks liked toasted cheese and was deriving the word Bergamy from
the Arabic. As for Madame Geoffrin, you never lose a chance of saying
something disobliging about that lady; a coffee-pot has only to be
reputed French for you to defame it. Then look how touchy you are--you
grumble, the servants are late with the papers, you complain, Mr. Pitt
never thanked you for the pigeons (yet Horace Walpole thought you a
philosopher); then how you suspect people's motives; how
you bid fathers thrash their little boys; how you are sure the servant
steals the onions. All these are marks of a thin-blooded
poverty-stricken disposition. And yet--you are a good man; you visit the
poor; you bury the infected; you have been educated at Cambridge; you
venerate antiquity. The truth is that you are concealing something, even
from Miss Waddell.

Why, I ask, did you write this diary and lock it in a chest with iron
hoops and insist that no one was to read it or publish it for twenty
years after your death unless it were that you had something on your
mind, something that you wished to confess and get rid of? You are not
one of those people who love life so well that they cherish even the
memory of roast mutton, like Woodforde; you did not hate life so much
that you must shriek out your curse on it, Eke poor Skinner. You write
and write, ramblingly, listlessly, like a person who is trying to bring
himself to say the thing that will explain to himself what is wrong
with himself. And you find it very hard. You would rather mention
anything but that--Miss Chester, I mean, and the boat on the Avon. You
cannot force yourself to admit that you have kept that lock of hair in
your drawer these thirty years. When Mrs. Robinson, her daughter, asked
you for it (March 19th 1766) you said you could not find it. But you
were not easy under that concealment. You did at length go to your
private drawer (November 26th, 1766) and there it was, as you well knew.
But even so, with the lock of hair in your hand, you still seek to put
us off the scent. You ramble on about giving Mrs. Robinson a barrel of
oysters; about potted rabbits; about the weather, until suddenly out it
comes, "Gave Mrs. Robinson a braided Lock of Lady Robinson's Mother's
hair (and Sister to Mrs. Robinson of Cransley), which I cut off in a
Boat on the River Avon at Bath about 30 years ago when my Sister Jane
and myself were much acquainted with her, then Miss Chester." There we
have it. The poisoned tooth is out. You were once young and ardent and
very much in love. Passion overcame you. You were alone. The wind blew a
lock of Miss Chester's hair from beneath her hat. You reached forward.
You cut it. And then? Nothing. That is your tragedy--you yourself failed
yourself. You think of that scene twenty times a day, I believe, as you
saunter, rather heavily; along the damp paths at Bletchley. That is the
dreary little tune that you hum as you stoop over your parments
measuring noses, deciphering dates--"I failed, failed, failed on the
boat on the Avon." That is why your nectarines are blighted; and the
parrot dies; and the parlour cat is scalded; and you love nobody except,
perhaps, your little dun-coloured horse. That is why you "always had a
mind to live retired in Glamorganshire." That is why Mr. Pitt never
thanked you for the pigeons. That is why Mr. Stonehewer became His
Majesty's Historiographer, while you visited paupers in Fenny Stratford.
That is why he never came to see you, and why you observed so bitterly,
that "people suffer themselves to forget their old friends when they are
surrounded by the great and are got above the world." You see, William,
if you hoard a failure, if you come to grudge even the sun for
shining--and that, I think, is what you did--fruit does not ripen; a
blight falls upon parrots and cats; people would actually rather that
you did not give them pigeons.

But enough. I may be wrong. Miss Chester's hair may have nothing to do
with it. And Miss Waddell may be right--every good quality of heart and
head may be yours. I am sure I hope so. But I beg, William, now that you
are about to begin a fresh volume, at Cambridge too, with men of
character and learning, that you will pull yourself together. Speak out.
Justify the faith that Miss Waddell has in you. For you are keeping one
of the finest scholars of her time shut up in the British Museum among
mummies and policemen and wet umbrellas. There must be a trifle of
ninety-five volumes more of you in those iron-bound chests. Lighten her
task; relieve our anxiety, and so add to the gratitude of your obliged
obedient servant,

Virginia Woolf.

THE HISTORIAN AND "THE GIBBON" (* Written in March 1937.)

"Yet, upon the whole, the HISTORY OF THE DECLINE AND FALL seems to have
struck root, both at home and abroad, and may, perhaps, a hundred years
hence still continue to be abused." So Gibbon wrote in the calm
confidence of immortality; and let us confirm him in his own opinion of
his book by showing, in the first place, that it has one quality of
permanence--it still excites abuse. Few people can read the whole of the
DECLINE AND FALL without admitting that some chapters have glided away
without leaving a trace; that many pages are no more than a concussion
of sonorous sounds; and that innumerable figures have passed across the
stage without printing even their names upon our memories. We seem, for
hours on end, mounted on a celestial rocking-horse which, as it gently
sways up and down, remains rooted to a single spot. In the soporific
idleness thus induced we recall with regret the vivid partisanship of
Macaulay, the fitful and violent poetry of Carlyle. We suspect that
the vast fame with which the great historian is surrounded is one of those
vague diffusions of acquiescence which gather when people are too busy,
too lazy or too timid to see things for themselves. And to justify this
suspicion it is easy to gather pomposities of diction--the Church has
become "the sacred edifice"; and sentences so stereotyped that they chime
like bells--"destroyed the confidence" must be followed by "and excited
the resentment"; while characters are daubed in with single epithets like
"the vicious" or "the virtuous," and are so crudely jointed that they seem
capable only of the extreme antics of puppets dangling from a string. It
is easy, in short, to suppose that Gibbon owed some part of his fame to
the gratitude of journalists on whom he bestowed the gift of a style
singularly open to imitation and well adapted to invest little ideas with
large bodies. And then we turn to the book again, and to our amazement we
find that the rocking-horse has left the ground; we are mounted on a
winged steed; we are sweeping in wide circles through the air and below
us Europe unfolds; the ages change and pass; a miracle has taken place.

But miracle is not a word to use in writing of Gibbon. If miracle there
was it lay in the inexplicable fact which Gibbon, who seldom stresses a
word, himself thought worthy of italics: ". . . I KNOW by experience,
that from my early youth I aspired to the character of an historian."
Once that seed was planted so mysteriously in the sickly boy whose
erudition amazed his tutor there was more of the rational than of the
miraculous in the process by which that gift was developed and brought to
fruition. Nothing, in the first place, could have been more cautious,
more deliberate and more far-sighted than Gibbon's choice of a subject. A
historian he had to be; but historian of what? The history of the Swiss
was rejected; the history of Florence was rejected; for a long time he
played with the idea of a life of Sir Walter Raleigh. Then that, too, was
rejected and for reasons that are extremely illuminating:

  . . . I should shrink with terror from the modern history of England,
  where every character is a problem, and every reader a friend or an
  enemy; where a writer is supposed to hoist a flag of party, and is
  devoted to damnation by the adverse faction. . . . I must embrace a
  safer and more extensive theme.

But once found, how was he to treat the distant, the safe, the extensive
theme? An attitude, a style had to be adopted; one presumably that
generalized, since problems of character were to be avoided; that
abolished the writer's personality, since he was not dealing with his own
times and contemporary questions; that was rhythmical and fluent, rather
than abrupt and intense, since vast stretches of time had to be covered,
and the reader carried smoothly through many folios of print.

At last the problem was solved; the fusion was complete; matter and manner
became one; we forget the style, and are only aware that we are safe in
the keeping of a great artist. He is able to make us see what he wants us
to see and in the right proportions. Here he compresses; there he
expands. He transposes, emphasizes, omits in the interests of order and
drama. The features of the individual faces are singularly
conventionalized. Here are none of those violent gestures and
unmistakable voices that fill the pages of Carlyle and Macaulay with
living human beings who are related to ourselves. There are no Whigs and
Tories here; no eternal verities and implacable destinies. Time has cut
off those quick reactions that make us love and hate. The innumerable
figures are suffused in the equal blue of the far distance. They rise and
fall and pass away without exciting our pity or our anger. But if the
figures are small, they are innumerable; if the scene is dim it is vast.
Armies wheel; hordes of barbarians are destroyed; forests are huge and
dark; processions are splendid; altars rise and fall; one dynasty
succeeds another. The richness, the variety of the scene absorb us. He is
the most resourceful of entertainers. Without haste or effort he swings
his lantern where he chooses. If sometimes the size of the whole is
oppressive, and the unemphatic story monotonous, suddenly in the flash of
a phrase a detail is lit up: we see the monks "in the lazy gloom of their
convents"; statues become unforgettably "that inanimate people"; the
"gilt and variegated armour" shines out: the splendid names of kings and
countries are sonorously intoned; or the narrative parts and a scene

  By the order of Probus, a great quantity of large trees, torn up by
  the roots, were transplanted into the midst of the circus. The
  spacious and shady forest was immediately filled with a thousand
  ostriches, a thousand stags, a thousand fallow deer, and a thousand
  wild boars; and all this variety of game was abandoned to the riotous
  impetuosity of the multitude. . . . The air was continually refreshed by
  the playing of fountains, and profusely impregnated by the grateful
  scent of aromatics. In the centre of the edifice, the arena, or
  stage, was strewed with the finest sand, and successively assumed the
  most different forms. At one moment it seemed to rise out of the
  earth, like the garden of Hesperides, and was afterwards broken into
  the rocks and caverns of Thrace. . . .

But it is only when we come to compress and dismember one of Gibbon's
pictures that we realize how carefully the parts have been chosen, how
firmly the sentences, composed after a certain number of turns round the
room and then tested by the ear and only then written down, adhere

But these are qualities, it might be said, that belong to the historical
novelist--to Scott or to Flaubert. And Gibbon was an historian, so
religiously devoted to the truth that he felt an aspersion upon his
accuracy as an aspersion upon his character. Flights of notes at the
bottom of the page check his pageants and verify his characters. Thus
they have a different quality from scenes and characters composed from a
thousand hints and suggestions in the freedom of the imagination. They
are inferior, perhaps, in subtlety and in intensity. On the other hand,
as Gibbon pointed out, "The Cyropaedia is vague and languid; the
Anabasis circumstantial and animated. Such is the eternal difference
between fiction and truth."

The imagination of the novelist must often fail; but the historian can
repose himself upon fact. And even if those facts are sometimes dubious
and capable of more than one interpretation, they bring the reason into
play and widen our range of interest. The vanished generations, invisible
separately, have collectively spun round them intricate laws, erected
marvellous structures of ceremony and belief. These can be described,
analysed, recorded. The interest with which we follow him in his patient
and impartial examination has an excitement peculiar to itself. History
may be, as he tells us, "little more than the register of the crimes,
follies, and misfortunes of mankind"; but we seem, at least, as we read
him raised above the tumult and the chaos into a clear and rational air.

  The victories and the civilization of Constantine no longer influence
  the state of Europe; but a considerable portion of the globe still
  retains the impression which it received from the conversion of that
  monarch; and the ecclesiastical institutions of his reign are still
  connected, by an indissoluble chain, with the opinions, the passions,
  and the interests of the present generation.

He is not merely a master of the pageant and the story; he is also the
critic and the historian of the mind.

It is here of course that we become conscious of the idiosyncrasy and of
the limitations of the writer. Just as we know that Macaulay was a
nineteenth-century Whig, and Carlyle a Scottish peasant with the gift of
prophecy, so we know that Gibbon was rooted in the eighteenth century and
indelibly stamped with its character and his own. Gradually, stealthily,
with a phrase here, a gibe there, the whole solid mass is leavened with
the peculiar quality of his temperament. Shades of meaning reveal
themselves; the pompous language becomes delicate and exact. Sometimes a
phrase is turned edgewise, so that as it slips with the usual suavity
into its place it leaves a scratch. "He was even destitute of a sense of
honour, which so frequently supplies the sense of public virtue." Or
the solemn rise and fall of the text above is neatly diminished by the
demure particularity of a note. "The ostrich's neck is three feet long,
and composed of seventeen vertebrae. See Buffon. Hist. Naturelle." The
infallibility of historians is gravely mocked. ". . . their knowledge
will appear gradually to increase, as their means of information must
have diminished, a circumstance which frequently occurs in historical
disquisitions." Or we are urbanely asked to reflect how,

  in our present state of existence, the body is so inseparably
  connected with the soul, that it seems to be to our interest to taste,
  with innocence and moderation, the enjoyments of which that faithful
  companion is susceptible.

The infirmities of that faithful companion provide him with a fund of
perpetual amusement. Sex, for some reason connected, perhaps, with his
private life, always excites a demure smile:

  Twenty-two acknowledged concubines, and a library of sixty-two
  thousand volumes, attested the variety of his inclinations; and from
  the productions which he left behind him, it appears that the former
  as well as the latter were designed for use rather than for

The change upon such phrases is rung again and again. Few virgins or
matrons, nuns or monks leave his pages with their honour entirely
unscathed. But his most insidious raillery, his most relentless reason,
are directed, of course, against the Christian religion.

Fanaticism, asceticism, superstition were naturally antipathetic to him.
Wherever he found them, in life or in religion, they roused his contempt
and derision. The two famous chapters in which he examined "the HUMAN
causes of the progress and establishment of Christianity," though
inspired by the same love of truth which in other connections excited the
admiration of scholars, roused great scandal at the time. Even the
eighteenth century, that "age of light and liberty," was not entirely
open to the voice of reason. "How many souls have his writings polluted!"
Hannah More exclaimed when she heard of his death. "Lord preserve
others from their contagion!" In such circumstances irony was the
obvious weapon; the pressure of public opinion forced him to be covert,
not open. And irony is a dangerous weapon; it easily becomes sidelong and
furtive; the ironist seems to be darting a poisoned tongue from a place
of concealment. However grave and temperate Gibbon's irony at its best,
however searching his logic and robust his contempt for the cruelty and
intolerance of superstition, we sometimes feel, as he pursues his victim
with incessant scorn, that he is a little limited, a little superficial,
a little earthy, a little too positively and imperturbably a man of the
eighteenth century and not of our own.

But then he is Gibbon; and even historians, as Professor Bury reminds us,
have to be themselves. History "is in the last resort somebody's image of
the past, and the image is conditioned by the mind and experience of the
person who forms it." Without his satire, his irreverence, his mixture of
sedateness and slyness, of majesty and mobility, and above all that
belief in reason which pervades the whole book and gives it unity, an
implicit if unspoken message, the DECLINE AND FALL would be the work of
another man. It would be the work indeed of two other men. For as we read
we are perpetually creating another book, perceiving another figure. The
sublime person of "the historian" as the Sheffields called him is
attended by a companion whom they called, as if he were the solitary
specimen of some extinct race, "the Gibbon." The Historian and the
Gibbon go hand in hand. But it is not easy to draw even a thumbnail
sketch of this strange being because the autobiography, or rather the six
autobiographies, compose a portrait of such masterly completeness and
authority that it defies our attempts to add to it. And yet no
autobiography is ever final; there is always something for the reader to
add from another angle.

There is the body, in the first place--the body with all those little
physical peculiarities that the outsider sees and uses to interpret what
lies within. The body in Gibbon's case was ridiculous--prodigiously fat,
enormously top-heavy, precariously balanced upon little feet upon which
he spun round with astonishing alacrity. Like Goldsmith he over-dressed,
and for the same reason perhaps--to supply the dignity which nature
denied him. But unlike Goldsmith, his ugliness caused him no
embarrassment or, if so, he had mastered it completely. He talked
incessantly, and in sentences composed as carefully as his writing. To
the sharp and irreverent eyes of contemporaries his vanity was
perceptible and ridiculous; but it was only on the surface. There was
something hard and muscular in the obese little body which turned aside
the sneers of the fine gentlemen. He had roughed it, not only in the
Hampshire Militia, but among his equals. He had supped "at little tables
covered with a napkin, in the middle of a coffee room, upon a bit of cold
meat or a Sandwich," with twenty or thirty of the first men in the
kingdom, before he retired to rule supreme over the first families of
Lausanne. It was in London, among the distractions of society and
politics, that he achieved that perfect poise, that perfect balance
between work, society and the pleasures of the senses which composed his
wholly satisfactory existence. And the balance had not been arrived at
without a struggle. He was sickly; he had a spendthrift for a father; he
was expelled from Oxford; his love affair was thwarted; he was short of
money and had none of the advantages of birth. But he turned everything
to profit. From his lack of health he learnt the love of books; from the
barrack and the guardroom he learnt to understand the common people; from
his exile he learnt the smallness of the English cloister; and from
poverty and obscurity how to cultivate the amenities of human

At last it seemed as if life itself were powerless to unseat this perfect
master of her uncertain paces. The final buffet--the loss of his
sinecure--was turned to supreme advantage; a perfect house, a perfect
friend, a perfect society at once placed themselves at his service, and
without loss of time or temper Gibbon entered a post-chaise with Caplin
his valet and Muff his dog and bowled over Westminster Bridge to finish
his history and enjoy his maturity in circumstances that were ideal.

But as we run over the familiar picture there is something that eludes
us. It may be that we have not been able to find out anything for
ourselves. Gibbon has always been before us. His self-knowledge was
consummate; he had no illusions either about himself or about his work.
He had chosen his part and he played it to perfection. Even that
characteristic attitude, with his snuff-box in his hand and his body
stretched out, he had noted himself, and perhaps he had adopted it as
consciously as he observed it. But it is his silence that is most
baffling. Even in the letters, where he drops the Historian and shortens
himself now and then to "the Gib," there are long pauses when nothing
is heard even at Sheffield Place of what is going on in the study at

The artist after all is a solitary being. Twenty years spent in the
society of the DECLINE AND FALL are twenty years spent in solitary
communion with distant events, with intricate problems of arrangement,
with the minds and bodies of the dead. Much that is important to other
people loses its importance; the perspective is changed when the eyes are
fixed not upon the foreground but upon the mountains, not upon a living
woman but upon "my other wife, the DECLINE AND FALL OF THE ROMAN EMPIRE."
And it is difficult, after casting firm sentences that will withstand the
tread of time. to say "in three words, I am alone." It is only now and
then that we catch a phrase that has not been stylized, or see a little
picture that he has not been able to include in the majestic design. For
example, when Lord Sheffield bursts out in his downright way, "You are a
right good friend . . .," we see the obese little man impetuously and
impulsively hoisting himself into a post-chaise and crossing a Europe
ravaged by revolution to comfort a widower. And again when the old
stepmother at Bath takes up her pen and quavers out a few uncomposed and
unliterary sentences we see him:

  I truely rejoice, & congratulate you on your being once more safely
  arrived in your native Country. I wish'd to tell you so yesterday, but
  the joy your letter gave would not suffer my hand to be steady enough
  to write. . . . Many has been the disappointments I have borne with
  fortitude, but the fear of having my last and only friend torn from
  me was very near overseting my reason. . . . Madame Ely and Mrs. Bonfoy
  are here. Mrs. Holroyd has probably told you that Miss Gould is now
  Mrs. Horneck. I wish she had been Mrs. Gibbon . . .

so the old lady rambles on, and for a moment we see him as in a cracked
mirror held in a trembling hand. For a moment, a cloud crosses that
august countenance. It was true. He had sometimes on returning home in
the evening, sighed for a companion. He had sometimes felt that
"domestic solitude . . . is a comfortless state." He had conceived the
romantic idea of adopting and educating a young female relative called
Charlotte. But there were difficulties; the idea was abandoned. Then the
cloud drifts away; common sense, indomitable cheerfulness return; once
more the serene figure of the historian emerges triumphant. He had every
reason to be content. The great building was complete; the mountain was
off his breast; the slave was freed from the toil of the oar.

And he was by no means exhausted. Other tasks less laborious, perhaps
more delightful, lay before him. His love of literature was unsated; his
love of life--of the young, of the innocent, of the gay--was unblunted.
It was the faithful companion, the body, unfortunately, that failed him.
But his composure was unshaken. He faced death with an equanimity that
speaks well for "the profane virtues of sincerity and moderation." And
as he sank into a sleep that was probably eternal, he could remember
with satisfaction the view across the plain to the stupendous mountains
beyond; the white acacia that grew beside the study window, and the great
work which, he was not wrong in thinking, will immortalize his name.


The great ponds at Sheffield Place at the right season of the year are
bordered with red, white and purple reflections, for rhododendrons are
massed upon the banks and when the wind passes over the real flowers the
water flowers shake and break into each other. But there, in an opening
among the trees stands a great fantastic house, and since it was there
that John Holroyd, Lord Sheffield, lived, since it was there that Gibbon
stayed, another reflection imposes itself upon the water trance. Did the
historian himself ever pause here to cast a phrase, and if so what words
would he have found for those same floating flowers? Great lord of
language as he was, no doubt he filled his mind from the fountain of
natural beauty. The exactions of the DECLINE AND FALL meant, of course,
the death and dismissal of many words deserving of immortal life. Order
and seemliness were drastically imposed. It was a question, he reflected,
"whether some flowers of fancy, some grateful errors, have not been
eradicated with the weeds of prejudice." Still his mind was a whispering
gallery of words; the famous "barefooted friars" singing vespers may
have been a recollection of Marlowe's "And ducke as low as any bare-foot
Fryar," murmuring in the background. Be this as it may, to consider what
Gibbon would have said had he seen the rhododendrons reflected in the
water is an idle exercise, for in his day, late in the eighteenth
century, a girl who looked out of the window of Sheffield Place saw not
rhododendrons "but four young swans . . . now entirely grey" floating
upon the water. Moreover, it is unlikely that he ever bestirred himself
to walk in the grounds. "Gib," that same girl, Maria Josepha Holroyd,
remarked, "is a mortal enemy to any person taking a walk, and he is so
frigid that he makes us sit by a good roasting Christmas fire every
evening." There he sat in the summer evening talking endlessly,
delightfully, in the best of spirits, for no place was more like home to
him than Sheffield Place, and he looked upon the Holroyds as his own
flesh and blood.

Seen through Maria's eyes Gibbon--she called him sometimes "Gib,"
sometimes "le grand Gibbon," sometimes "The Historian"--looked
different from Gibbon seen by himself. In 1792 she was a girl of
twenty-one; he was a man of fifty-five. To him she was "the tall and
blooming Maria"; "the soft and stately Maria," a niece by adoption,
whose manners he could correct; whose future he could forecast--"That
establishment must be splendid; that life must be happy"; whose style,
especially one metaphor about the Rhine escaping its banks, he could
approve. But to her he was often an object of ridicule; he was so fat;
such a figure of fun "waddling across the room whenever she [Madame da
Silva] appeared, and sitting by her and looking at her, till his round
eyes run down with water"; rather testy too, an old bachelor, who lived
like clockwork and hated to have his plans upset; but at the same time,
she had to admit, the most delightful of talkers. That summer night he
drew out the two young men who were staying in the house, Fred North and
Mr. Douglas, and made them far more entertaining than they would have
been without him. "It was impossible to have selected three Beaux who
could have been more agreeable, whether their conversation was trifling
or serious," whether they talked about Greek and Latin or turtle soup.
For that summer Mr. Gibbon was "raving" about turtles and wanted Lord
Sheffield to have one brought from London. Maria's gaze rested upon him
with a mixture of amusement and respect; but it did not rest upon him
alone. For not only were Fred North and Mr. Douglas in the room, and the
swans on the pond outside and the woods; but soldiers were tramping past
the Park gates; the Prince himself was holding a review; they were going
over to inspect the camp; Mr. Gibbon and Aunt Serena in the post chaise;
she, if only her father would let her, on horseback. But the sight of her
father suggested other cares; he was wildly hospitable; he had asked the
Prince and the Duke to stay; and as her mother was dead, all the
catering, all the entertaining fell upon her. There was too something in
her father's face that made her look at Mr. Gibbon as if for support; he
was the only man who could influence her father; who could bring him to
reason; who could check his extravagance, restrain . . . But here she
paused, for there was some weakness in her father's character that could
not be put into plain language by a daughter. At any rate she was very
glad when he married a second time "for I feel delighted to think when
sooner or later troubles come, as we who know the gentleman must
fear . . ." Whatever frailty of her father's she hinted at, Mr. Gibbon was
the only one of his friends whose good sense could restrain him.

The relation between the Peer and the Historian was very singular. They
were devoted. But what tie was it that attached the downright,
self-confident, perhaps loose-living man of the world to the suave,
erudite sedentary historian?--the attraction of opposites perhaps.
Sheffield, with his finger in every pie, his outright, downright
man of-the-world's good sense, supplied the historian with what he must
sometimes have needed--someone to call him "you damned beast," someone
to give him a solid footing on English earth. In Parliament Gibbon was
dumb; in love he was ineffective. But his friend Holroyd was a member of
a dozen committees; before one wife was two years in the grave he had
married another. If it is true that friends are chosen partly in order to
live lives that we cannot live in our own persons, then we can understand
why the Peer and the Historian were devoted; why the great writer
divested himself of his purple language and wrote racy colloquial English
to Sheffield; why Sheffield curbed his extravagance and restrained his
passions in deference to Gibbon; why Gibbon crossed Europe, in a post
chaise to console Sheffield for his wife's death; and why Sheffield,
though always busied with a thousand affairs of his own, yet found time
to manage Gibbon's tangled money matters; and was now indeed engaged in
arranging the business of Aunt Hester's legacy.

Considering Hester Gibbon's low opinion of her nephew and her own
convictions it was surprising that she had left him any thing at all. To
her Gibbon stood for all those lusts of the flesh, all those vanities of
the intellect which many years previously she had renounced. Many years
ago, many years before the summer night when they sat round the fire in
the Library and discussed Latin and Greek and turtle soup, Hester Gibbon
had put all such vanities behind her. She had left Putney and the
paternal house to follow her brother's tutor William Law to his home in
Northamptonshire. There in the village of King's Cliffe she lived with
him trying to understand his mystic philosophy, more successfully putting
it into practice; teaching the ignorant; living frugally; feeding
beggars, spending her substance on charity. There at last, for she made
no haste to join the Saints as her nephew observed, at the age of
eighty-six she lay by Law's side in his grave; while Mrs. Hutcheson, who
had shared his house but not his love, lay in an inferior position at
their feet. Every difference that could divide two human beings seems to
have divided the aunt from the nephew; and yet they had something in
common. The suburban world of Putney had called her mad because she
believed too much; the learned world of divinity had called him wicked
because he believed too little. Both aunt and nephew found it impossible
to hit off the exact degree of scepticism and belief which the world holds
reasonable. And this very difference perhaps had not been without its
effect upon the nephew. When he was a young man practising the graces
which were to conciliate the world he adored, his eccentric aunt had
roused his ridicule. "Her dress and figure exceed anything we had at the
masquerade; her language and ideas belong to the last century," he wrote.
In fact, though his urbanity never deserted him in writing to her--he was
her heir-at-law we are reminded--his comments to others upon the Saint, the
Holy Matron of Northamptonshire, as he called her, were of an acutely
ironical kind; nor did he fail to note maliciously those little
frailties--her anger when Mrs. Hutcheson forgot her in her will; her
reprehensible desire to borrow from a nephew whom she refused to
meet--which were to him so marked a feature of the saintly temper, so
frequent an accompaniment of a mind clouded by enthusiasm. As Maria
Holroyd observed, and others have observed after her, the great historian
had a round mouth but an extremely pointed tongue; and--who knows?--it may
have been Aunt Hester herself who first sharpened that weapon. Edward's
father, for instance, may have talked about William Law, his tutor--an
admirable man of course; far too great a man, to have been the tutor of a
scatter-brained spendthrift like himself; still William Law had made
himself very comfortable at the Gibbon's house in Putney, had filled it
with his own friends; had allowed Hester to fall passionately in love
with him, but had never married her, since marriage was against his
creed--had only accepted her devotion and her income, conduct which in
another might have been condemned--so he may have gossiped. From very
early days at any rate Edward must have had a private view of the
eccentricities of the unworldly, of the inconsistencies of the devout.
At last, however, Aunt Hester, as her nephew irreverently remarked, had
"gone to sing Hallelujahs." She lay with William Law in the grave, after a
life of what ecstasies, of what tortures, of what jealousies, of what
safisfactions who can say? The only fact that was certain was that she had
left one hundred pounds and an estate at Newhaven to her "poor though
unbelieving nephew." "She might have done better, she might have done
worse," he observed. And by an odd coincidence her land lay not far from
the Holroyd property; Lord Sheffield was eager to buy it. He could easily
pay for it, he was sure, by cutting down some of the timber.

If then we accept Aunt Hester's view, Gibbon was a worldling, wallowing
in the vanities of the flesh, scoffing at the holiness of the faith. But
his other aunt, his mother's sister, took a very different view of him.
To his Aunt Kitty he had been ever since he was a babe a source of acute
anxiety--he was so weakly; and of intense pride--he was such a prodigy.
His mother was one of those flyaway women who make great use of their
unmarried sisters, since they are frequently in childbed themselves and
have an appetite for pleasure when they can escape the cares of the
nursery. She died, moreover, in her prime; and Kitty of course took
charge of the only survivor of all those cradles, nursed him, petted him,
and was the first to inspire him with that love of pagan literature which
was to bring the glitter of minarets and the flash of eastern pageantry
so splendidly into his sometimes too pale and pompous prose. It was Aunt
Kitty who, with a prodigality that would have scandalized Aunt Hester,
flung open the door of that enchanted world--the world of THE CAVERN OF
NIGHTS in which Edward was to roam for ever. "Where a title attracted my
eye, without fear or awe I snatched the volume from the shelf; and Mrs.
Porten, who indulged herself in moral and religious speculations, was
more prone to encourage. than to check a curiosity above the strength of
a boy." And it was she who first loosened his lips. "Her indulgent
tenderness, the frankness of her temper, and my innate rising curiosity,
soon removed all distance between us; like friends of an equal age, we
freely conversed on every topic, familiar or abstruse." It was she who
began the conversation which was still continuing in front of the fire in
the library that summer night.

What would have happened if the child had fallen into the hands of his
other aunt and her companion? Should we have had the DECLINE AND FALL if
they had controlled his reading and checked his curiosity, as William Law
checked all reading and condemned all curiosity? It is an interesting
question. But the effect on the man of his two incompatible aunts
developed a conflict in his nature. Aunt Hester, from whom he expected a
fortune, encouraged, it would seem from his letters, a streak of
hypocrisy, a vein of smooth and calculating conventionality. He sneered
to Sheffield at her religion; when she died he hailed her departure with
a flippant joke. Aunt Kitty on the other hand brought out a strain of
piety, of filial devotion. When she died he wrote, as if it were she and
not the Saint who made him think kindly for a moment of Christianity,
"The immortality of the soul is on some occasions a very comfortable
doctrine." And it was she certainly who made him bethink him when she was
asked to stay at Sheffield Place, that "Aunt Kitty has a secret wish to
lye in my room; if it is not occupied, it might be indulged." So while
Aunt Hester lay with William Law in the grave, Aunt Kitty hoisted herself
into the great four-poster with the help of the stool which the little
man always used, and lay there, seeing the very cupboards and chairs that
her nephew saw when he slept there, and the pond perhaps and the trees
out of the window. The great historian, whose gaze swept far horizons and
surveyed the processions of the Roman Emperors, could also fix them
minutely upon a rather tedious old lady and guess her fancy to sleep in a
certain bed. He was a strange mixture.

Very strange, Maria may have thought as she sat there listening to his
talk while she stitched: selfish yet tender; ridiculous but sublime.
Perhaps human nature was like that--by no means all of a piece; different
at different moments; changing, as the furniture changed in the
firelight, as the waters of the lake changed when the night wind swept
over them. But it was time for bed; the party broke up. Mr. Gibbon, she
noted with concern, for she was genuinely fond of him, had some
difficulty in climbing the stairs. He was unwell; a slight operation for
an old complaint was necessary, and he left them with regret to go to
town. The operation was over; the news was good; they hoped that he would
soon be with them again. Then suddenly between five and six of a January
evening an express arrived at Sheffield Place to say that he was
dangerously ill. Lord Sheffield and his sister Serena started
immediately for London. It was fine, luckily, and the moon was up. "The
night was light as day," Serena wrote to Maria. "The beauty of it was
solemn and almost melancholy with our train of ideas, but it seemed to
calm our minds." They reached Gibbon's lodging at midnight and "poor
Dussot came to the door the picture of despair to tell me HE was no
more. . . ." He had died that morning; he was already laid in the shell of
his coffin. A few days later they brought him back to Sheffield Place;
carried him through the Park, past the ponds, and laid him under a
crimson cloth among the Holroyds in the Mausoleum.

As for the "soft and stately Maria" she survived to the year 1863; and
her granddaughter Kate, the mother of Bertrand Russell, marvelled that an
old woman of that age should mind dying--an old woman who had lived
through the French Revolution, who had entertained Gibbon at Sheffield

THE MAN AT THE GATE (* Written in September 1940.)

The man was Coleridge as De Quincey saw him, standing in a gateway. For
it is vain to put the single word Coleridge at the head of a
page--Coleridge the innumerable, the mutable, the atmospheric; Coleridge
who is part of Wordsworth, Keats and Shelley; of his age and of our own;
Coleridge whose written words fill hundreds of pages and overflow
innumerable margins; whose spoken words still reverberate, so that as we
enter his radius he seems not a man, but a swarm, a cloud, a buzz of
words, darting this way and that, clustering, quivering and hanging
suspended. So little of this can be caught in any reader's net that it is
well before we become dazed in the labyrinth of what we call Coleridge to
have a clear picture before us--the picture of a man standing at a gate:

  . . . his person was broad and full, and tended even to corpulence, his
  complexion was fair . . . his eyes were large and soft in their
  expression; and it was from the peculiar appearance of haze or
  dreaminess which mixed with their light, that I recognized my object.

That was in 1807. Coleridge was already incapable of movement. The Kendal
black drop had robbed him of his will. "You bid me rouse myself--go, bid a
man paralytic in both arms rub them briskly together." The arms already
hung flabby at his side; he was powerless to raise them. But the disease
which paralysed his will left his mind unfettered. In proportion as he
became incapable of action, he became capable of feeling. As he stood at
the gate his vast expanse of being was a passive target for innumerable
arrows, all of them sharp, many of them poisoned. To confess, to analyse,
to describe was the only alleviation of his appalling torture--the
prisoner's only means of escape.

Thus there shapes itself in the volumes of Coleridge's letters an immense
mass of quivering matter, as if the swarm had attached itself to a bough
and hung there pendent. Sentences roll like drops down a pane, drop
collecting drop, but when they reach the bottom, the pane is smeared. A
great novelist, Dickens for preference, could have formed out of this
swarm and diffusion a prodigious, an immortal character. Dickens, could
he have been induced to listen, would have noted--perhaps this:

  Deeply wounded by very disrespectful words used concerning me, and
  which struggling as I have been thro' life, and still maintaining a
  character and holding connections no way unworthy of my Family

Or again:

  The worst part of the charges were that I had been imprudent enough
  and in the second place gross and indelicate enough to send out a
  gentleman's servant in his own house to a public house for a bottle
  of brandy . . .

Or again:

  What joy would it not be to you or to me, Miss Betham! to meet a
  Milton in a future state

And again, on accepting a loan:

  I can barely collect myself sufficiently to convey to you--first, that
  I receive this proof of your filial kindness with feelings not
  unworthy of the same . . . but that, whenever (if ever) my
  circumstances shall improve, you must permit me to remind you that
  what was, and FOREVER under ALL conditions of fortune will be, FELT
  as a GIFT, has become a Loan--and lastly, that you must let me have
  you as a frequent friend on whose visits I may rely as often as
  convenience will permit you . . .

The very voice (drastically cut short) of Micawber himself!

But there is a difference. For this Micawber knows that he is Micawber.
He holds a looking-glass in his hand. He is a man of exaggerated
self-consciousness, endowed with an astonishing power of self-analysis.
Dickens would need to be doubled with Henry James, to be trebled with
Proust, in order to convey the complexity and the conflict of a Pecksniff
who despises his own hypocrisy, of a Micawber who is humiliated by his
own humiliation. He is so made that he can hear the crepitation of a
leaf, and yet remains obtuse to the claims of wife and child. An unopened
letter brings great drops of sweat to his forehead; yet to lift a pen and
answer it is beyond his power. The Dickens Coleridge and the Henry James
Coleridge perpetually tear him asunder. The one sends out surreptitiously
to Mr. Dunn the chemist for another bottle of opium; and the other
analyses the motives that have led to this hypocrisy into an infinity of
fine shreds.

Thus often in reading the "gallop scrawl" of the letters from Highgate
in 1820 we seem to be reading notes for a late work by Henry James. He is
the forerunner of all who have tried to reveal the intricacies, to take
the faintest creases of the human soul. The great sentences pocketed with
parentheses, expanded with dash after dash, break their walls under the
strain of including and qualifying and suggesting all that Coleridge
feels, fears and glimpses. Often he is prolix to the verge of
incoherence, and his meaning dwindles and fades to a wisp on the mind's
horizon. Yet in our tongue-tied age there is a joy in this reckless
abandonment to the glory of words. Cajoled, caressed, tossed up in
handfuls, words yield those flashing phrases that hang like ripe fruit in
the many-leaved tree of his immense volubility. "Brow-hanging,
shoe-contemplative, STRANGE"; there is Hazlitt. Of Dr. Darwin: "He was
like a pigeon picking up peas, and afterwards voiding them with
excremental additions." Anything may tumble out of that great maw; the
subtlest criticism, the wildest jest, the exact condition of his
intestines. But he uses words most often to express the crepitations of
his apprehensive susceptibility. They serve as a smoke-screen between him
and the menace of the real world. The word screen trembles and shivers.
What enemy is approaching? Nothing visible to the naked eye. And yet how
he trembles and quivers! Hartley, "poor Hartley . . . in shrinking from
the momentary pain of telling the plain truth, a truth not discreditable
to him or to me, has several times inflicted an agitating pain and
confusion"--by what breach of morality or dereliction of duty?--"by
bringing up Mr. Bourton unexpectedly on Sundays with the intention of
dining here." Is that all? Ah, but a diseased body feels the stab of
anguish if only a corn is trod upon. Anguish shoots through every fibre
of his being. Has he not himself often shrunk from the momentary pain of
telling the plain truth? Why has he no home to offer his son, no table to
which Hartley could bring his friends uninvited? Why does he live a
stranger in the house of friends, and be (at present) unable to discharge
his share of the housekeeping expenses? The old train of bitter thoughts
is set in motion once more. He is one hum and vibration of painful
emotion. And then, giving it all the slip, he takes refuge in thought and
provides Hartley with "in short, the sum of all my reading and
reflections on the vast Wheel of the Mythology of the earliest and purest
Heathenism." Hartley must feed upon that and take a snack of cold meat
and pickles at some inn.

Letter-writing was in its way a substitute for opium. In his letters he
could persuade others to believe what he did not altogether believe
himself--that he had actually written the folios, the quartos, the
octavos that he had planned. Letters also relieved him of those
perpetually pullulating ideas which, like Surinam toads, as he said, were
always giving birth to little toads that "grow quickly and draw off
attention from the mother toad." In letters thoughts need not be brought
to a conclusion. Somebody was always interrupting, and then he could
throw down his pen and indulge in what was, after all, better than
writing--the "insemination" of ideas without the intermediary of any
gross impediment by word of mouth into the receptive, the acquiescent,
the entirely passive ear, say, of Mr. Green who arrived punctually at
three. Later, if it were Thursday, in came politicians, economists,
musicians, business men, fine ladies, children--it mattered not who they
were so long as he could talk and they would listen.

Two pious American editors have collected the comments of this various
company, (* COLERIDGE THE TALKER. Edited by Richard W. Armour and Raymond
F. Howes.) and they are, of course, various. Yet it is the only way of
getting at the truth--to have it broken into many splinters by many
mirrors and so select. The truth about Coleridge the talker seems to have
been that he rapt some listeners to the seventh heaven; bored others to
extinction; and made one foolish girl giggle irrepressibly. In the same
way his eyes were brown to some, grey to others, and again a very bright
blue. But there is one point upon which all who listened are agreed; not
one of them could remember a single word he said. All, however, with
astonishing unanimity are agreed that it was "like"--the waves of the
ocean, the flowing of a mighty river, the splendour of the Aurora
Borealis, the radiance of the Milky Way. Almost all are equally agreed
that waves, river, Borealis, and Milky Way lacked, as Lady Jerningham
tersely put it, "behind." From their accounts it is clear that he
avoided contradiction; detested personality; cared nothing who you were;
only needed some sound of breathing or rustle of skirts to stir his
flocks of dreaming thoughts into motion and light the glitter and magic
that lay sunk in the torpid flesh. Was it the mixture of body and mind in
his talk that gave off some hypnotic fume that lulled the audience into
drowsiness? He acted as he talked; now, if he felt the interest flag,
pointing to a picture, or caressing a child, and then, as the time to
make an exit approached, majestically possessed himself of a bedroom
candlestick and, still discoursing, disappeared. Thus played upon by
gesture and voice, brow and glittering eye, no one, as Crabb Robinson
remarks, could take a note. It is then in his letters, where the body of
the actor was suppressed, that we have the best record of the siren's
song. There we hear the voice that began talking at the age of
two--"Nasty Doctor Young" are his first recorded words; and went on in
barracks, on board ship, in pulpits, in stage coaches--it mattered not
where he found himself or with whom, Keats it might be or the baker's
boy--on he went, on and on, talking about nightingales, dreams, the
will, the volition, the reason, the understanding, monsters, and
mermaids, until a little girl, overcome by the magic of the incantation,
burst into tears when the voice ceased and left her alone in a silent

We too, when the voice stops only half an hour before he passed that July
day in 1834 into silence, feel bereft. Is it for hours or for years that
this heavily built man standing in a gate has been pouring forth this
passionate soliloquy, while his "large soft eyes with a peculiar
expression of haze or dreaminess mixed in their light" have been fixed
upon a far-away vision that filled a very few pages with poems in which
every word is exact and every image as clear as crystal?

SARA COLERIDGE (* Written in September 1940.)

Coleridge also left children of his body. One, his daughter, Sara, was a
continuation of him, not of his flesh inded, for she was minute,
aetherial, but of his mind, his temperament. The whole of her forty-eight
years were lived in the light of his sunset, so that, like other children
of great men, she is a chequered dappled figure flitting between a
vanished radiance and the light of every day. And, like so many of her
father's works, Sara Coleridge remains unfinished. Mr. Griggs
has written her life, exhaustively, sympathetically; but still . . . dots
intervene. That extremely interesting fragment, her autobiography, ends
with three rows of dots after twenty-six pages. She intended, she says,
to end every section with a moral, or a reflection. And then "on
reviewing my earlier childhood I find the predominant reflection. . . ."
There she stops. But she said many things in those twenty-six pages, and
Mr. Griggs has added others that tempt us to fill in the dots, though not
with the facts that she might have given us.

"Send me the very feel of her sweet Flesh, the very look and motion of
that mouth--O, I could drive myself mad about her," Coleridge wrote when
she was a baby. She was a lovely child, delicate, large-eyed, musing but
active, very still but always in motion, like one of her father's poems.
She remembered how he took her as a child to stay with the Wordsworths at
Allan Bank.

The rough farmhouse life was distasteful to her, and to her shame they
bathed her in a room where men came in and out. Delicately dressed in
lace and muslin, for her father liked white for girls, she was a contrast
to Dora, with her wild eyes and floating yellow hair and frock of deep
Prussian blue or purple--for Wordsworth liked clothes to be coloured. The
visit was full of such contrasts and conflicts. Her father cherished her
and petted her. "I slept with him and he would tell me fairy stories
when he came to bed at twelve or one o'clock. . . ." Then her mother,
Mrs. Coleridge, arrived, and Sara flew to that honest, homely, motherly
woman and "wished never to be separated from her." At that--the memory
was still bitter--"my father showed displeasure and accused me of want of
affection. I could not understand why. . . . I think my father's motive,"
she reflected later, "must have been a wish to fasten my affections on
him. . . . I slunk away and hid myself in the wood behind the house."

But it was her father who, when she lay awake terrified by a horse with
eyes of flame, gave her a candle. He, too, had been afraid of the dark.
With his candle beside her, she lost her fear, and lay awake, listening
to the sound of the river, to the thud of the forge hammer, and to the
cries of stray animals in the fields. The sounds haunted her all her
life. No country, no garden, no house ever compared with the Fells and
the horse-shoe lawn and the room with three windows looking over the lake
to the mountains. She sat there while her father, Wordsworth and De
Quincey paced up and down talking. What they said she could not
understand, but she "used to note the handkerchief hanging out of the
pocket and long to clutch it." When she was a child the handkerchief
vanished and her father with it. After that, "I never lived with him for
more than a few weeks at a time," she wrote. A room at Greta Hall was
always kept ready for him but he never came. Then the brothers, Hartley
and Derwent, vanished, too; and Mrs. Coleridge and Sara stayed on with
Uncle Southey, feeling their dependence and resenting it. "A house of
bondage Greta Hall was to her," Hartley wrote. Yet there was Uncle
Southey's library; and thanks to that admirable, erudite and
indefatigable man, Sara became mistress of six languages, translated
Dobritzhoffer from the Latin, to help pay for Hartley's education, and
qualified herself, should the worst come, to earn her living. "Should it
be necessary," Wordsworth wrote, "she will be well fitted to become a
governess in a nobleman's or gentleman's family. . . . She is remarkably

But it was her beauty that took her father by surprise when at last at
the age of twenty she visited him at Highgate. She was learned he knew,
and he was proud of it; but he was unprepared, Mr. Griggs says, "for the
dazzling vision of loveliness which stepped across the threshold one cold
December day." People rose in a public hall when she came in. "I have
seen Miss Coleridge," Lamb wrote, "and I wish I had just such
a--daughter." Did Coleridge wish to keep such a daughter? Was a father's
jealousy roused in that will-less man of inordinate susceptibility when
Sara met her cousin Henry up at Highgate and almost instantly, but
secretly, gave him her coral necklace in exchange for a ring with his
hair? What right had a father who could not offer his daughter even a
room to be told of the engagement or to object to it? He could only
quiver with innumerable conflicting sensations at the thought that his
nephew, whose book on the West Indies had impressed him unfavourably, was
taking from him the daughter who, like Christabel, was his masterpiece,
but, like Christabel, was unfinished. All he could do was to cast his
magic spell. He talked. For the first time since she was a woman, Sara
heard him talk. She could not remember a word of it afterwards. And she
was penitent. It was partly that

  my father generally discoursed on such a very extensive scale. . . .
  Henry could sometimes bring him down to narrower topics, but when
  alone with me he was almost always on the star-paved road, taking in
  the whole heavens in his circuit.

She was a heaven-haunter, too; but at the moment "I was anxious about my
brothers and their prospects--about Henry's health, and upon the subject
of my engagement generally." Her father ignored such things. Sara's mind

The young couple, however, made ample amends for that momentary
inattention. They listened to his voice for the rest of their lives. At
the christening of their first child Coleridge talked for six hours
without stopping. Hard-worked as Henry was, and delicate, sociable and
pleasure-loving, the spell of Uncle Sam was on him, and so long as he
lived he helped his wife. He annotated, he edited, he set down what he
could remember of the wonderful voice. But the main labour fell on Sara.
She made herself, she said, the housekeeper in that littered palace. She
followed his reading; verified his quotations; defended his character;
traced notes on innumerable margins; ransacked bundles; pieced beginnings
together and supplied them not with ends but with continuations. A whole
day's work would result in one erasure. Cab fares to newspaper offices
mounted; eyes, for she could not afford a secretary, felt the strain; but
so long as a page remained obscure, a date doubtful, a reference
unverified, an aspersion not disproved, "poor, dear, indefatigable
Sara," as Mrs. Wordsworth called her, worked on. And much of her work was
done lastingly; editors still stand on the foundations she truly laid.

Much of it was not self-sacrifice, but self-realization. She found her
father, in those blurred pages, as she had not found him in the flesh;
and she found that he was herself. She did not copy him, she insisted;
she was him. Often she continued his thoughts as if they had been her
own. Did she not even shuffle a little in her walk, as he did, from side
to side? Yet though she spent half her time in reflecting that vanished
radiance, the other half was spent in the light of common day--at Chester
Place, Regents Park. Children were born and children died. Her health
broke down; she had her father's legacy of harassed nerves; and, like her
farther, had need of opium. Pathetically she wished that she could be
given "three years' respite from child bearing." But she wished in vain.
Then Henry, whose gaiety had so often dragged her from the dark abyss,
died young; leaving his notes unfinished, and two children also, and very
little money, and many apartments in Uncle Sam's great house still

She worked on. In her desolation it was her solace, her opium perhaps.
"Things of the mind and intellect give me intense pleasure; they delight
and amuse me as they are in themselves . . . and sometimes I think, the
result has been too large, the harvest too abundant, in inward
satisfaction. This is dangerous. . . ." Thoughts proliferated. Like her
father she had a Surinam toad in her head, breeding other toads. But his
were jewelled; hers were plain. She was diffuse, unable to conclude, and
without the magic that does instead of a conclusion. She would have
liked, had she been able to make an end, to have written--on metaphysics,
on theology, some book of criticism. Or again, politics interested her
intensely, and Turner's pictures. But "whatever subject I commence, I
feel discomfort unless I could pursue it in every direction to the
farthest bounds of thought. . . . This was the reason why my father wrote
by snatches. He could not bear to complete incompletely." So, book in
hand, pen suspended, large eyes filled with a dreamy haze, she
mused--"picking flowers, and finding nests, and exploring some particular
nook, as I used to be when a child walking with my Uncle Southey. . . ."

Then her children interrupted. With her son, the brilliant Herbert, she
read, straight through the classics. Were there not, Mr. Justice
Coleridge objected, passages in Aristophanes that they had better skip?
Perhaps. . . . Still, Herbert took all the prizes, won all the
scholarships, almost drove her to distraction with his horn-playing and,
like his father, loved parties. Sara went to balls, and watched him dance
waltz after waltz. She had the old lovely clothes that Henry had given
her altered for her daughter, Edith. She found herself eating supper
twice, she was so bored. She preferred dinner parties where she held her
own with Macaulay, who was so like her father in the face, and with
Carlyle--"A precious Arch-charlatan," she called him. The young poets,
like Aubrey de Vere, sought her out. She was one of those, he said,
"whose thoughts are growing while they speak." After he had gone, her
thoughts followed him, in long, long letters, rambling over baptism,
regenerations, metaphysics, theology, and poetry, past, present and to
come. As a critic she never, like her father, grazed paths of light; she
was a fertilizer, not a creator, a burrowing, tunnelling reader, throwing
up molehills as she read her way through Dante, Virgil, Aristophanes,
Crashaw, Jane Austen, Crabbe, to emerge suddenly, unafraid, in the very
face of Keats and Shelley. "Fain would mine eyes," she wrote, "discern
the Future in the past."

Past, present, future dappled her with a strange light. She was mixed in
herself, still divided, as in the wood behind the house, between two
loyalties, to the father who told her fairy stories in bed; and to the
mother--Frettikins she called her--to whom she clung in the flesh. "Dear
mother," she exclaimed, "what an honest, simple, lively minded
affectionate woman she was, how free from disguise or artifice. . . ."
Why, even her wig--she had cut her hair off as a girl--" was as dry and
rough and dull as a piece of stubble, and as short and stumpy." The wig
and the brow--she understood them both. Could she have skipped the moral
she could have told us much about that strange marriage. She meant to
write her life. But she was interrupted. There was a lump on her breast.
Mr. Gilman, consulted, detected cancer. She did not want to die. She had
not finished editing her father's works, she had not written her own, for
she did not like to complete incompletely. But she died at forty-eight,
leaving, like her father, a blank page covered with dots, and two lines:

  Father, no amaranths e'er shall wreathe my brow--
  Enough that round thy grave they flourish now.

                   By Walter Edwin Peck, October 1927.)

Professor Peck does not apologize for writing a new life of Shelley, nor
does he give any reason for doing what has been so thoroughly done
already, nor are the new documents that have come into his hands of any
great importance. And yet nobody is going to complain that here are two
more thick, illustrated, careful and conscientious volumes devoted to the
retelling of a story which everyone knows by heart. There are some
stories which have to be retold by each generation, not that we have
anything new to add to them, but because of some queer quality in them
which makes them not only Shelley's story but our own. Eminent and
durable they stand on the skyline, a mark past which we sail, which moves
as we move and yet remains the same.

Many such changes of orientation toward Shelley have been recorded. In
his own lifetime all except five people looked upon him, Shelley said,
"as a rare prodigy of crime and pollution, whose look even might infect."
Sixty years later he was canonized by Edward Dowden. By Matthew Arnold he
was again reduced to the ordinary human scale. How many biographers and
essayists have since absolved him or sentenced him, it is impossible to
say. And now comes our turn to make up our minds what manner of man
Shelley was; so that we read Professor Peck's volumes, not to find out
new facts, but to get Shelley more sharply outlined against the shifting
image of ourselves.

If such is our purpose, never was there a biographer who gave his readers
more opportunity to fulfil it than Professor Peck. He is singularly
dispassionate, and yet not colourless. He has opinions, but he does not
obtrude them. His attitude to Shelley is kind but not condescending. He
does not rhapsodize, but at the same time he does not scold. There are
only two points which he seems to plead with any personal partiality;
one, that Harriet was a much wronged woman; the other, that the political
importance of Shelley's poetry is not rated sufficiently high. Perhaps we
could spare the careful analysis of so many poems. We scarcely need to
know how many times mountains and precipices are mentioned in the course
of Shelley's works. But as a chronicler of great learning and lucidity,
Professor Peck is admirable. Here, he seems to say, is all that is
actually known about Shelley's life. In October he did this in November
he did that; now it was that he wrote this poem it was here that he met
that friend. And, moulding the enormous mass of the Shelley papers with
dexterous fingers, he contrives tactfully to embed dates and facts in
feelings, in comments, in what Shelley wrote, in what Mary wrote, in what
other people wrote about them, so that we seem to be breasting the full
current of Shelley's life and get the illusion that we are, this time,
seeing Shelley, not through the rosy glasses or the livid glasses which
sentiment and prudery have fixed on our forerunners' noses, but plainly,
as he was. In this, of course, we are mistaken; glasses we wear, though
we cannot see them. But the illusion of seeing Shelley plain is
sufficiently exhilarating to tempt us to try to fix it while it lasts.

There is an image of Shelley's personal appearance in everybody's picture
gallery. He was a lean, large-boned boy, much freckled, with big, rather
prominent blue eyes. His dress was careless, of course, but it was
distinguished; "he wore his clothes like a gentleman." He was courteous
and gentle in manner, but he spoke in a shrill, harsh voice and soon rose
to the heights of excitement. Nobody could overlook the presence of this
discordant character in the room, and his presence was strangely
disturbing. It was not merely that he might do something extreme, he
might, somehow, make whoever was there appear absurd. From the earliest
days normal people had noticed his abnormality and had done their best,
following some obscure instinct of self-preservation, to make Shelley
either toe the line or else quit the society of the respectable. At Eton
they called him "mad Shelley" and pelted him with muddy balls. At Oxford
he spilt acid over his tutor's carpet, "a new purchase, which he thus
completely destroyed," and for other and more serious differences of
opinion he was expelled.

After that he became the champion of every down-trodden cause and person.
Now it was an embankment; now a publisher; now the Irish nation; now
three poor weavers condemned for treason; now a flock of neglected sheep.
Spinsters of all sorts who were oppressed or aspiring found in him their
leader. The first years of his youth thus were spent in dropping
seditious pamphlets into old women's hoods; in shooting scabby sheep to
put them out of their misery; in raising money; in writing pamphlets; in
rowing out to sea and dropping bottles into the water which when broken
open by the Town Clerk of Barnstable were found to contain a seditious
paper, "the contents of which the mayor has not yet been able to
ascertain." In all these wanderings and peregrinations he was accompanied
by a woman, or perhaps by two women, who either had young children at the
breast or were shortly expecting to become mothers. And one of them, it
is said, could not contain her amusement when she saw the pamphlet
dropped into the old woman's hood, but burst out laughing.

The picture is familiar enough; the only thing that changes is our
attitude toward it. Shelley, excitable, uncompromising, atheistical,
throwing his pamphlets into the sea in the belief that he is going to
reform the world, has become a figure which is half heroic and wholly
delightful. On the other hand, the world that Shelley fought has become
ridiculous. Somehow the untidy, shrill-voiced boy, with his violence and
his oddity has succeeded in making Eton and Oxford, the English
government, the Town Clerk and Mayor of Barnstable, the country gentlemen
of Sussex and innumerable obscure people whom we might call generically,
after Mary's censorious friends, the Booths and the Baxters--Shelley has
succeeded in making all these look absurd.

But, unfortunately, though one may make bodies and institutions look
absurd, it is extremely difficult to make private men and women look
anything so simple. Human relationships are too complex; human nature is
too subtle. Thus contact with Shelley turned Harriet Westbrook, who
should have been the happy mother of a commonplace family, into a muddled
and bewildered woman, who wanted both to reform the world and yet to
possess a coach and bonnets, and was finally drawn from the Serpentine on
a winter's morning, drowned in her despair. And Mary and Miss Hitchener,
and Godwin and Claire, and Hogg and Emilia Viviani, and Sophia Stacey and
Jane Williams--there is nothing tragic about them, perhaps; there is,
indeed, much that is ridiculous. Still, their association with Shelley
does not lead to any clear and triumphant conclusion. Was he right? Were
they right? The whole relationship is muddy and obscure; it baffles; it

One is reminded of the private life of another man whose power of
conviction was even greater than Shelley's, and more destructive of
normal human happiness. One remembers Tolstoy and his wife. The alliance
of the intense belief of genius with the easy-going non-belief or
compromise of ordinary humanity must, it seems, lead to disaster and to
disaster of a lingering and petty kind in which the worst side of both
natures is revealed. But while Tolstoy might have wrought out his
philosophy alone or in a monastery, Shelley was driven by something
yielding and enthusiastic in his temperament to entangle himself with men
and women. "I think one is always in love with something or other," he
wrote. But this "something or other" besides lodging in poetry and
metaphysics and the good of society in general, had its dwelling in the
bodies of human beings of the opposite sex.

He saw "the likeness of what is perhaps eternal" in the eyes of Mary.
Then it vanished, to appear in the eyes of Emilia; then there it was
again manifesting itself indisputably in Sophia Stacey or in Jane
Williams. What is the lover to do when the will o' the wisp shifts its
quarters? One must go on, said Shelley, until one is stopped. And what is
to stop one? Not, if one is Shelley, the conventions and superstitions
which bind the baser part of mankind; not the Booths and the Baxters.
Oxford might expel him, England might exile him, but still, in spite of
disaster and derision, he sought the "likeness of what is perhaps
eternal"; he went on being in love.

But as the object of his love was a hybrid creature, half human, half
divine, so the manner of his love partook of the same ambiguous nature.
There was something inhuman about Shelley. Godwin, in answer to Shelley's
first letter, noticed it. He complained of the "generalizing character"
of Shelley's style, which, he said, had the effect of making him "not an
individual character" to him. Mary Shelley, musing over her life when
Shelley was dead, exclaimed, "What a strange life mine has been. Love,
youth, fear and fearlessness led me early from the regular routine of
life and I united myself to this being who, not one of US, though like
us, was pursued by numberless miseries and annoyances, in all of which I
shared." Shelley was "not one of us." He was, even to his wife, a "being,"
some one who came and went like a ghost, seeking the eternal. Of
the transitory, he had little notion. The joys and sorrows, from whose
threads are woven the warm cocoon of private life in which most men live,
had no hold upon him. A strange formality stiffens his letters; there is
no intimacy in them and no fun.

At the same time it is perfectly true, and Professor Peck does well to
emphasize the fact, that Shelley loved humanity if he did not love this
Harriet or that Mary. A sense of the wretchedness of human beings burnt
in him as brightly and as persistently as his sense of the divine beauty
of nature. He loved the clouds and the mountains and the rivers more
passionately than any other man loved them; but at the foot of the
mountain he always saw a ruined cottage; there were criminals in chains,
hoeing up the weeds in the pavement of St. Peter's Square; there was an
old woman shaking with ague on the banks of the lovely Thames. Then he
would thrust aside his writing, dismiss his dreams and trudge off to
physic the poor with medicine or with soup. Inevitably there collected
round him, as time went on, the oddest assortment of pensioners and
protégés. He took on himself the charge of deserted women and other
people's children; he paid other persons' debts and planned their
journeys and settled their relationships. The most ethereal of poets was
the most practical of men.

Hence, says Professor Peck, from this union of poetry and humanity
springs the true value of Shelley's poetry. It was the poetry of a man
who was not a "pure poet," but a poet with a passion for reforming the
wrongs of men. Had he lived, he would have reconciled poetry and the
statement of "the necessity of certain immediate reforms in politics,
society and government." He died too young to be able to deliver his
message; and the difficulty of his poetry arises from the fact that the
conflict between poetry and politics rages there unresolved. We may not
agree with Professor Peck's definition, yet we have only to read Shelley
again to come up against the difficulty of which he speaks. It lies
partly in the disconcerting fact that we had thought his poetry so good
and we find it indeed so poor. How are we to account for the fact that we
remember him as a great poet and find him on opening his pages a bad one?
The explanation seems to be that he was not a "pure poet." He did not
concentrate his meaning in a small space; there is nothing in Shelley's
poetry as rich and compact as the odes of Keats. His taste could be
sentimental; he had all the vices of the album makers; he was unreal,
strained, verbose. The lines which Professor Peck quotes with admiration:
"Good night? No, love! The night is ill," seems to us a proof of it. But
if we pass from the lyrics, with all their exquisite beauty, and read
ourselves into one of the longer poems, EPIPSYCHIDION or PROMETHEUS
UNBOUND, where the faults have space to lose themselves, we again become
convinced of his greatness. And here again we are confronted by a
difficulty. For if we were asked to extract the teaching from these poems
we should be at a loss. We can hardly say what reform in "politics,
society and government" they advocate. Their greatness seems to lie in
nothing so definite as a philosophy, in nothing so pure as perfection of
expression. It lies rather in a state of being. We come through skeins of
clouds and gusts of whirlwind out into a space of pure calm, of intense
and windless serenity. Defensibly or not, we make a distinction--THE

So if we outline our relationship to Shelley from the vantage ground Of
1927 we shall find that his England is a barbarous place where they
imprison journalists for being disrespectful to the Prince Regent, stand
men in stocks for publishing attacks upon the Scriptures, execute weavers
upon the suspicion of treason, and, without giving proof of strict
religious belief themselves, expel a boy from Oxford for avowing his
atheism. Politically, then, Shelley's England has already receded, and
his fight, valiant though it is, seems to be with monsters who are a
little out of date, and therefore slightly ridiculous. But privately he
is much closer to us. For alongside the public battle wages, from
generation to generation, another fight which is as important as the
other, though much less is said about it. Husband fights with wife and
son with father. The poor fight the rich and the employer fights the
employed. There is a perpetual effort on the one hand to make all these
relationships more reasonable, less painful and less servile; on the
other, to keep them as they are. Shelley, both as son and as husband,
fought for reason and freedom in private life, and his experiments,
disastrous as they were in many ways, have helped us to greater sincerity
and happiness in our own conflicts. The Sir Timothys of Sussex are no
longer so prompt to cut their sons off with a shilling; the Booths and the
Baxters are no longer quite so sure that an unmarried wife is an
unmitigated demon. The grasp of convention upon private life is no longer
quite so coarse or quite so callous because of Shelley's successes and

So we see Shelley through our particular pair of spectacles--a shrill,
charming, angular boy; a champion riding out against the forces of
superstition and brutality with heroic courage; at the same time blind,
inconsiderate, obtuse to other persons' feelings. Rapt in his
extraordinary vision, ascending to the very heights of existence, he
seems, as Mary said, "a being," "not one of us," but better and higher
and aloof and apart. Suddenly there comes a knock at the door; the Hunts
and seven children are at Leghorn; Lord Byron has been rude to them; Hunt
is cut to the heart. Shelley must be off at once to see that they are
comfortable. And, rousing himself from his rapture, Shelley goes.


1. WITHIN THE RIM (* Written in 1919.)

It would be easy to justify the suspicion which the sight of WITHIN THE
RIM aroused, and to make it account for the tepid and formal respect with
which we own to have approached the book. Essays about the war
contributed to albums and books with a charitable object even by the most
distinguished of writers bear for the most part such traces of
perfunctory composition, such evidence of genius forcibly harnessed to
the wagon of philanthropy and sullen and stubborn beneath the lash, that
one is inclined for the sake of the writer to leave them unread. But we
should not have said this unless we intended immediately and completely
to unsay it. The process of reading these essays was a process of
recantation. It is possible that the composition of some of them was an
act of duty, in the sense that the writing of a chapter of a novel was
not an act of duty. But the duty was imposed upon Henry James not by the
persuasions of a committee nor by the solicitations of friends, but by a
power much more commanding and irresistible--a power so large and of such
immense significance to him that he scarcely succeeds with all his range
of expression in saying what it was or all that it meant to him. It was
Belgium, it was France, it was above all England and the English
tradition, it was everything that he had ever cared for of civilization,
beauty and art threatened with destruction and arrayed before his
imagination in one figure of tragic appeal.

Perhaps no other elderly man existed in August 1914 so well qualified to
feel imaginatively all that the outbreak of war meant as Henry James. For
years he had been appreciating ever more and more finely what he calls
"the rare, the sole, the exquisite England": he had relished her
discriminatingly as only the alien, bred to different sounds and sights
and circumstances, could relish others so distinct and so delightful in
their distinctness. Knowing so well what she had given him, he was the
more tenderly and scrupulously grateful to her for the very reason that
she seemed to him to bestow her gifts half in ignorance of their value.
Thus when the news came that England was in danger he wandered in the
August sunshine half overwhelmed with the vastness of what had happened,
reckoning up his debt, conscious to the verge of agony of the extent to
which he had committed his own happiness to her, and analysing
incessantly and acutely just what it all meant to the world and to him.
At first, as he owned, he had "an elderly dread of a waste of emotion
. . . my house of the spirit amid everything around me had become more and
more the inhabited, adjusted, familiar home"; but before long he found

  building additions and upper storeys, throwing out extensions and
  protrusions, indulging even, all recklessly, in gables and pinnacles
  and battlements--things that had presently transformed the
  unpretending place into I scarce know what to call it, a fortress of
  the faith, a palace of the soul, an extravagant, bristling,
  flag-flying structure which had quite as much to do with the air as
  with the earth.

In a succession of images not to be torn from their context he paints the
state of his mind confronted by one aspect after another of what appeared
to him in so many diverse lights of glory and of tragedy. His gesture as
of one shrinking from the sight of the distress, combined with an
irresistible instinct of pity drawing him again and again to its
presence, recalls to the present writer his reluctance to take a certain
road in Rye because it led past the workhouse gates and forced to his
notice the dismal line of tramps waiting for admittance. But in the case
of the wounded and the fugitive his humanity forced him again and again
to face the sight, and brought him the triumphant reward of finding that
the beauty emerging from such conditions more than matched the squalor.
". . . their presence," he wrote of the wounded soldier, "is a blest
renewal of faith."

A moralist perhaps might object that terms of beauty and ugliness are not
the terms in which to speak of so vast a catastrophe, nor should a writer
exhibit so keen a curiosity as to the tremors and vibrations of his own
spirit in face of the universal calamity. Yet, of all books describing
the sights of war and appealing for our pity, this largely personal
account is the one that best shows the dimensions of the whole. It is not
merely or even to any great extent that we have been stimulated
intellectually by the genius of Henry James to analyse shades and
subtleties; but rather that for the first and only time, so far as we are
aware, someone has reached an eminence sufficiently high above the scene
to give it its grouping and standing in the universal. Read, for
instance, the scene of the arrival of the Belgian refugees by night at
Rye, which we will not curtail and thus rob of its completeness. It is
precisely the same little scene of refugees hurrying by in silence, save
for the cry of a woman carrying her child, which, in its thousand
varieties, a thousand pens have depicted during the past four years. They
have done their best, and left us acknowledging their effort, but feeling
it to be a kind of siege or battering ram laid to the emotions, which
have obstinately refused to yield their fruits. That it is altogether
otherwise with the scene painted for us by Henry James might perhaps be
credited to his training as a novelist. But when, in his stately way,
diminishing his stature not one whit and majestically rolling the tide of
his prose over the most rocky of obstacles, he asks us for the gift of a
motor-car, we cannot help feeling that if all philanthropies had such
advocates our pockets would never be anything but empty. It is not that
our emotions have been harassed by the sufferings of the individual case.
That he can do upon occasion with beautiful effect. But what he does in
this little book of less than a hundred and twenty pages is, so it seems
to us, to present the best statement yet made of the largest point of
view. He makes us understand what civilization meant to him and should
mean to us. For him it was a spirit that overflowed the material bounds
of countries, but it is in France that he sees it most plainly

  . . . what happens to France happens to all that part of ourselves
  which we are most proud, and most finely advised, to enlarge and
  cultivate and consecrate. . . . She is sole and single in this, that she
  takes charge of those of the 'interests of man which most dispose him
  to fraternize with himself, to pervade all his possibilities and to
  taste all his faculties, and in consequence to find and to make the
  earth a friendlier, an easier, and especially a more various sojourn.

If all our counsellors, we cannot help exclaiming, had spoken with that


2. THE OLD ORDER (* Written in 1917.)

With this small volume, (* THE MIDDLE YEARS. By Henry James.) which brings
us down to about the year 1870, the memories of Henry James break off. It
is more fitting to say that they break off than that they come to an end,
for although we are aware that we shall hear his voice no more, there is
no hint of exhaustion or of leave-taking; the tone is as rich and
deliberate as if time were unending and matter infinite; what we have
seems to be but the prelude to what we are to have, but a crumb, as he
says, of a banquet now forever withheld. Someone speaking once
incautiously in his presence of his "completed" works drew from him the
emphatic assertion that never, never so long as he lived could there be
any talk of completion; his work would end only with his life; and it
seems in accord with this spirit that we should feel ourselves pausing,
at the end of a paragraph, while in imagination the next great wave of
the wonderful voice curves into fullness.

All great writers have, of course, an atmosphere in which they seem most
at their ease and at their best; a mood of the great general mind which
they interpret and indeed almost discover, so that we come to read them
rather for that than for any story or character or scene of separate
excellence. For ourselves Henry James seems most entirely in his element,
doing that is to say what everything favours his doing, when it is a
question of recollection. The mellow light which swims over the past, the
beauty which suffuses even the commonest little figures of that time, the
shadow in which the detail of so many things can be discerned which the
glare of day flattens out, the depth, the richness, the calm, the humour
of the whole pageant--all this seems to have been his natural atmosphere
and his most abiding mood. It is the atmosphere of all those stories in
which aged Europe is the background for young America. It is the half
light in which he sees most, and sees farthest. To Americans, indeed, to
Henry James and to Hawthorne, we owe the best relish of the past in our
literature--not the past of romance and chivalry, but the immediate past
of vanished dignity and faded fashions. The novels teem with it; but
wonderful as they are, we are tempted to say that the memories are yet
more wonderful, in that they are more exactly Henry James, and give more
precisely his tone and his gesture. In them his benignity is warmer, his
humour richer, his solicitude more exquisite, his recognition of beauty,
fineness, humanity more instant and direct. He comes to his task with an
indescribable air of one so charged and laden with precious stuff that he
hardly knows how to divest himself of it all--where to find space to set
down this and that, how to resist altogether the claims of some other
gleaming object in the background; appearing so busy, so unwieldy with
ponderous treasure that his dexterity in disposing of it, his consummate
knowledge of how best to place each fragment, afford us the greatest
delight that literature has had to offer for many a year. The mere sight
is enough to make anyone who has ever held a pen in his hand consider his
art afresh in the light of this extraordinary example of it. And our
pleasure at the mere sight soon merges in the thrill with which we
recognize, if not directly then by hearsay, the old world of London-life
which he brings out of the shades and sets tenderly and solidly before us
as if his last gift were the most perfect and precious of the treasures
hoarded in "the scented chest of our savings."

After the absence from Europe of about nine years which is recorded in
NOTES OF A SON AND BROTHER, he arrived in Liverpool on March 1st, 1869,
and found himself "in the face of an opportunity that affected me then
and there as the happiest, the most interesting, the most alluring and
beguiling that could ever have opened before a somewhat disabled young
man who was about to complete his twenty-sixth year." He proceeded to
London, and took up his lodging with a "kind slim celibate," a Mr.
Lazarus Fox--every detail is dear to him--who let out slices of his house
in Half Moon Street to gentlemen lodgers. The London of that day, as
Henry James at once proceeded to ascertain with those amazingly delicate
and tenacious tentacles of his, was an extremely characteristic and
uncompromising organism. "The big broom of change" had swept it hardly
at all since the days of Byron at least. She was still the
"unaccommodating and unaccommodated city . . . the city too indifferent,
too proud, too unaware, too stupid even if one will, to enter any lists
that involved her moving from her base and that thereby . . . enjoyed
the enormous 'pull,' for making her impression, of ignoring everything
but her own perversities and then of driving these home with an emphasis
not to be gainsaid." The young American ("brooding monster that I was,
born to discriminate Ŕ TOUT PROPOS") was soon breakfasting with the
gentleman upstairs (Mr. Albert Rutson), eating his fried sole and
marmalade with other gentlemen from the Home Office, the Foreign Office,
the House of Commons, whose freedom to lounge over that meal impressed
him greatly, and whose close questioning as to the composition of Grant's
first Cabinet embarrassed him not a little. The whole scene, which it
would be an impiety to dismember further, has the very breath of the age
in it. The whiskers, the leisure, the intentness of those gentlemen upon
politics, their conviction that the composition of Cabinets was the
natural topic for the breakfast-table, and that a stranger unable, as
Henry James found himself, to throw light upon it was "only not
perfectly ridiculous because perfectly insignificant"--all this provides
a picture that many of us will be able to see again as we saw it once
perhaps from the perch of an obliging pair of shoulders.

The main facts about that London, as all witnesses agree in testifying,
were its smallness compared with our city, the limited number of
distractions and amusements available, and the consequent tendency of all
people worth knowing to know each other and to form a very accessible
and, at the same time, highly enviable society. Whatever the quality that
gained you admittance, whether it was that you had done something or
showed yourself capable of doing something worthy of respect, the
compliment was not an empty one. A young man coming up to London might in
a few months claim to have met Tennyson, Browning, Matthew Arnold,
Carlyle, Froude, George Eliot, Herbert Spencer, Huxley, and Mill. He had
met them; he had not merely brushed against them in a crowd. He had heard
them talk; he had even offered something of his own. The conditions of
those days allowed a kind of conversation which, so the survivors always
maintain, is an art unknown in what they are pleased to call our chaos.
What with recurring dinner parties and Sunday calls, and country visits
lasting far beyond the week-ends of our generation, the fabric of
friendship was solidly built up and carefully preserved. The tendency
perhaps was rather to a good fellowship in which the talk was
wide-sweeping, extremely well informed, and impersonal than to the less
formal, perhaps more intense and indiscriminate, intimacies of to-day. We
read of little societies of the sixties, the Cosmopolitan and the
Century, meeting on Wednesday and on Sunday evenings to discuss the
serious questions of the times, and we have the feeling that they could
claim a more representative character than anything of the sort we can
show now. We are left with the impression that whatever went forward in
those days, either among the statesmen or among the men of letters--and
there was a closer connection than there is now--was promoted or inspired
by the members of this group. Undoubtedly the resources of the day--and
how magnificent they were!--were better organized; and it must occur to
every reader of their memoirs that a reason is to be found in the
simplicity which accepted the greatness of certain names and imposed
something like order on their immediate neighbourhood. Having crowned
their kin they worshipped him with the most whole-hearted loyalty. Groups
of people would come together at Freshwater, in that old garden where the
houses of Melbury Road now stand, or in various London centres, and live
as it seems to us for months at a time, some of them indeed for the
duration of their lives, in the mood of the presiding genius. Watts and
Burne-Jones in one quarter of the town, Carlyle in another, George Eliot
in a third, almost as much as Tennyson in his island, imposed their laws
upon a circle which had spirit and beauty to recommend it as well as an
uncritical devotion.

Henry James, of course, was not a person to accept laws or to make one of
any circle in a sense which implies the blunting of the critical powers.
Happily for us, he came over not only with the hoarded curiosity of
years, but also with the detachment of the stranger and the critical
sense of the artist. He was immensely appreciative, but he was also
immensely observant. Thus it comes about that his fragment revives,
indeed stamps afresh, the great figures of the epoch, and, what is no
less important, illumines the lesser figures by whom they were
surrounded. Nothing could be happier than his portrait of Mrs. Greville,
"with her exquisite good nature and her innocent fatuity," who was, of
course, very much an individual, but also a type of the enthusiastic
sisterhood which, with all its extravagances and generosities and what we
might unkindly, but not without the authority of Henry James, call
absurdity, now seems extinct. We shall not spoil the reader's impression
of the superb passage describing a visit arranged by Mrs. Greville to
George Eliot by revealing what happened on that almost tragic occasion.
It is more excusable to dwell for a moment upon the drawing-room at
Milford Cottage,

  the most embowered retreat for social innocence that it was possible
  to conceive. . . . The red candles in the red shades have remained with
  me, inexplicably, as a vivid note of this pitch, shedding their rosy
  light, with the autumn gale, the averted reality, all shut out, upon
  such felicities of feminine helplessness as I couldn't have
  prefigured in advance, and as exemplified, for further gathering in,
  the possibilities of the old tone.

The drawn curtains, the "copious service," the second volume of the new
novel "half-uncut" laid ready to hand, "the exquisite head and
incomparable brush of the domesticated collie"--that is the familiar
setting. He recalls the high-handed manner in which these ladies took
their way through life, baffling the very stroke of age and disaster with
their unquenchable optimism, ladling out with both hands every sort of
gift upon their passage, and bringing to port in their tow the most
incongruous and battered of derelicts. No doubt "a number of the sharp
truths that one might privately apprehend beat themselves beautifully in
vain" against such defences. Truth, so it seems to us, was not so much
disregarded as flattered out of countenance by the energy with which they
pursued the beautiful, the noble, the poetic, and ignored the possibility
of another side of things. The extravagant steps which they would take to
snare whatever grace or atmosphere they desired at the moment lend their
lives in retrospect a glamour of adventure, aspiration, and triumph such
as seems for good or for evil banished from our conscious and much more
critical day. Was a friend ill? A wall would be knocked down to admit the
morning sun. Did the doctor prescribe fresh milk? The only perfectly
healthy cow in England was at your service. All this personal exuberance
Henry James brings back in the figure of Mrs. Greville, "friend of the
super-eminent" and priestess at the different altars. Cannot we almost
hear the "pleasant growling note of Tennyson" answering her "mild
extravagance of homage" with "Oh, yes, you may do what you like---so
long as you don't kiss me before the cabman!"

And then with the entrance of Lady Waterford, Henry James ponders
lovingly the quality which seems to hang about those days and people as
the very scent of the flower--"the quality of personal beauty, to say
nothing of personal accomplishment as our fathers were appointed to enjoy
it. . . . Scarce to be sated that form of wonder, to my own imagination I
confess." Were they as beautiful as we like to remember them, or was it
that the whole atmosphere made a beautiful presence, any sort of
distinction or eminence indeed, felt in a way no longer so carefully
arranged for, or so unquestionably accepted? Was it not all a part of the
empty London streets, of the four-wheelers even, lined with straw, of the
stuffy little boxes of the public dining rooms, of the protectedness, of
the leisure? But if they had merely to stand and be looked at, how
splendidly they did it! A certain width of space seems to be a necessary
condition for the blooming of such splendid plants as Lady Waterford,
who, when she had dazzled sufficiently with her beauty and presence, had
only to take up her brush to be acclaimed the equal of Titian or of

Personality, whatever one may mean by it, seems to have been accorded a
licence for the expression of itself for which we can find no parallel in
the present day. The gift if you had it was encouraged and sheltered
beyond the bounds of what now seems possible. Tennyson, of course, is the
supreme example of what we mean, and happily for us Henry James was duly
taken to that shrine and gives with extraordinary skill a new version of
the mystery which in our case will supersede the old. "The fond
prefigurements of youthful piety are predestined, more often than not, I
think, experience interfering, to strange and violent shocks. . . . Fine,
fine, fine, could he only be. . . ." So he begins, and so continuing for
some time leads us up to the pronouncement that "Tennyson was not
Tennysonian." The air one breathed at Aldworth was one in which nothing
but "the blest obvious, or at least the blest outright, could so much as
attempt to live . . . . It was a large and simple and almost empty
occasion . . . . He struck me in truth as neither knowing nor
communicating knowledge." He recited LOCKSLEY HALL and "Oh dear, oh
dear. . . . I heard him in cool surprise take even more out of his verse
than he had put in." And so by a series of qualifications which are all
beautifully adapted to sharpen the image without in the least destroying
it, we are led to the satisfactory and convincing conclusion, "My
critical reaction hadn't in the least invalidated our great man's being a
Bard--it had in fact made him and left him more a Bard than ever." We see,
really for the first time, how obvious and simple and almost empty it
was, how "the glory was without history," the poetic character "more
worn than paid for, or at least more saved than spent," and yet somehow
the great man revives and flourishes in the new conditions and dawns upon
us more of a Bard than we had got into the habit of thinking him. The
same service of defining, limiting, and restoring to life he performs as
beautifully for the ghost of George Eliot, and proclaims himself, as the
faithful will be glad to hear, "even a very Derondist of Derondists."

And thus looking back into the past which is all changed and gone (he
could mark, he said, the very hour or the change) Henry James performs a
last act of piety which is supremely characteristic of him. The English
world of that day was very clear to him; it had a fineness and a
distinction which he professed half humorously not to find in our "vast
monotonous mob." It had given him friendship and opportunity and much
else, no doubt, that it had no consciousness of giving. Such a gift he of
all people could never forget; and this book of memories sounds to us
like a superb act of thanksgiving. What could he do to make up for it
all, he seems to have asked himself. And then with all the creative power
at his command he summons back the past and makes us a present of that.
If we could have had the choice, that is what we should have chosen, not
entirely for what it gives us of the dead, but also for what it gives us
of him. Many will hear his voice again in these pages; they will perceive
once more that solicitude for others, that immense desire to help which
had its origin, one might guess, in the aloofness and loneliness of the
artist's life. It seemed as if he were grateful for the chance of taking
part in the ordinary affairs of the world, of assuring himself that, in
spite of his absorption with the fine and remote things of the
imagination, he had not lost touch with human interests. To acknowledge
any claim that was in the least connected with the friends or memories of
the past gave him, for this reason, a peculiar joy; and we can believe
that if he could have chosen, his last words would have been like these,
words of recollection and of love.


3. THE LETTERS OF HENRY JAMES (* Written in 1920.)

Who, on stepping from the cathedral dusk, the growl and boom of the organ
still in the ears, and the eyes still shaded to observe better whatever
intricacy of carving or richness of marble may there be concealed, can
breast the stir of the street and instantly and briskly sum up and
deliver his impressions? How discriminate, how formulate? How, Henry
James may be heard grimly asking, dare you pronounce any opinion whatever
upon me? In the first place only by taking cover under some such figure
as implies that, still dazed and well-nigh drowned, our gesture at the
finish is more one of exclamation than of interpretation. To soothe and
to inspirit there comes, a moment later, the consciousness that, although
in the eyes of Henry James our attempt is foredoomed to failure,
nevertheless his blessing is upon it. Renewal of life, on such terms as
we can grant it, upon lips, in minds, here in London, here among English
men and women, would receive from him the most generous acknowledgment;
and with a royal complacency, he would admit that our activities could
hardly be better employed. Nor are we left to grope without a guide. It
would not be easy to find a difficult task better fulfilled than by Mr.
Percy Lubbock in his introduction and connecting pararaphs. (* THE
LETTERS OF HENRY JAMES. Edited by Percy Lubbock.) It seems to us, and
this not only before reading the letters but more emphatically afterwards,
that the lines of interpretation he lays down are the true ones. They
end--as he is the first to declare--in the heart of darkness; but any
understanding that we may have won of a difficult problem is at every
point fortified and corrected by the help of his singularly thoughtful
and intimate essay. His intervention is always illuminating.

It must be admitted that these remarks scarcely seem called for by
anything specially abstruse in the first few chapters. If ever a young
American proved himself capable of giving a clear and composed account of
his experiences in Europe during the seventies of the last century that
young American was Henry James. He recounts his seeings and doings, his
dinings out and meetings, his country house visits, like a guest too
well-bred to show surprise even if he feels it. A "cosmopolitanized
American," as he calls himself, was far more likely, it appears, to find
things flat than to find them surprising; to sink into the depths of
English civilization as if it were a soft feather bed inducing sleep and
warmth and security rather than shocks and sensations. Henry James, of
course, was much too busy recording impressions to fall asleep; it only
appears that he never did anything, and never met anyone, in those early
days, capable of rousing him beyond the gay and sprightly mood so easily
and amusingly sustained in his letters home. Yet he went everywhere; he
met everyone, as the sprinkling of famous names and great occasions
abundantly testify. Let one fair specimen suffice:

  Yesterday I dined with Lord Houghton--with Gladstone, Tennyson,
  Dr. Schliemann (the excavator of old Mycenae, &c.), and half a dozen
  other men of "high culture." I sat next but one to the Bard and heard
  most of his talk, which was all about port wine and tobacco; he seems
  to know much about them, and can drink a whole bottle of port at a
  sitting with no incommodity. He is very swarthy and scraggy, and
  strikes one' at first as much less handsome than his photos: but
  gradually you see that it's a face of genius. He had I know not what
  simplicity, speaks with a strange rustic accent and seemed altogether
  like a creature of some primordial English stock, a thousand miles
  away from American manufacture. Behold me after dinner conversing
  affably with Mr. Gladstone-not by my own seeking, but by the almost
  importunate affection of Lord H. But I was glad of a chance to feel
  the "personality" of a great political leader--or as G. is now
  thought here even, I think, by his partisans, ex-leader. That of
  Gladstone is very fascinating--his urbanity extreme-his eye that of a
  man of genius--and his apparent self-surrender to what he is talking
  of without a flaw. He made a great impression on me--greater than
  anyone I have seen here: though 'tis perhaps owing to my NAĎVETÉ, and
  unfamiliarity with statesmen. . . .

And so to the Oxford and Cambridge boat-race. The impression is well and
brightly conveyed; what we miss, perhaps, is any body of resistance to
the impression--any warrant for thinking that the receiving mind is other
than a stretched white sheet. The best comment upon that comes in his own
words a few pages later. "It is something to have learned how to write."
If we look upon many of these early pages as experiments in the art of
writing by one whose standard of taste exacts that small things must be
done perfectly before big things are even attempted, we shall understand
that their perfection is of the inexpressive kind that often precedes a
late maturity. He is saying all that his means allow him to say.
Moreover, he is saying it already, as most good letter writers learn to
say it, not to an individual but to a chosen assembly. "It is, indeed, I
think, the very essence of a good letter to be shown," he wrote; "it is
wasted if it is kept for ONE. . . . I give you full leave to read mine
aloud at your soirees!" Therefore, if we refrain from quotation, it is
not that passages of the necessary quality are lacking. It is, rather,
that while he writes charmingly, intelligently and adequately of this,
that and the other, we begin by guessing and end by resenting the fact
that his mind is elsewhere. It is not the dinner parties--a hundred and
seven in one season--nor the ladies and gentlemen, nor even the Tennysons
and the Gladstones that interest him primarily; the pageant passes before
him: the impressions ceaselessly descend; and yet as we watch we also
wait for the clue, the secret of it all. It is, indeed, clear that if he
discharged the duties of his position with every appearance of equanimity
the choice of the position itself was one of momentous importance,
constantly requiring examination, and, with its promise of different
possibilities, harassing his peace till the end of time. On what spot of
the civilized globe was he to settle? His vibrations and vacillations in
front of that problem suffer much in our report of them, but in the early
days the case against America was simply that ". . . it takes an old
civilization to set a novelist in motion."

Next, Italy presented herself; but the seductions of "the golden climate"
were fatal to work. Paris had obvious advantages, but the drawbacks
were equally positive--"I have seen almost nothing of the literary
fraternity, and there are fifty reasons why I should not become intimate
with them. I don't like their wares, and they don't like any others; and,
besides, they are not ACCUEILLANTS." London exercised a continuous double
pressure of attraction and repulsion to which finally he succumbed, to
the extent of making his headquarters in the metropolis without shutting
his eyes to her faults. "I am attracted to London in spite of the long
list of reasons why I should not be; I think it, on the whole, the best
point of view in the world. . . . But the question is interminable." When
he wrote that, he was thirty-seven; a mature age; an age at which the
native growing confidently in his own soil is already putting forth
whatever flower fate ordains and natural conditions allow. But Henry James
had neither roots nor soil; he was of the tribe of wanderers and aliens; a
winged visitant, ceaselessly circling and seeking, unattached,
uncommitted, ranging hither and thither at his own free will, and only at
length precariously settling and delicately inserting his proboscis in
the thickset lusty blossoms of the old garden beds.

Here, then, we distinguish one of the strains, always to some extent
present in the letters before us, from which they draw their unlikeness
to any others in the language, and, indeed, bring us at times to doubt
whether they are "in the language" at all. If London is primarily a
point of view, if the whole field of human activity is only a prospect
and a pageant, then we cannot help asking, as the store of impressions
heaps itself up, what is the aim of the spectator, what is the purpose of
his hoard? A spectator, alert, aloof, endlessly interested, endlessly
observant, Henry James undoubtedly was; but as obviously, though not so
simply, the long drawn process_ of adjustment and preparation was from
first to last controlled and manipulated by a purpose which, as the years
went by, only dealt more powerfully and completely with the treasures of
a more complex sensibility. Yet, when we look to find the purpose
expressed, to see the material in the act of transmutation, we are met
by silence, we are blindly waved outside. "To write a series of good
little tales I deem ample work for a life time. It's at least a relief to
have arranged one's life time." The words are youthful, perhaps
intentionally light but few and frail as they are, they have almost alone
to bear the burden built upon them, to answer the questions and quiet the
suspicions of those who insist that a writer must have a mission and
proclaim it aloud. Scarcely for a moment does Henry James talk of his
writing; never for an instant is the thought of it absent from his mind.
Thus, in the letters to Stevenson abroad we hear behind everything else a
brooding murmur of amazement and horror at the notion of living with
savages. How, he seems to be asking himself, while on the surface all is
admiration and affection, can he endure it--how could I write my books if
I lived in Samoa with savages? All refers to his writing; all points in
to that preoccupation. But so far as actual statement goes the books
might have sprung as silently and spontaneously as daffodils in spring.
No notice is taken of their birth. Nor does it matter to him what people
say. Their remarks are probably wide of the point, or if they have a
passing truth they are uttered in unavoidable ignorance of the fact that
each book is a step onward in a gradual process of evolution, the plan of
which is onward only to the author himself. He remains inscrutable.
silent, and assured.

How, then, are we to explain the apparent inconsistency of his
disappointment when, some years later, the failure of THE BOSTONIANS and
PRINCESS CASAMASSIMA brought him face to face with the fact that he was
not destined to be a popular novelist--

  . . . I am still staggering [he wrote] a good deal under the mysterious
  and to me inexplicable injury wrought--apparently--upon my situation
  by my two last novels, the BOSTONIANS and the PRINCESS, from which I
  expected so much and derived so little. They have reduced the desire,
  and the demand, for my productions to zero--as I judge from the fact
  that though I have for a good while past been writing a number of
  good short things, I remain irremediably unpublished.

Compensations at once suggested themselves; he was "really in better form
then ever" and found himself "holding the 'critical world' at large in
singular contempt" but we have Mr. Lubbock's authority for supposing that
it was chiefly a desire to retrieve the failure of the novels that led
him to strive so strenuously, and in the end so disastrously, for success
upon the stage. Success and failure upon the lips of a man who never for
a moment doubted the authenticity of his genius or for a second lowered
his standard of the artist's duty have not their ordinary meaning.
Perhaps we may hold that failure in the sense that Henry James used it
meant, more than anything, failure on the part of the public to receive.
That was the public's fault, but that did not lessen the
catastrophe or make less desirable the vision of an order of things where
the public gratefully and with understanding accepts at the artists'
hands what is, after all, the finest essence, transmuted and returned, of
the public itself. When GUY DOMVILLE failed, and Henry James for one
"abominable quarter of an hour" faced the "yelling barbarians" and
"learned what could be the savagery of their disappointment that one
wasn't perfectly the SAME as everything else they had ever seen"
he had no doubt of his genius; but he went home to reflect:

  I have felt for a long time past that I have fallen upon evil
  days--every sign and symbol of one's being in the least wanted,
  anywhere or by anyone, having so utterly failed. A new generation,
  that I know not, and mainly prize not, has taken universal

The public henceforward appeared to him, so far as it appeared at all, a
barbarian crowd incapable of taking in their rude paws the beauty and
delicacy that he had to offer. More and more was he confirmed in his
conviction that an artist can neither live with the public, write for it,
nor seek his material in the midst of it. A select group, representative
of civilization, had at the same time protested its devotion, but how far
can one write for a select group? Is not genius itself restricted, or at
least influenced in its very essence by the consciousness that its gifts
are to the few, its concern with the few, and its revelation apparent
only to scattered enthusiasts who may be the advance guard of the future
or only a little band strayed from the high road and doomed to extinction
while civilization marches irresistibly elsewhere? All this Henry James
poised, pondered, and held in debate. No doubt the influence upon the
direction of his work was profound. But for all that he went serenely
forward; bought a house, bought a typewriter, shut himself up, surrounded
himself with furniture of the right period, and was able at the critical
moment by the timely, though rash, expenditure of a little capital to
ensure that certain hideous new cottages did not deface his point of
view. One admits to a momentary malice. The seclusion is so deliberate;
the exclusion so complete. All within the sanctuary is so prosperous and
smooth. No private responsibilities harassed him; no public duties
claimed him; his health was excellent and his income, in spite of his
protests to the contrary, more than adequate to his needs. The voice that
issued from the hermitage might well speak calmly, subtly, of exquisite
emotions, and yet now and then we are warned by something exacting and
even acid in its tone that the effects of seclusion are not altogether
benign. "Yes. Ibsen is ugly, common, hard, prosaic, bottomlessly
bourgeois . . ." "But, oh, yes, dear Louis, [TESS OF THE
D'URBERVILLES] is vile. The pretence of 'sexuality' is only equalled by
the absence of it, and the abomination of the language by the author's
reputation for style." The lack of "aesthetic curiosity" in Meredith
and his circle was highly to be deplored. The artist in him "was nothing
to the good citizen and liberalized bourgeois." The works of Tolstoy and
Dostoevsky are "fluid puddings" and "when you ask me if I don't feel
Dostoevsky's 'mad jumble, that flings things down in a heap,' nearer
truth and beauty than the picking up and composing that you instance in
Stevenson, I reply with emphasis that I feel nothing of the sort." It is
true that in order to keep these points at their sharpest one has had to
brush aside a mass of qualification and explanation which make each the
apex of a formidable body of criticism. It is only for a moment that the
seclusion seems cloistered, and the feelings of an artist confounded with
those of a dilettante.

Yet as that second flits across the mind, with the chill of a shadow
brushing the waves, we realize what a catastrophe for all of us it would
have been if the prolonged experiment, the struggle and the solitude of
Henry James's life had ended in failure. Excuses could have been found
both for him and for us. It is impossible, one might have said, for the
artist not to compromise, or, if he persists in his allegiance, then,
almost inevitably, he must live apart, for ever alien, slowly perishing
in his isolation. The history of literature is strewn with examples of
both disasters. When, therefore, almost perceptibly at a given moment,
late in the story, something yields, something is overcome, something
dark and dense glows in splendour, it is as if the beacon flamed bright
on the hilltop; as if before our eyes the crown of long deferred
completion and culmination swung slowly into place. Not columns but
pages, and not pages but chapters, might be filled with comment and
attempted analysis of this late and mighty flowering, this vindication,
this crowded gathering together and superb welding into shape of all the
separate strands, alien instincts, irreconcilable desires of the twofold
nature. For, as we dimly perceive, here at last two warring forces have
coalesced; here, by a prodigious efflort of concentration, the field of
human activity is brought into fresh focus, revealing new horizons, new
landmarks, and new lights upon it of right and wrong.

But it is for the reader at leisure to delve in the rich material of the
later letters and build up from it the complex figure of the artist in
his completeness. If we choose two passages---one upon conduct, the other
upon the gift of a leather dressing case--to represent Henry James in his
later mood we purposely brush aside a thousand others which have
innumerable good claims to be put in their place.

  If there be a wisdom in not feeling--to the last throb--the great
  things that happen to us, it is a wisdom that I shall never either
  know or esteem. Let your soul live--it's the only life that isn't on
  the whole a sell. . . .

  That [the dressing case] is the grand fact of the situation--that is
  the tawny lion, portentous creature in my path. I can't get past him,
  I can't get round him, and on the other hand he stands glaring at me,
  refusing to give way and practically blocking all my future. I can't
  live with him, you see; because I can't live UP to him. His claims,
  his pretensions, his dimensions, his assumptions and consumptions,
  above all the manner in which he causes every surrounding object (on
  my poor premises or within my poor range) to tell a dingy, or
  deplorable tale--all this makes him the very scourge of my life, the
  very blot on my scutcheon. He doesn't regild that rusty metal--he
  simply takes up an attitude of gorgeous swagger, straight in front of
  all the rust and the rubbish, which makes me look as if I had stolen
  SOMEBODY ELSE'S (regarnished BLASON) and were trying to palm it off
  as my own. . . . HE IS OUT OF THE PICTURE--out of MINE; and behold me
  condemned to live for ever with that canvas turned to the wall. Do
  you know what that means?

And so on and so on. There, portentous and prodigious, we hear
unmistakably the voice of Henry James. There, to our thinking, we have
exploded in our ears the report of his enormous, sustained, increasing,
and overwhelming love of life. It issues from whatever tortuous channels
and dark tunnels like a flood at its fullest. There is nothing too
little, too large, too remote, too queer for it not to flow round, float
off and make its own. Nothing in the end has chilled or repressed him;
everything has fed and filled him; the saturation is complete. The
labours of the morning might be elaborate and austere. There remained an
irrepressible fund of vitality which the flying hand at midnight
addressed fully and affectionately to friend after friend, each sentence,
from the whole fling of his person to the last snap of his fingers,
firmly fashioned and throwing out at its swiftest well nigh incredible
felicities of phrase.

The only difficulty, perhaps, was to find an envelope that would contain
the bulky product, or any reason, when two sheets were blackened, for not
filling a third. Truly, Lamb House was no sanctuary, but rather a
"small, crammed and wholly unlucrative hotel," and the hermit no meagre
solitary but a tough and even stoical man of the world, English in his
humour, Johnsonian in his sanity, who lived every second with insatiable
gusto and in the flux and fury of his impressions obeyed his own
injunction to remain "as solid and fixed and dense as you can." For to
be as subtle as Henry James one must also be as robust; to enjoy his
power of exquisite selection one must have "lived and loved and cursed
and floundered and enjoyed and suffered," and, with the appetite of a
giant, have swallowed the whole.

Yet, if he shared with magnanimity, if he enjoyed hugely, there remained
something incommunicable, something reserved, as if in the last resort,
it was not to us that he turned, nor from us that he received, nor into
our hands that he placed his offerings. There they stand, the many books,
products of "an inexhaustible sensibility," all with the final seal upon
them of artistic form, which, as it imposes its stamp, sets apart the
object thus consecrated and makes it no longer part of ourselves. In this
impersonality the maker himself desired to share--"to take it," as he
said, "wholly, exclusively with the pen (the style, the genius) and
absolutely not at all with the person," to be "the mask without the face,"
the alien in our midst, the worker who when his work is done turns even
from that and reserves his confidence for the solitary hour, like that at
midnight when, alone on the threshold of creation, Henry James speaks
aloud to himself "and the prospect clears and flushes, and my poor blest
old genius pats me so admirably and lovingly on the back that I turn, I
screw round, and bend my lips to passionately, in my gratitude, kiss its
hands." So that is why, perhaps, as life swings and clangs, booms and
reverberates, we have the sense of an altar of service, of sacrifice, to
which, as we pass out, we bend the knee.


The only criticism worth having at present is that which is spoken, not
written--spoken over wine-glasses and coffee-cups late at night, flashed
out on the spur of the moment by people passing who have not time to
finish their sentences, let alone consider the dues of editors or the
feelings of friends. About living writers these talker's (it is one of
their most engaging peculiarities) are always in violent disagreement.
Take George Moore, for example. George Moore is the best living
novelist--and the worst; writes the most beautiful prose of his time--and
the feeblest; has a passion for literature which none of those dismal
pundits, his contemporaries, shares; but how whimsical his judgments are,
how ill-balanced, childish and egotistical, into the bargain! So they
hammer the horseshoe out; so the sparks fly; and the worth of the
criticism lies not so much in the accuracy of each blow as in the heat it
engenders, the sense it kindles that the matter of George Moore and his
works is of the highest importance, which, without waiting another
instant, we must settle for ourselves.

Perhaps it is not accident only, but a vague recollection of dipping and
dallying in ESTHER WATERS, EVELYN INNES, THE LAKE, which makes us take
down in its new and stately form HAIL AND FAREWELL (Heinemann)--the two
large volumes which George Moore has written openly and directly about
himself. For all his novels are written, covertly and obliquely, about
himself, so at least memory would persuade us, and it may help us to
understand them if we steep ourselves in the pure waters which are
elsewhere tinged with fictitious flavours. But are not all novels about
the writer's self, we might ask? It is only as he sees people that we can
see them; his fortunes colour and his oddities shape his vision until
what we see is not the thing itself, but the thing seen and the seer
inextricably mixed. There are degrees, however. The great novelist feels,
sees, believes with such intensity of conviction that he hurls his belief
outside himself and it flies off and lives an independent life of its
own, becomes Natasha, Pierre, Levin, and is no longer Tolstoy. When,
however, Mr. Moore creates a Natasha she may be charming, foolish,
lovely, but her beauty, her folly, her charm are not hers, but Mr.
Moore's. All her qualities refer to him. In other words, Mr. Moore is
completely lacking in dramatic power. On the face of it, ESTHER WATERS
has all the appearance of a great novel; it has sincerity, shapeliness,
style; it has surpassing seriousness and integrity; but because Mr. Moore
has not the strength to project Esther from himself its virtues collapse
and fall about it like a tent with a broken pole. There it lies, this
novel without a heroine, and what remains of it is George Moore himself,
a ruin of lovely language and some exquisite descriptions of the Sussex
downs. For the novelist who has no dramatic power, no fire of conviction
within, leans upon nature for support; she lifts him up and enhances his
mood without destroying it.

But the defects of a novelist may well be the glories of his brother the
autobiographer, and we find, to our delight, that the very qualities
which weaken Mr. Moore's novels are the making of his memoirs. This
complex character, at once diffident and self-assertive, this sportsman
who goes out shooting in ladies' high-heeled boots, this amateur jockey
who loves literature beyond the apple of his eye, this amorist who is so
innocent, this sensualist who is so ascetic, this complex and uneasy
character, in short, with its lack of starch and pomp and humbug, its
pliability and malice and shrewdness and incompetence, is made of too
many incompatible elements to concentrate into the diamond of a great
artist, and is better occupied in exploring its own vagaries than in
explaining those of other people. For one thing, Mr. Moore is without
that robust belief in himself which leads men to prophesy and create.
Nobody was ever more diffident. As a little boy they told him that only
an ugly old woman would marry him, and he has never got over it. "For it
is difficult for me to believe any good of myself. Within the oftentimes
bombastic and truculent appearance that I present to the world trembles a
heart shy as a wren in the hedgerow or a mouse along the wainscoting."
The least noise startles him, and the ordinary proceedings of mankind
fill him with wonder and alarm. Their streets have so many names; their
coats have so many buttons; the ordinary business of life is altogether
beyond him. But with the timidity of the mouse he has also its gigantic
boldness. This meek grey innocent creature runs right over the lion's
paws. There is nothing that Mr. Moore will not say; by his own confession
he ought to be excluded from every drawing-room in South Kensington. If
his friends forgive him it is only because to Mr. Moore all things are
forgiven. Once when he was a child, "inspired by an uncontrollable
desire to break the monotony of infancy," he threw all his clothes into a
hawthorn tree and "ran naked in front of my nurse or governess screaming
with delight at the embarrassment I was causing her." The habit has
remained with him. He loves to take off his clothes and run screaming
with delight at the fuss and blush and embarrassment which he is causing
that dear old governess, the British Public. But the antics of Mr. Moore,
though impish and impudent, are, after all, so amusing and so graceful
that the governess, it is said, sometimes hides behind a tree to watch.
That scream of his, that garrulous chuckle as of small birds chattering
in a nest, is a merry sound; and then how melodiously he draws out his
long notes when dusk descends and the stars rise! Always you will find
him haunting the evening, when the downs are fading into waves of silver
and the grey Irish fields are melting into the grey Irish hills. The
storm never breaks over his head, the thunder never roars in his cars,
the rain never drenches him. No; the worst that befalls him is that
Teresa has not filled the Moderator lamp sufficiently full, so that the
company which is dining in the garden under the apple tree must adjourn
to the dining-room, where Mr. Osborne, Mr. Hughes, Mr. Longworth, Mr.
Seumas O'Sullivan, Mr. Atkinson and Mr. Yeats are awaiting them.

And then in the dining-room, Mr. Moore sitting down and offering a cigar
to his friends, takes up again the thread of that interminable discourse,
which, if it lapses into the gulfs of reverie for a moment, begins anew
wherever he finds a bench or chair to sit on or can link his arm in a
friend's, or can find even some discreet sympathetic animal who will only
occasionally lift a paw in silence. He talks incessantly about books and
politics; of the vision that came to him in the Chelsea road; how Mr.
Colville bred Belgian hares on the Sussex downs; about the death of his
cat; the Roman Catholic religion; how dogma is the death of literature;
how the names of poets determine their poetry; how Mr. Yeats is like a
crow, and he himself has been forced to sit on the window sill in his
pyjamas. One thing follows another; out of the, present flowers the past;
it is as easy, inconsequent, melodious as the smoke of those fragrant
cigars. But as one listens more attentively one perceives that while each
topic floats up as easily as cigar smoke into the air, the blue wreaths
have a strange fixity; they do not disperse, they unite; they build up
the airy chambers of a lifetime, and as we listen in the Temple Gardens,
in Ebury Street, in Paris, in Dublin to Mr. Moore talking, we explore
from start to finish, from those earliest days in Ireland to these latest
in London, the habitation of his soul.

But let us apply Mr. Moore's own test to Mr. Moore's own work. What
interests him, he says, is not the three or four beautiful poems that a
man may have written, but the mind that he brings into the world; and
"by a mind I mean a new way of feeling and seeing." When the fierce tide
of talk once more washes the battlements of Mr. Moore's achievement let
us throw into mid-stream these remarks; not one of his novels is a
masterpiece; they are silken tents which have no poles; but he has
brought a new mind into the world; he has given us a new way of feeling
and seeing; he has devised--very painfully, for he is above all things
painstaking, eking out a delicate gift laboriously--a means of
liquidating the capricious and volatile essence of himself and decanting
it in these memoirs; and that, whatever the degree, is triumph,
achievement, immortality. If, further, we try to establish the degree we
shall go on to say that no one so inveterately literary is among the
great writers; literature has wound itself about him like a veil,
forbidding him the free use of his limbs; the phrase comes to him before
the emotion; but we must add that he is nevertheless a born writer, a man
who detests meals, servants, ease, respectability or anything that gets
between him and his art; who has kept his freedom when most of his
contemporaries have long ago lost theirs; who is ashamed of nothing but
of being ashamed; who says whatever he has it in his mind to say, and has
taught himself an accent, a cadence, indeed a language, for saying it in
which, though they are not English, but Irish, will give him his place
among the lesser immortals of our tongue.



There are many reasons which should prevent one from criticizing the work
of contemporaries. Besides the obvious uneasiness--the fear of hurting
feelings--there is too the difficulty of being just. Coming out one by
one, their books seem like parts of a design which is slowly uncovered.
Our appreciation may be intense, but our curiosity is even greater. Does
the new fragment add anything to what went before? Does it carry out our
theory of the author's talent, or must we alter our forecast? Such
questions ruffle what should be the smooth surface of our criticism and
make it full of argument and interrogation. With a novelist like
Mr. Forster this is specially true, for he is in any case an author about
whom there is considerable disagreement. There is something baffling and
evasive in the very nature of his gifts. So, remembering that we are at
best only building up a theory which may be knocked down in a year or two
by Mr. Forster himself, let us take Mr. Forster's novels in the order in
which they were written, and tentatively and cautiously try to make them
yield us an answer.

The order in which they were written is indeed of some importance, for at
the outset we see that Mr. Forster is extremely susceptible to the
influence of time. He sees his people much at the mercy of those
conditions which change with the years. He is acutely conscious of the
bicycle and of the motor car; of the public school and of the university;
of the suburb and of the city. The social historian will find his books
full of illuminating information. In 1905 Lilia learned to bicycle,
coasted down the High Street on Sunday evening, and fell off at the turn
by the church. For this she was given a talking to by her brother-in-law
which she remembered to her dying day. It is on Tuesday that the
housemaid cleans out the drawing-room at Sawston. Old maids blow into
their gloves when they take them off. Mr. Forster is a novelist, that is
to say, who sees his people in close contact with their surroundings. And
therefore the colour and constitution of the year 1905 affect him far
more than any year in the calendar could affect the romantic Meredith or
the poetic Hardy. But we discover as we turn the page that observation is
not an end in itself; it is rather the goad, the gadfly driving Mr.
Forster to provide a refuge from this misery, an escape from this
meanness. Hence we arrive at that balance of forces which plays so large
a part in the structure of Mr. Forster's novels. Sawston implies Italy;
timidity, wildness; convention, freedom; unreality, reality. These are
the villains and heroes of much of his writing. In WHERE ANGELS FEAR TO
TREAD the disease, convention, and the remedy, nature, are provided if
anything with too eager a simplicity, too simple an assurance, but with
what a freshness, what a charm! Indeed it would not be excessive if we
discovered in this slight first novel evidence of powers which only
needed, one might hazard, a more generous diet to ripen into wealth and
beauty. Twenty-two years might well have taken the sting from the satire
and shifted the proportions of the whole. But, if that is to some extent
true, the years have had no power to obliterate the fact that, though Mr.
Forster may be sensitive to the bicycle and the duster, he is also the
most persistent devotee of the soul. Beneath bicycles and dusters,
Sawston and Italy, Philip, Harriet, and Miss Abbott, there always lies
for him--it is this which makes him so tolerant a satirist--a burning
core. It is the soul; it is reality; it is truth; it is poetry; it is
love; it decks itself in many shapes, dresses itself in many disguises.
But get at it he must; keep from it he cannot. Over brakes and byres,
over drawing-room carpets and mahogany sideboards, he flies in pursuit.
Naturally the spectacle is sometimes comic, often fatiguing; but there
are moments--and his first novel provides several instances--when he lays
his hands on the prize.

Yet, if we ask ourselves upon which occasions this happens and how, it
will seem that those passages which are least didactic, least conscious
of the pursuit of beauty, succeed best in achieving it. When he allows
himself a holiday--some phrase like that comes to our lips; when he
forgets the vision and frolics and sports with the fact; when, having
planted the apostles of culture in their hotel, he creates airily,
joyfully, spontaneously, Gino the dentist's son sitting in the cafe with
his friends, or describes--it is a masterpiece of comedy--the performance
of LUCIA DI LAMMERMOOR, it is then that we feel that his aim is achieved.
Judging, therefore, on the evidence of this first book, with its fantasy,
its penetration, its remarkable sense of design, we should have said that
once Mr. Forster had acquired freedom, had passed beyond the boundaries
of Sawston, he would stand firmly on his feet among the descendants of
Jane Austen and Peacock. But the second novel, THE LONGEST JOURNEY,
leaves us baffled and puzzled. The opposition is still the same: truth
and untruth; Cambridge and Sawston; sincerity and sophistication. But
everything is accentuated. He builds his Sawston of thicker bricks and
destroys it with stronger blasts. The contrast between poetry and realism
is much more precipitous. And now we see much more clearly to what a task
his gifts commit him. We see that what might have been a passing mood is
in truth a conviction. He believes that a novel must take sides in the
human conflict. He sees beauty--none more keenly; but beauty imprisoned in
a fortress of brick and mortar whence he must extricate her. Hence he is
always constrained to build the cage--society in all its intricacy and
triviality--before he can free the prisoner. The omnibus, the villa, the
suburban residence, are an essential part of his design. They are
required to imprison and impede the flying flame which is so
remorselessly caged behind them. At the same time, as we read THE LONGEST
JOURNEY we are aware of a mocking spirit of fantasy which flouts his
seriousness. No one seizes more deftly the shades and shadows of the
social comedy; no one more amusingly hits off the comedy of luncheon and
tea party and a game of tennis at the rectory. His old maids, his clergy,
are the most lifelike we have had since Jane Austen laid down the pen.
But he has into the bargain what Jane Austen had not--the impulses of a
poet. The neat surface is always being thrown into disarray by an
outburst of lyric poetry. Again and again in THE LONGEST JOURNEY we are
delighted by some exquisite description of the country; or some lovely
sight--like that when Rickie and Stephen send the paper boats burning
through the arch--is made visible to us forever. Here, then, is a
difficult family of gifts to persuade to live in harmony together: satire
and sympathy; fantasy and fact; poetry and a prim moral sense. No wonder
that we are often aware of contrary currents that run counter to each
other and prevent the book from bearing down upon us and overwhelming us
with the authority of a masterpiece. Yet if there is one gift more
essential to a novelist than another it is the power of combination--the
single vision. The success of the masterpieces seems to lie not so much
in their freedom from faults--indeed we tolerate the grossest errors in
them all--but in the immense persuasiveness of a mind which has
completely mastered its perspective.


We look then, as time goes on, for signs that Mr. Forster is committing
himself; that he is allying himself to one of the two great camps to
which most novelists belong. Speaking roughly, we may divide them into
the preachers and the teachers, headed by Tolstoy and Dickens, on the one
hand, and the pure artists, headed by Jane Austen and Turgenev, on the
other. Mr. Forster, it seems, has a strong impulse to belong to both
camps at once. He has many of the instincts and aptitudes of the pure
artist (to adopt the old classification)--an exquisite prose style, an
acute sense of comedy, a power of creating characters in a few strokes
which live in an atmosphere of their own; but he is at the same time
highly conscious of a message. Behind the rainbow of wit and sensibility
there is a vision which he is determined that we shall see. But his
vision is of a peculiar kind and his message of an elusive nature. He has
not great interest in institutions. He has none of that wide social
curiosity which marks the work of Mr. Wells. The divorce law and the poor
law come in for little of his attention. His concern is with the private
life; his message is addressed to the soul. "It is the private life that
holds out the mirror to infinity; personal intercourse, and that alone,
that ever hints at a personality beyond our daily vision." Our business
is not to build in brick and mortar, but to draw together the seen and
the unseen. We must learn to build the "rainbow bridge that should
connect the prose in us with the passion. Without it we are meaningless
fragments, half monks, half beasts." This belief that it is the private
life that matters, that it is the soul that is eternal, runs through all
his writing. It is the conflict between Sawston and Italy in WHERE ANGELS
FEAR TO TREAD; between Rickie and Agnes in THE LONGEST JOURNEY; between
Lucy and Cecil in A ROOM WITH A VIEW. It deepens, it becomes more
insistent as time passes. It forces him on from the lighter and more
whimsical short novels past that curious interlude, THE CELESTIAL
OMNIBUS, to the two large books, HOWARDS END and A PASSAGE TO INDIA,
which mark his prime.

But before we consider those two books let us look for a moment at the
nature of the problem he sets himself. It is the soul that matters; and
the soul, as we have seen, is caged in a solid villa of red brick
somewhere in the suburbs of London. It seems, then, that if his books are
to succeed in their mission his reality must at certain points become
irradiated; his brick must be lit up; we must see the whole building
saturated with light. We have at once to believe in the complete reality
of the suburb and in the complete reality of the soul. In this
combination of realism and mysticism his closest affinity is, perhaps,
with Ibsen. Ibsen has the same realistic power. A room is to him a room,
a writing table a writing table, and a waste-paper basket a waste-paper
basket. At the same time, the paraphernalia of reality have at certain
moments to become the veil through which we see infinity. When Ibsen
achieves this, as he certainly does, it is not by performing some
miraculous conjuring trick at the critical moment. He achieves it by
putting us into the right mood from the very start and by giving us the
right materials for his purpose. He gives us the effect of ordinary life,
as Mr. Forster does, but he gives it us by choosing a very few facts and
those of a highly relevant kind. Thus when the moment of illumination
comes we accept it implicitly. We are neither roused nor puzzled; we do
not have to ask ourselves, What does this mean? We feel simply that the
thing we are looking at is lit up, and its depths revealed. It has not
ceased to be itself by becoming something else.

Something of the same problem lies before Mr. Forster--how to connect the
actual thing with the meaning of the thing and to carry the reader's mind
across the chasm which divides the two without spilling a single drop of
its belief. At certain moments on the Arno, in Hertfordshire, in Surrey,
beauty leaps from the scabbard, the fire of truth flames through the
crusted earth; we must see the red brick villa in the suburbs of London
lit up. But it is in these great scenes which are the justification of
the huge elaboration of the realistic novel that we are most aware of
failure. For it is here that Mr. Forster makes the change from realism to
symbolism; here that the object which has been so uncompromisingly solid
becomes, or should become, luminously transparent. He fails, one is
tempted to think, chiefly because that admirable gift of his for
observation has served him too well. He has recorded too much and too
literally. He has given us an almost photographic picture on one side of
the page; on the other he asks us to see the same view transformed and
radiant with eternal fires. The bookcase which falls upon Leonard Bast in
HOWARDS END should perhaps come down upon him with all the dead weight of
smoke-dried culture; the Marabar caves should appear to us not real caves
but, it may be, the soul of India. Miss Quested should be transformed
from an English girl on a picnic to arrogant Europe straying into the
heart of the East and getting lost there. We qualify these statements,
for indeed we are not quite sure whether we have guessed aright. Instead
of getting that sense of instant certainty which we get in THE WILD DUCK
or in THE MASTER BUILDER, we are puzzled, worried. What does this mean?
we ask ourselves. What ought we to understand by this? And the hesitation
is fatal. For we doubt both things--the real and the symbolical: Mrs.
Moore, the nice old lady, and Mrs. Moore, the sibyl. The conjunction of
these two different realities seems to cast doubt upon them both. Hence
it is that there is so often an ambiguity at the heart of Mr. Forster's
novels. We feel that something has failed us at the critical moment; and
instead of seeing, as we do in THE MASTER BUILDER, one single whole we
see two separate parts.

The stories collected under the title of THE CELESTIAL OMNIBUS represent,
it may be, an attempt on Mr. Forster's part to simplify the problem which
so often troubles him of connecting the prose and poetry of life. Here he
admits definitely if discreetly the possibility of magic. Omnibuses drive
to Heaven; Pan is heard in the brushwood; girls turn into trees. The
stories are extremely charming. They release the fantasticality which is
laid under such heavy burdens in the novels. But the vein of fantasy is
not deep enough or strong enough to fight single-handed against those
other impulses which are part of his endowment. We feel that he is an
uneasy truant in fairyland. Behind the hedge he always hears the motor
horn and the shuffling feet of tired wayfarers, and soon he must return.
One slim volume indeed contains all that he has allowed himself of pure
fantasy. We pass from the freakish land where boys leap into the arms of
Pan and girls become trees to the two Miss Schlegels, who have an income
of six hundred pounds apiece and live in Wickham Place.


Much though we may regret the change, we cannot doubt that it was right.
For none of the books before HOWARDS END and A PASSAGE TO INDIA
altogether drew upon the full range of Mr. Forster's powers. With his
queer and in some ways contradictory assortment of gifts, he needed, it
seemed, some subject which would stimulate his highly sensitive and
active intelligence, but would not demand the extremes of romance or
passion; a subject which gave him material for criticism, and invited
investigation; a subject which asked to be built up of an enormous number
of slight yet precise observations, capable of being tested by an
extremely honest yet sympathetic mind; yet, with all this, a subject
which when finally constructed would show up against the torrents of the
sunset and the eternities of night with a symbolical significance. In
HOWARDS END the lower middle, the middle, the upper middle classes of
English society are so built up into a complete fabric. It is an attempt
on a larger scale than hitherto, and, if it fails, the size of the
attempt is largely responsible. Indeed, as we think back over the many
pages of this elaborate and highly skilful book, with its immense
technical accomplishment, and also its penetration, its wisdom and its
beauty, we may wonder in what mood of the moment we can have been
prompted to call it a failure. By all the rules, still more by the keen
interest with which we have read it from start to finish, we should have
said success. The reason is suggested perhaps by the manner of one's
praise. Elaboration, skill, wisdom, penetration, beauty--they are all
there, but they lack fusion; they lack cohesion; the book as a whole
lacks force. Schlegels, Wilcoxes, and Basts, with all that they stand for
of class and environment, emerge with extraordinary verisimilitude, but
the whole effect is less satisfying than that of the much slighter but
beautifully harmonious WHERE ANGELS FEAR TO TREAD. Again we have the
sense that there is some perversity in Mr. Forster's endowment so that
his gifts in their variety and number tend to trip each other up. If he
were less scrupulous, less just, less sensitively aware of the different
aspects of every case, he could, we feel, come down with greater force on
one precise point. As it is, the strength of his blow is dissipated. He
is like a light sleeper who is always being woken by something in the
room. The poet is twitched away by the satirist; the comedian is tapped
on the shoulder by the moralist; he never loses himself or forgets
himself for long in sheer delight in the beauty or the interest of things
as they are. For this reason the lyrical passages in his books, often of
great beauty in themselves, fail of their due effect in the context.
Instead of flowering naturally--as in Proust, for instance--from an
overflow of interest and beauty in the object itself, we feel that they
have been called into existence by some irritation, are the effort of a
mind outraged by ugliness to supplement it with a beauty which, because
it originates in protest, has something a little febrile about it.

Yet in HOWARDS END there are, one feels, in solution all the qualities
that are needed to make a masterpiece. The characters are extremely real
to us. The ordering of the story is masterly. That indefinable but highly
important thing, the atmosphere of the book, is alight with intelligence;
not a speck of humbug, not an atom of falsity is allowed to settle. And
again, but on a larger battlefield, the struggle goes forward which takes
place in all Mr. Forster's novels--the struggle between the things that
matter and the things that do not matter, between reality and sham,
between the truth and the lie. Again the comedy is exquisite and the
observation faultless. But again, just as we are yielding ourselves to
the pleasures of the imagination, a little jerk rouses us. We are tapped
on the shoulder. We are to notice this, to take heed of that. Margaret or
Helen, we are made to understand, is not speaking simply as herself; her
words have another and a larger intention. So, exerting ourselves to find
out the meaning, we step from the enchanted world of imagination, where
our faculties work freely, to the twilight world of theory, where only
our intellect functions dutifully. Such moments of disillusionment have
the habit of coming when Mr. Forster is most in earnest, at the crisis of
the book, where the sword falls or the bookcase drops. They bring, as we
have noted already, a curious insubstantiality into the "great scenes"
and the important figures. But they absent themselves entirely from the
comedy. They make us wish, foolishly enough, to dispose Mr. Forster's
gifts differently and to restrict him to write comedy only. For directly
he ceases to feel responsible for his characters' behaviour, and forgets
that he should solve the problem of the universe, he is the most
diverting of novelists. The admirable Tibby and the exquisite Mrs. Munt
in HOWARDS END, though thrown in largely to amuse us, bring a breath of
fresh air in with them. They inspire us with the intoxicating belief that
they are free to wander as far from their creator as they choose.
Margaret, Helen, Leonard Bast, are closely tethered and vigilantly
overlooked lest they may take matters into their own hands and upset the
theory. But Tibby and Mrs. Munt go where they like, say what they like,
do what they like. The lesser characters and the unimportant scenes in
Mr. Forster's novels thus often remain more vivid than those with which,
apparently, most pain has been taken. But it would be unjust to part from
this big, serious, and highly interesting book without recognizing that
it is an important if unsatisfactory piece of work which may well be the
prelude to something as large but less anxious.


Many years passed before A PASSAGE TO INDIA appeared. Those who hoped
that in the interval Mr. Forster might have developed his technique so
that it yielded rather more easily to the impress of his whimsical mind
and gave freer outlet to the poetry and fantasy which play about in him
were disappointed. The attitude is precisely the same four-square
attitude which walks up to life as if it were a house with a front door,
puts its hat on the table in the hall and proceeds to visit all the
rooms in an orderly manner. The house is still the house of the British
middle classes. But there is a change from HOWARDS END. Hitherto Mr.
Forster has been apt to pervade his books like a careful hostess who is
anxious to introduce, to explain, to warn her guests of a step here, of a
draught there. But here, perhaps in some disillusionment both with his
guests and with his house, he seems to have relaxed these cares. We are
allowed to ramble over this extraordinary continent almost alone. We
notice things, about the country especially, spontaneously, accidentally
almost, as if we were actually there; and now it was the sparrows flying
about the pictures that caught our eyes, now the elephant with the
painted forehead, now the enormous but badly designed ranges of hills.
The people too, particularly the Indians, have something of the same
casual, inevitable quality. They are not perhaps quite so important as
the land, but they are alive; they are sensitive. No longer do we feel,
as we used to feel in England, that they will be allowed to go only so
far and no further lest they may upset some theory of the author's. Aziz
is a free agent. He is the most imaginative character that Mr. Forster
has yet created, and recalls Gino the dentist in his first book, WHERE
ANGELS FEAR TO TREAD. We may guess indeed that it has helped Mr. Forster
to have put the ocean between him and Sawston. It is a relief, for a
time, to be beyond the influence of Cambridge. Though it is still a
necessity for him to build a model world which he can submit to delicate
and precise criticism, the model is on a larger scale. The English
society, with all its pettiness and its vulgarity and its streak of
heroism, is set against a bigger and a more sinister background. And
though it is still true that there are ambiguities in important places,
moments of imperfect symbolism, a greater accumulation of facts than the
imagination is able to deal with, it seems as if the double vision which
troubled us in the earlier books was in process of becoming single. The
saturation is much more thorough. Mr. Forster has almost achieved the
great feat of animating this dense, compact body of observation with a
spiritual light. The book shows signs of fatigue and disillusionment; but
it has chapters of clear and triumphant beauty, and above all it makes us
wonder, What will he write next?

MIDDLEBROW (* This letter was written, but not sent to The New Statesman.)



Will you allow me to draw your attention to the fact that in a review of
a book by me (October    ) your reviewer omitted to use the word Highbrow?
The review, save for that omission, gave me so much pleasure that I am
driven to ask you, at the risk of appearing unduly egotistical, whether
your reviewer, a man of obvious intelligence, intended to deny my claim
to that title? I say "claim," for surely I may claim that title when a
great critic, who is also a great novelist, a rare and enviable
combination, always calls me a highbrow when he condescends to notice my
work in a great newspaper; and, further, always finds space to inform
not only myself, who know it already, but the whole British Empire, who
hang on his words, that I live in Bloomsbury? Is your critic unaware of
that fact too? Or does he, for all his intelligence, maintain that it is
unnecessary in reviewing a book to add the postal address of the writer?

His answer to these questions, though of real value to me, is of no
possible interest to the public at large. Of that I am well aware. But
since larger issues are involved, since the Battle of the Brows troubles,
I am told, the evening air, since the finest minds of our age have lately
been engaged in debating, not without that passion which befits a noble
cause, what a highbrow is and what a lowbrow, which is better and which
is worse, may I take this opportunity to express my opinion and at the
same time draw attention to certain aspects of the question which seem to
me to have been unfortunately overlooked?

Now there can be no two opinions as to what a highbrow is. He is the man
or woman of thoroughbred intelligence who rides his mind at a gallop
across country in pursuit of an idea. That is why I have always been so
proud to be called highbrow. That is why, if I could be more of a
highbrow I would. I honour and respect highbrows. Some of my relations
have been highbrows; and some, but by no means all, of my friends. To be
a highbrow, a complete and representative highbrow, a highbrow like
Shakespeare, Dickens, Byron, Shelley, Keats, Charlotte Brontë, Scott, Jane
Austen, Flaubert, Hardy or Henry James--to name a few highbrows from the
same profession chosen at random--is of course beyond the wildest dreams
of my imagination. And, though I would cheerfully lay myself down in the
dust and kiss the print of their feet, no person of sense will deny that
this passionate preoccupation of theirs--riding across country in pursuit
of ideas--often leads to disaster. Undoubtedly, they come fearful
croppers. Take Shelley--what a mess he made of his life! And Byron,
getting into bed with first one woman and then with another and dying in
the mud at Missolonghi. Look at Keats, loving poetry and Fanny Brawne so
intemperately that he pined and died of consumption at the age of
twenty-six. Charlotte Brontë again--I have beep assured on good authority
that Charlotte Brontë was, with the possible exception of Emily, the
worst governess in the British Isles. Then there was Scott--he went
bankrupt, and left, together with a few magnificent novels, one house,
Abbotsford, which is perhaps the ugliest in the whole Empire. But surely
these instances are enough--I need not further labour the point that
highbrows, for some reason or another, are wholly incapable of dealing
successfully with what is called real life. That is why, and here I come
to a point that is often surprisingly ignored, they honour so
wholeheartedly and depend so completely upon those who are called
lowbrows. By a lowbrow is meant of course a man or a woman of
thoroughbred vitality who rides his body in pursuit of a living at a
gallop across life. That is why I honour and respect lowbrows--and I have
never known a highbrow who did not. In so far as I am a highbrow (and my
imperfections in that line are well known to me) I love lowbrows; I study
them; I always sit next the conductor in an omnibus and try to get him
to tell me what it is like--being a conductor. In whatever company I am I
always try to know what it is like--being a conductor, being a woman with
ten children and thirty-five shillings a week, being a stockbroker, being
an admiral, being a bank clerk, being a dressmaker, being a duchess,
being a miner, being a cook, being a prostitute. All that lowbrows do is
of surpassing interest and wonder to me, because, in so far as I am a
highbrow, I cannot do things myself.

This brings me to another point which is also surprisingly overlooked.
Lowbrows need highbrows and honour them just as much as highbrows need
lowbrows and honour them. This too is not a matter that requires much
demonstration. You have only to stroll along the Strand on a wet winter's
night and watch the crowds lining up to get into the movies. These
lowbrows are waiting, after the day's work, in the rain, sometimes for
hours, to get into the cheap seats and sit in hot theatres in order to
see what their lives look like. Since they are lowbrows, engaged
magnificently and adventurously in riding full tilt from one end of life
to the other in pursuit of a living, they cannot see themselves doing it.
Yet nothing interests them more. Nothing matters to them more. It is one
of the prime necessities of life to them--to be shown what life looks
like. And the highbrows, of course, are the only people who can show
them. Since they are the only people who do not do things, they are the
only people who can see things being done. This is so--and so it is I am
certain; nevertheless we are told--the air buzzes with it by night, the
press booms with it by day, the very donkeys in the fields do nothing but
bray it, the very curs in the streets do nothing but bark it--"Highbrows
hate lowbrows! Lowbrows hate highbrows!"--when highbrows need lowbrows,
when lowbrows need highbrows, when they cannot exist apart, when one is
the complement and other side of the other! How has such a lie come into
existence? Who has set this malicious gossip afloat?

There can be no doubt about that either. It is the doing of the
middlebrows. They are the people, I confess, that I seldom regard with
entire cordiality. They are the go-betweens; they are the busy-bodies who
run from one to the other with their tittle tattle and make all the
mischief--the middlebrows, I repeat. But what, you may ask, is a
middlebrow? And that, to tell the truth, is no easy question to answer.
They are neither one thing nor the other. They are not highbrows, whose
brows are high; nor lowbrows, whose brows are low. Their brows are
betwixt and between. They do not live in Bloomsbury which is on high
ground; nor in Chelsea, which is on low ground. Since they must live
somewhere presumably, they live perhaps in South Kensington, which is
betwixt and between. The middlebrow is the man, or woman, of middlebred
intelligence who ambles and saunters now on this side of the hedge, now
on that, in pursuit of no single object, neither art itself nor life
itself, but both mixed indistinguishably, and rather nastily, with money,
fame, power, or prestige. The middlebrow curries favour with both sides
equally. He goes to the lowbrows and tells them that while he is not
quite one of them, he is almost their friend. Next moment he rings up the
highbrows and asks them with equal geniality whether he may not come to
tea. Now there are highbrows--I myself have known duchesses who were
highbrows, also charwomen, and they have both told me with that vigour of
language which so often unites the aristocracy with the working classes,
that they would rather sit in the coal cellar, together, than in the
drawing-room with middlebrows and pour out tea. I have myself been
asked--but may I, for the sake of brevity, cast this scene which is only
partly fictitious, into the form of fiction?--I myself, then, have been
asked to come and "see" them--how strange a passion theirs is for being
"seen"! They ring me up, therefore, at about eleven in the morning, and
ask me to come to tea. I go to my wardrobe and consider, rather
lugubriously, what is the right thing to wear? We highbrows may be smart,
or we may be shabby; but we never have the right thing to wear. I proceed
to ask next: What is the right thing to say? Which is the right knife to
use? What is the right book to praise? All these are things I do not know
for myself. We highbrows read what we like and do what we like and praise
what we like. We also know what we dislike--for example, thin bread and
butter tea. The difficulty of eating thin bread and butter in white kid
gloves has always seemed to me one of life's more insuperable problems.
Then I dislike bound volumes of the classics behind plate glass. Then I
distrust people who call both Shakespeare and Wordsworth equally
"Bill"--it is a habit moreover that leads to confusion. And in the matter
of clothes, I like people either to dress very well; or to dress very
badly; I dislike the correct thing in clothes. Then there is the question
of games. Being a highbrow I do not play them. But I love watching people
play who have a passion for games. These middlebrows pat balls about;
they poke their bats and muff their catches at cricket. And when poor
Middlebrow mounts on horseback and that animal breaks into a canter, to
me there is no sadder sight in all Rotten Row. To put it in a nutshell
(in order to get on with the story) that tea party was not wholly a
success, nor altogether a failure; for Middlebrow, who writes, following
me to the door, clapped me briskly on the back, and said "I'm sending
you my book!" (Or did he call it "stuff?") And his book comes--sure
enough, though called, so symbolically, KEEPAWAY, [Keepaway is the name
of a preparation used to distract the male dog from the female at certain
seasons] it comes. And I read a page here, and I read a page there (I am
breakfasting, as usual, in bed). And it is not well written; nor is it
badly written. It is not proper, nor is it improper--in short it is
betwixt and between. Now if there is any sort of book for which I have,
perhaps, an imperfect sympathy, it is the betwixt and between. And so,
though I suffer from the gout of a morning--but if one's ancestors for
two or three centuries have tumbled into bed dead drunk one has deserved
a touch of that malady--I rise. I dress. I proceed weakly to the window.
I take that book in my swollen right hand and toss it gently over the
hedge into the field. The hungry sheep--did I remember to say that this
part of the story takes place in the country?--the hungry sheep look up
but are not fed.

But to have done with fiction and its tendency to lapse into poetry--I
will now report a perfectly prosaic conversation in words of one
syllable. I often ask my friends the lowbrows, over our muffins and
honey, why it is that while we, the highbrows, never buy a middlebrow
book, or go to a middlebrow lecture, or read, unless we are paid for
doing so, a middlebrow review, they, on the contrary, take these
middlebrow activities so seriously? Why, I ask (not of course on the
wireless), are you so damnably modest? Do you think that a description of
your lives, as they are, is too sordid and too mean to be beautiful? Is
that why you prefer the middlebrow version of what they have the
impudence to call real humanity?--this mixture of geniality and sentiment
stuck together with a sticky slime of calves-foot jelly? The truth, if
you would only believe it, is much more beautiful than any lie. Then
again, I continue, how can you let the middlebrows teach you how to
write?--you, who write so beautifully when you write naturally, that I
would give both my hands to write as you do--for which reason I never
attempt it, but do my best to learn the art of writing as a highbrow
should. And again, I press on, brandishing a muffin on the point of a tea
spoon, how dare the middlebrows teach you how to read--Shakespeare for
instance? All you have to do is to read him. The Cambridge edition is
both good and cheap. If you find HAMLET difficult, ask him to tea. He is
a highbrow. Ask Ophelia to meet him. She is a lowbrow. Talk to them, as
you talk to me, and you will know more about Shakespeare than all the
middlebrows in the world can teach you--I do not think, by the way, from
certain phrases that Shakespeare liked middlebrows, or Pope either.

To all this the lowbrows reply--but I cannot imitate their style of
talking--that they consider themselves to be common people without
education. It is very kind of the middlebrows to try to teach them
culture. And after all, the lowbrows continue, middlebrows, like other
people, have to make money. There must be money in teaching and in
writing books about Shakespeare. We all have to earn our livings
nowadays, my friends the lowbrows remind me. I quite agree. Even those of
us whose Aunts came a cropper riding in India and left them an annual
income of four hundred and rfifty pounds, now reduced, thanks to the war
and other luxuries, to little more than two hundred odd, even we have to
do that. And we do it, too, by writing about anybody who seems
amusing--enough has been written about Shakespeare--Shakespeare hardly
pays. We highbrows, I agree, have to earn our livings; but when we have
earned enough to live on, then we live. When the middlebrows, on the
contrary, have earned enough to live on, they go on earning enough to
buy--what are the things that middlebrows always buy? Queen Anne furniture
(faked, but none the less expensive); first editions of dead
writers, always the worst; pictures, or reproductions from pictures, by
dead painters; houses in what is called "the Georgian style"--but never
anything new, never a picture by a living painter, or a chair by a living
carpenter, or books by living writers, for to buy living art requires
living taste. And, as that kind of art and that kind of taste are what
middlebrows call "highbrow," "Bloomsbury," poor middlebrow spends vast
sums on sham antiques, and has to keep at it scribbling away, year in,
year out, while we highbrows ring each other up, and are off for a day's
jaunt into the country. That is the worst of course of living in a
set--one likes being with one's friends.

Have I then made my point clear, sir, that the true battle in my opinion
lies not between highbrow and lowbrow, but between highbrows and lowbrows
joined together in blood brotherhood against the bloodless and pernicious
pest who comes between? If the B.B.C. stood for anything but the Betwixt
and Between Company they would use their control of the air not to stir
strife between brothers, but to broadcast the fact that highbrows and
lowbrows must band together to exterminate a pest which is the bane of
all thinking and living. It may be, to quote from your advertisement
columns, that "terrifically sensitive" lady novelists overestimate the
dampness and dinginess of this fungoid growth. But all I can say is that
when, lapsing into that stream which people call, so oddly,
consciousness, and gathering wool from the sheep that have been mentioned
above, I ramble round my garden in the suburbs, middlebrow seems to me to
be everywhere. "What's that?" I cry. "Middlebrow on the cabbages?
Middlebrow infecting that poor old sheep? And what about the moon?" I
look up and, behold, the moon is under eclipse. "Middlebrow at it again!"
I exclaim. "Middlebrow obscuring, dulling, tarnishing and coarsening
even the silver edge of Heaven's own scythe." (I "draw near to poetry,"
see advt.) And then my thoughts, as Freud assures us thoughts will do,
rush (Middlebrow's saunter and simper, out of respect for the Censor) to
sex, and I ask of the sea-gulls who are crying on desolate sea sands and
of the farm hands who are coming home rather drunk to their wives, what
will become of us, men and women, if Middlwbrow has his way with us, and
there is only a middle sex but no husbands or wives? The next remark I
address with the utmost humility to the Prime Minister. "What, sir," I
demand, "will be the fate of the British Empire and of our Dominions
Across the Seas if Middlebrows prevail? Will you not, sir, read a
pronouncement of an authoritative nature from Broadcasting House?"

Such are the thoughts, such are the fancies that visit "cultured
invalidish ladies with private means" (see advt.) when they stroll in
their suburban gardens and look at the cabbages and at the red brick
villas that have been built by middlebrows so that middlebrows may look
at the view. Such are the thoughts "at once gay and tragic and deeply
feminine" (see advt.) of one who has not yet "been driven out of
Bloomsbury" (advt. again), a place where lowbrows and highbrows live
happily together on equal terms and priests are not, nor priestesses,
and, to be quite frank, the adjective "priestly" is neither often heard
nor held in high esteem. Such are the thoughts of one who will stay in
Bloomsbury until the Duke of Bedford, rightly concerned for the
respectability of his squares, raises the rent so high that Bloomsbury is
safe for middlebrows to live in. Then she will leave.

May I conclude, as I began, by thanking your reviewer for his very
courteous and interesting review, but may I tell him that though he did
not, for reasons best known to himself, call me a highbrow, there is no
name in the world that I prefer? I ask nothing better than that all
reviewers, for ever, and everywhere, should call me a highbrow. I will do
my best to oblige them. If they like to add Bloomsbury, W.C.1, that is
the correct postal address, and my telephone number is in the Directory.
But if your reviewer, or any other reviewer, dares hint that I live in
South Kensington, I will sue him for libel. If any human being, man,
woman, dog, cat or half-crushed worm dares call me "middlebrow" I will
take my pen and stab him, dead. Yours etc.,

Virginia Woolf.



The art of biography, we say---but at once go on to ask, is biography an
art? The question is foolish perhaps, and ungenerous certainly,
considering the keen pleasure that biographers have given us. But the
question asks itself so often that there must be something behind it.
There it is, whenever a new biography is opened, casting its shadow on
the page; and there would seem to be something deadly in that shadow, for
after all, of the multitude of lives that are written, how few survive!

But the reason for this high death rate, the biographer might argue, is
that biography, compared with the arts of poetry and fiction, is a young
art. Interest in our selves and in other people's selves is a late
development of the human mind. Not until the eighteenth century in
England did that curiosity express itself in writing the lives of private
people. Only in the nineteenth century was biography fully grown and
hugely prolific. If it is true that there have been only three great
biographers--Johnson, Boswell, and Lockhart--the reason, he argues, is
that the time was short; and his plea, that the art of biography has had
but little time to establish itself and develop itself, is certainly
borne out by the textbooks. Tempting as it is to explore the reason--why,
that is, the self that writes a book of prose came into being so many
centuries after the self that writes a poem, why Chaucer preceded Henry
James--it is better to leave that insoluble question unasked, and so pass
to his next reason for the lack of masterpieces. It is that the art of
biography is the most restricted of all the arts. He has his proof ready
to hand. Here it is in the preface in which Smith, who has written the
life of Jones, takes this opportunity of thanking old friends who have
lent letters, and "last but not least" Mrs. Jones, the widow, for that
help "without which," as he puts it, "this biography could not have
been written." Now the novelist, he points out, simply says in his
foreword, "Every character in this book is fictitious." The novelist is
free; the biographer is tied.

There, perhaps, we come within hailing distance of that very difficult,
again perhaps insoluble, question: What do we mean by calling a book a
work of art? At any rate, here is a distinction between biography and
fiction--a proof that they differ in the very stuff of which they are
made. One is made with the help of friends, of facts; the other is
created without any restrictions save those that the artist, for reasons
that seem good to him, chooses to obey. That is a distinction; and there
is good reason to think that in the past biographers have found it not.
only a distinction but a very cruel distinction.

The widow and the friends were hard taskmasters. Suppose, for example,
that the man of genius was immoral, ill-tempered, and threw the boots at
the maid's head. The widow would say, "Still I loved him--he was the
father of my children; and the public, who love his books, must on no
account be disillusioned. Cover up; omit." The biographer obeyed. And
thus the majority of Victorian biographies are like the wax figures now
preserved in Westminster Abbey, that were carried in funeral processions
through the street--effigies that have only a smooth superficial likeness
to the body in the coffin.

Then, towards the end of the nineteenth century, there was a change.
Again for reasons not easy to discover, widows became broader-minded, the
public keener-sighted; the effigy no longer carried conviction or
satisfied curiosity. The biographer certainly won a measure of freedom.
At least he could hint that there were scars and furrows on the dead
man's face. Froude's Carlyle is by no means a wax mask painted rosy red.
And following Froude there was Sir Edmund Gosse, who dared to say that
his own father was a fallible human being. And following Edmund Gosse in
the early years of the present century came Lytton Strachey.


The figure of Lytton Strachey is so important a figure in the history of
biography, that it compels a pause. For his three famous books, EMINENT
show both what biography can do and what biography cannot do. Thus they
suggest many possible answers to the question whether biography is an
art, and if not why it fails. Lytton Strachey came to birth as an author
at a lucky moment. In 1918, when he made his first attempt, biography,
with its new liberties, was a form that offered great attractions. To a
writer like himself, who had wished to write poetry or plays but was
doubtful of his creative power, biography seemed to offer a promising
alternative. For at last it was possible to tell the truth about the
dead; and the Victorian age was rich in remarkable figures many of whom
had been grossly deformed by the effigies that had been plastered over
them. To recreate them, to show them as they really were, was a task that
called for gifts analogous to the poet's or the novelist's, yet did not
ask that inventive power in which he found himself lacking.

It was well worth trying. And the anger and the interest that his short
studies of Eminent Victorians aroused showed that he was able to make
Manning, Florence Nightingale, Gordon, and the rest live as they had not
lived since they were actually in the flesh. Once more they were the
centre of a buzz of discussion. Did Gordon really drink, or was that an
invention? Had Florence Nightingale received the Order of Merit in her
bedroom or in her sitting room? He stirred the public, even though a
European war was raging, to an astonishing interest in such minute
matters. Anger and laughter mixed; and editions multiplied.

But these were short studies with something of the over-emphasis and the
foreshortening of caricatures. In the lives of the two great Queens,
Elizabeth and Victoria, he attempted a far more ambitious task. Biography
had never had a fairer chance of showing what it could do. For it was now
being put to the test by a writer who was capable of making use of all
the liberties that biography had won: he was fearless; he had proved his
brilliance; and he had learned his job. The result throws great light
upon the nature of biography. For who can doubt after reading the two
books again, one after the other, that the Victoria is a triumphant
success, and that the ELIZABETH by comparison is a failure? But it seems
too, as we compare them, that it was not Lytton Strachey who failed; it
was the art of biography. In the VICTORIA he treated biography as a
craft; he submitted to its limitations. In the ELIZABETH he treated
biography as an art; he flouted its limitations.

But we must go on to ask how we have come to this conclusion and what
reasons support it. In the first place it is clear that the two Queens
present very different problems to their biographer. About Queen Victoria
everything was known. Everything she did, almost everything she thought,
was a matter of common knowledge. No one has ever been more closely
verified and exactly authenticated than Queen Victoria. The biographer
could not invent her, because at every moment some document was at hand
to check his invention. And, in writing of Victoria, Lytton Strachey
submitted to the conditions. He used to the full the biographer's power
of selection and relation, but he kept strictly within the world of fact.
Every statement was verified; every fact was authenticated. And the
result is a life which, very possibly, will do for the old Queen what
Boswell did for the old dictionary maker. In time to come Lytton
Strachey's Queen Victoria will be Queen Victoria, just as Boswell's
Johnson is now Dr. Johnson. The other versions will fade and disappear.
It was a prodigious feat, and no doubt, having accomplished it, the
author was anxious to press further. There was Queen Victoria, solid,
real, palpable. But undoubtedly she was limited. Could not biography
produce something of the intensity of poetry, something of the excitement
of drama, and yet keep also the peculiar virtue that belongs to fact--its
suggestive reality, its own proper creativeness?

Queen Elizabeth seemed to lend herself perfectly to the experiment. Very
little was known about her. The society in which she lived was so remote
that the habits, the motives, and even the actions of the people--of that
age were full of strangeness and obscurity. "By what art are we to worm
our way into those strange spirits? those even stranger bodies? The more
clearly we perceive it, the more remote that singular universe becomes,"
Lytton Strachey remarked on one of the first pages. Yet there was
evidently a "tragic history" lying dormant, half revealed, half
concealed, in the story of the Queen and Essex. Everything seemed to lend
itself to the making of a book that combined the advantages of both
worlds, that gave the artist freedom to invent, but helped his invention
with the support of facts--a book that was not only a biography but also
a work of art.

Nevertheless, the combination proved unworkable; fact and fiction refused
to mix. Elizabeth never became real in the sense that Queen Victoria had
been real, yet she never became fictitious in the sense that Cleopatra or
Falstaff is fictitious. The reason would seem to be that very little was
known--he was urged to invent; yet something was known--his invention was
checked. The Queen thus moves in an ambiguous world, between fact and
fiction, neither embodied nor disembodied. There is a sense of vacancy
and effort, of a tragedy that has no crisis, of characters that meet but
do not clash.

If this diagnosis is true we are forced to say that the trouble lies with
biography itself. It imposes conditions, and those conditions are that it
must be based upon fact. And by fact in biography we mean facts that can
be verified by other people besides the artist. If he invents facts as an
artist invents them--facts that no one else can verify--and tries to
combine them with facts of the other sort, they destroy each other.

Lytton Strachey himself seems in the QUEEN VICTORIA to have realized the
necessity of this condition, and to have yielded to it instinctively.
"The first forty-two years of the Queen's life," he wrote, "are
illuminated by a great and varied quantity of authentic information. With
Albert's death a veil descends." And when with Albert's death the veil
descended and authentic information failed, he knew that the biographer
must follow suit. "We must be content with a brief and summary relation,"
he wrote; and the last years are briefly disposed of. But the whole of
Elizabeth's life was lived behind a far thicker veil than the last years
of Victoria. And yet, ignoring his own admission, he went on to write,
not a brief and summary relation, but a whole book about those strange
spirits and even stranger bodies of whom authentic information was
lacking. On his own showing, the attempt was doomed to failure.


It seems, then, that when the biographer complained that he was tied by
friends, letters, and documents he was laying his finger upon a necessary
element in biography; and that it is also a necessary limitation. For the
invented character lives in a free world where the facts are verified by
one person only--the artist himself. Their authenticity lies in the truth
of his own vision. The world created by that vision is rarer, intenser,
and more wholly of a piece than the world that is largely made of
authentic information supplied by other people. And because of this
difference the two kinds of fact will not mix; if they touch they destroy
each other. No one, the conclusion seems to be, can make the best of both
worlds; you must choose, and you must abide by your choice.

But though the failure of ELIZABETH AND ESSEX leads to this conclusion,
that failure, because it was the result of a daring experiment carried
out with magnificent skill, leads the way to further discoveries. Had he
lived, Lytton Strachey would no doubt himself have explored the vein that
he had opened. As it is, he has shown us the way in which others may
advance. The biographer is bound by facts--that is so; but, if it is so,
he has the right to all the facts that are available. If Jones threw
boots at the maid's head, had a mistress at Islington, or was found drunk
in a ditch after a night's debauch, he must be free to say so--so far at
least as the law of libel and human sentiment allow.

But these facts are not like the facts of science--once they are
discovered, always the same. They are subject to changes of opinion;
opinions change as the times change. What was thought a sin is now known,
by the light of facts won for us by the psychologists, to be perhaps a
misfortune; perhaps a curiosity; perhaps neither one nor the other, but a
trifling foible of no great importance one way or the other. The accent
on sex has changed within living memory. This leads to the destruction of
a great deal of dead matter still obscuring the true features of the
human face. Many of the old chapter headings--life at college, marriage,
career--are shown to be very arbitrary and artificial distinctions. The
real current of the hero's existence took, very likely, a different

Thus the biographer must go ahead of the rest of us, like the miner's
canary, testing the atmosphere, detecting falsity, unreality, and the
presence of obsolete conventions. His sense of truth must he alive and on
tiptoe. Then again, since we live in an age when a thousand cameras are
pointed, by newspapers, letters, and diaries, at every character from
every angle, he must be prepared to admit contradictory versions of the
same face. Biography will enlarge its scope by hanging up looking glasses
at odd corners. And yet from all this diversity it will bring out, not a
riot of confusion, but a richer unity. And again, since so much is known
that used to be unknown, the question now inevitably asks itself, whether
the lives of great men only should be recorded. Is not anyone who has
lived a life, and left a record of that life, worthy of biography--the
failures as well as the successes, the humble as well as the illustrious?
And what is greatness? And what smallness? We must revise our standards
of merit and set up new heroes for our admiration.


Biography thus is only at the beginning of its career; it has a long and
active life before it, we may be sure--a life full of difficulty, danger,
and hard work. Nevertheless, we can also be sure that it is a different
life from the life of poetry and fiction--a life lived at a lower degree
of tension. And for that reason its creations are not destined for the
immortality which the artist now and then achieves for his creations.

There would seem to be certain proof of that already. Even Dr. Johnson as
created by Boswell will not live as long as Falstaff as created by
Shakespeare. Micawber and Miss Bates we may be certain will survive
Lockhart's Sir Walter Scott and Lytton Strachey's Queen Victoria. For
they are made of more enduring matter. The artist's imagination at its
most intense fires out what is perishable in fact; he builds with what is
durable; but the biographer must accept the perishable, build with it,
imbed it in the very fabric of his work. Much will perish; little will
live. And thus we come to the conclusion, that he is a craftsman, not an
artist; and his work is not a work of art, but something betwixt and

Yet on that lower level the work of the blographer is invaluable; we
cannot thank him sufficiently for what he for us. For we are incapable
of living wholly in the intense world of the imagination. The imagination
is a faculty that soon tires and needs rest and refreshment. But for a
tired imagination the proper food is not inferior poetry or minor
fiction--indeed they blunt and debauch it--but sober fact, that "authentic
information" from which, as Lytton Strachey has shown us, good biography
is made. When and where did the real man live; how did he look; did he
wear laced boots or elastic-sided; who were his aunts, and his friends;
how did he blow his nose whom did he love, and how; and when he came to
die did he die in his bed like a Christian, or . . .

By telling us the true facts, by sifting the little from the big, and
shaping the whole so that we perceive the outline, the biographer does
more to stimulate the imagination than any poet or novelist save the very
greatest. For few poets and novelists are capable of that high degree of
tension which gives us reality. But almost any biographer, if he respects
facts, can give us much more than another fact to add to our collection.
He can give us the creative fact; the fertile fact; the fact that
suggests and engenders. Of this, too, there is certain proof. For how
often, when a biography is read and tossed aside, some scene remains
bright, some figure lives on in the depths of the mind, and causes us,
when we read a poem or a novel, to feel a start of recognition, as if we
remembered something that we had known before.

CRAFTSMANSHIP (* A broadcast on April 20th, 1937)

The title of this series is "Words Fail Me," and this particular talk is
called "Craftsmanship." We must suppose, therefore, that the talker is
meant to discuss the craft of words--the craftsmanship of the writer. But
there is something incongruous, unfitting, about the term "craftsmanship"
when applied to words. The English dictionary, to which we always turn
in moments of dilemma, confirms us in our doubts. It says that the word
"craft" has two meanings; it means in the first place making useful
objects out of solid matter--for example, a pot, a chair, a table. In the
second place, the word "craft" means cajolery, cunning, deceit. Now we
know little that is certain about words, but this we do know--words never
make anything that is useful; and words are the only things that tell the
truth and nothing but the truth. Therefore, to talk of craft in
connection with words is to bring together two incongruous ideas, which
if they mate can only give birth to some monster fit for a glass case in
a museum. Instantly, therefore, the title of the talk must be changed,
and for it substituted another--A Ramble round Words, perhaps. For when
you cut off the head of a talk it behaves like a hen that has been
decapitated. It runs round in a circle till it drops dead--so people say
who have killed hens. And that must be the course, or circle, of this
decapitated talk. Let us then take for our starting point the statement
that words are not useful. This happily needs little proving, for we are
all aware of it. When we travel on the Tube, for example, when we wait on
the platform for a train, there, hung up in front of us, on an
illuminated signboard, are the words "Passing Russell Square." We look at
those words; we repeat them; we try to impress that useful fact upon our
minds; the next train will pass Russell Square. We say over and over
again as we pace, "Passing Russell Square, passing Russell Square." And
then as we say them, the words shuffle and change, and we find ourselves
saying, "Passing away saith the world, passing away. . . . The leaves
decay and fall, the vapours weep their burthen to the ground. Man
comes. . .  ." And then we wake up and find ourselves at King's Cross.

Take another example. Written up opposite us in the railway carriage are
the words: "Do not lean out of the window." At the first reading the
useful meaning, the surface meaning, is conveyed; but soon, as we sit
looking at the words, they shuffle, they change; and we begin saying,
"Windows, yes windows--casements opening on the foam of perilous seas in
faery lands forlorn." And before we know what we are doing, we have leant
out of the window; we are looking for Ruth in tears amid the alien corn.
The penalty for that is twenty pounds or a broken neck.

This proves, if it needs proving, how very little natural gift words have
for being useful. If we insist on forcing them against their nature to be
useful, we see to our cost how they mislead us, how they fool us, how
they land us a crack on the head. We have been so often fooled in this
way by words, they have so often proved that they hate being useful, that
it is their nature not to express one simple statement but a thousand
possibilities--they have done this so often that at last, happily, we are
beginning to face the fact. We are beginning to invent another language
--a language perfectly and beautifully adapted to express useful
statements, a language of signs. There is one great living master of
this language to whom we are all indebted, that anonymous writer--whether
man, woman or disembodied spirit nobody knows--who describes hotels in the
Michelin Guide. He wants to tell us that one hotel is moderate, another
good, and a third the best in the place. How does he do it? Not with
words; words would at once bring into being shrubberies and billiard
tables, men and women, the moon rising and the long splash of the summer
sea--all good things, but all here beside the point. He sticks to signs;
one gable; two gables; three gables. That is all he says and all he
needs to say. Baedeker carries the sign language still further into the
sublime realms of art. When he wishes to say that a picture is good, he
uses one star; if very good, two stars; when, in his opinion, it is a
work of transcendent genius, three black stars shine on the page, and
that is all. So with a handful of stars and daggers the whole of art
criticism, the whole of literary criticism could be reduced to the size
of a sixpenny bit--there are moments when one could wish it. But this
suggests that in time to come writers will have two languages at their
service; one for fact, one for fiction. When the biographer has to
convey a useful and necessary fact, as, for example, that Oliver Smith
went to college and took a third in the year 1892, he will say so with a
hollow 0 on top of the figure five. When the novelist is forced to inform
us that John rang the bell after a pause the door was opened by a
parlourmaid who said, "Mrs. Jones is not at home," he will to our great
gain and his own comfort convey that repulsive statement not in words,
but in signs--say, a capital H on top of the figure three. Thus we may look
forward to the day when our biographies and novels will be slim and
muscular; and a railway company that says: "Do not lean out of the
window" in words will be fined a penalty not exceeding five pounds for
the improper use of language.

Words, then, are not useful. Let us now enquire into their other quality,
their positive quality, that is, their power to tell the truth. According
once more to the dictionary there are at least three kinds of truth
God's or gospel truth; literary truth; and home truth (generally.
unflattering). But to consider each separately would take too long. Let
us then simplify and assert that since the only test of truth is length
of life, and since words survive the chops and changes of time longer
than any other substance, therefore they are the truest. Buildings fall;
even the earth perishes. What was yesterday a cornfield is to-day a
bungalow. But words, if properly used, seem able to live for ever. What,
then, we may ask next, is the proper use of words? Not, so we have said,
to make a useful statement; for a useful statement is a statement that
can mean only one thing. And it is the nature of words to mean many
things. Take the simple sentence "Passing Russell Square." That proved
useless because besides the surface meaning it contained so many sunken
meanings. The word "passing" suggested the transiency of things, the
passing of time and the changes of human life. Then the word "Russell"
suggested the rustling of leaves and the skirt on a polished floor also
the ducal house of Bedford and half the history of England. Finally the
word "Square" brings in the sight, the shape of an actual square
combined with some visual suggestion of the stark angularity of stucco.
Thus one sentence of the simplest kind rouses the imagination, the
memory, the eye and the ear--all combine in reading it.

But they combine--they combine unconsciously together. The moment we
single out and emphasize the suggestions as we have done here they become
unreal; and we, too, become unreal--specialists, word mongers, phrase
finders, not readers. In reading we have to allow the sunken meanings to
remain sunken, suggested, not stated; lapsing and flowing into each other
like reeds on the bed of a river. But the words in that sentence Passing
Russell Square-are of course very rudimentary words. They show no trace
of the strange, of the diabolical power which words possess when they are
not tapped out by a typewriter but come fresh from a human brain--the
power that is to suggest the writer; his character, his appearance, his
wife, his family, his house--even the cat on the hearthrug. Why words do
this, how they do it, how to prevent them from doing it nobody knows. They
do it without the writer's will; often against his will. No writer
presumably wishes to impose his own miserable character, his own private
secrets and vices upon the reader. But has any writer, who is not a
typewriter, succeeded in being wholly impersonal? Always, inevitably, we
know them as well as their books. Such is the suggestive power of words
that they will often make a bad book into a very lovable human being, and
a good book into a man whom we can hardly tolerate in the room. Even
words that are hundreds of years old have this power; when they are new
they have it so strongly that they deafen us to the writer's meaning--it
is them we see, them we hear. That is one reason why our judgments of
living writers are so wildly erratic. Only after the writer is dead do
his words to some extent become disinfected, purified of the accidents of
the living body.

Now, this power of suggestion is one of the most mysterious properties of
words. Everyone who has ever written a sentence must be conscious or
half-conscious of it. Words, English words, are full of echoes, of
memories, of associations--naturally. They have been out and about, on
people's lips, in their houses, in the streets, in the fields, for so
many centuries. And that is one of the chief difficulties in writing them
today--that they are so stored with meanings, with memories, that they
have contracted so many famous marriages. The splendid word "incarnadine,"
for example--who can use it without remembering also "multitudinous seas"?
In the old days, of course, when English was a new language, writers
could invent new words and use them. Nowadays it is easy enough
to invent new words--they spring to the lips whenever we see a
new sight or feel a new sensation--but we cannot use them because the
language is old. You cannot use a brand new word in an old language
because of the very obvious yet mysterious fact that a word is not a
single and separate entity, but part of other words. It is not a word
indeed until it is part of a sentence. Words belong to each other,
although, of course, only a great writer knows that the word "incarnadine"
belongs to "multitudinous seas." To combine new words with old words
is fatal to the constitution of the sentence. In order to use new words
properly you would have to invent a new language; and that, though
no doubt we shall come to it, is not at the moment our business.
Our business is to see what we can do with the English language as it is.
How can we combine the old words in new orders so that they survive, so
that they create beauty, so that they tell the truth? That is the

And the person who could answer that question would deserve whatever
crown of glory the world has to offer. Think what it would mean if you
could teach, if you could learn, the art of writing. Why, every book,
every newspaper would tell the truth, would create beauty. But there is,
it would appear, some obstacle in the way, some hindrance to the teaching
of words. For though at this moment at least a hundred professors are
lecturing upon the literature of the past, at least a thousand critics
are reviewing the literature of the present, and hundreds upon hundreds
of young men and women are passing examinations in English literature
with the utmost credit, still--do we write better, do we read better than
we read and wrote four hundred years ago when we were unlectured,
uncriticized, untaught? Is our Georgian literature a patch on the
Elizabethan? Where then are we to lay the blame? Not on our professors;
not on our reviewers; not on our writers; but on words. It is words that
are to blame. They are the wildest, freest, most irresponsible, most
unteachable of all things. Of course, you can catch them and sort them
and place them in alphabetical order in dictionaries. But words do not
live in dictionaries; they live in the mind. If you want proof of this,
consider how often in moments of emotion when we most need words we find
none. Yet there is the dictionary; there at our disposal are some
half-a-million words all in alphabetical order. But can we use them? No,
because words do not live in dictionaries, they live in the mind. Look
again at the dictionary. There beyond a doubt lie plays more splendid
than ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA; poems more lovely than the ODE TO A
are the crude bunglings of amateurs. It is only a question of finding the
right words and putting them in the right order. But we cannot do it
because they do not live in dictionaries; they live in the mind. And how
do they live in the mind? Variously and strangely, much as human beings
live, by ranging hither and thither, by falling in love, and mating
together. It is true that they are much less bound by ceremony and
convention than we are. Royal words mate with commoners. English words
marry French words, German words, Indian words, Negro words, if they have
a fancy. Indeed, the less we enquire into the past of our dear Mother
English the better it will be for that lady's reputation. For she has
gone a-roving, a-roving fair maid.

Thus to lay down any laws for such irreclaimable vagabonds is worse than
useless. A few trifling rules of grammar and spelling are all the
constraint we can put on them. All we can say about them, as we peer at
them over the edge of that deep, dark and only fitfully illuminated
cavern in which they live--the mind--all we can say about them is that
they seem to like people to think and to feel before they use them, but to
think and to feel not about them, but about something different. They are
highly sensitive, easily made self-conscious. They do not like to have
their purity or their impurity discussed. If you start a Society for Pure
English, they will show their resentment by starting another for impure
English--hence the unnatural violence of much modern speech; it is a
protest against the puritans. They are highly democratic, too; they
believe that one word is as good as another; uneducated words are as good
as educated words, uncultivated words as cultivated words, there are no
ranks or titles in their society. Nor do they like being lifted out on
the point of a pen and examined separately. They hang together, in
sentences, in paragraphs, sometimes for whole pages at a time. They hate
being useful; they hate making money; they hate being lectured about in
public. In short, they hate anything that stamps them with one meaning or
confines them to one attitude, for it is their nature to change.

Perhaps that is their most striking peculiarity--their need of change. It
is because the truth they try to catch is many-sided, and they convey it
by being themselves many-sided, flashing this way, then that. Thus they
mean one thing to one person, another thing to another person; they are
unintelligible to one generation, plain as a pikestaff to the next. And
it is because of this complexity that they survive. Perhaps then one
reason why we have no great poet, novelist or critic writing to-day is
that we refuse words their liberty. We pin them down to one meaning,
their useful meaning, the meaning which makes us catch the train, the
meaning which makes us pass the examination. And when words are pinned
down they fold their wings and die. Finally, and most emphatically,
words, like ourselves, in order to live at their ease, need privacy.
Undoubtedly they like us to think, and they like us to feel, before we
use them; but they also like us to pause; to become unconscious. Our
unconsciousness is their privacy; our darkness is their light. . . . That
pause was made, that veil of darkness was dropped, to tempt words to come
together in one of those swift marriages which are perfect images and
create everlasting beauty. But no--nothing of that sort is going to happen
to-night. The little wretches are out of temper; disobliging;
disobedient; dumb. What is it that they are muttering? "Time's up!

A LETTER TO A YOUNG POET (* Written in 1932.)

My Dear John,

Did you ever meet, or was he before your day, that old gentleman--I
forget his name--who used to enliven conversation, especially at breakfast
when the post came in, by saying that the art of letter-writing is dead?
The penny post, the old gentleman used to say, has killed the art of
letter-writing. Nobody, he continued, examining an envelope through his
eye-glasses, has the time even to cross their t's. We rush, he went on,
spreading his toast with marmalade, to the telephone. We commit our
half-formed thoughts in ungrammatical phrases to the post card. Gray is
dead, he continued; Horace Walpole is dead; Madame de Sévigné--she is
dead too, I suppose he was about to add, but a fit of choking cut him
short, and he had to leave the room before he had time to condemn all the
arts, as his pleasure was, to the cemetery. But when the post came in
this morning and I opened your letter stuffed with little blue sheets
written all over in a cramped but not illegible hand--I regret to say,
however, that several t's were uncrossed and the grammar of one sentence
seems to me dubious--I replied after all these years to that elderly
necrophilist--Nonsense. The art of letter-writing has only just come into
existence. It is the child of the penny post. And there is some truth in
that remark, I think. Naturally when a letter cost half a crown to send,
it had to prove itself a document of some importance; it was read aloud;
it was tied up with green silk; after a certain number of years it was
published for the infinite delectation of posterity. But your letter, on
the contrary, will have to be burnt. It only cost three-halfpence to
send. Therefore you could afford to be intimate, irreticent, indiscreet
in the extreme. What you tell me about poor dear C. and his adventure on
the Channel boat is deadly private; your ribald jests at the expense of
M. would certainly ruin your friendship if they got about; I doubt, too,
that posterity, unless it is much quicker in the wit than I expect, could
follow the line of your thought from the roof which leaks ("splash,
splash, splash into the soap dish") past Mrs. Gape, the charwoman, whose
retort to the greengrocer gives me the keenest pleasure, via Miss Curtis
and her odd confidence on the steps of the omnibus; to Siamese cats
("Wrap their noses in an old stocking my Aunt says if they howl"); so to
the value of criticism to a writer; so to Donne; so to Gerard Hopkins; so
to tombstones; so to gold-fish; and so with a sudden alarming swoop to
"Do write and tell me where poetry's going, or if it's dead?" No, your
letter, because it is a true letter--one that can neither be read aloud
now, nor printed in time to come--will have to be burnt. Posterity must
live upon Walpole and Madame de Sévigné. The great age of letter-writing,
which is, of course, the present, will leave no letters behind it. And in
making my reply there is only one question that I can answer or attempt
to answer in public; about poetry and its death.

But before I begin, I must own up to those defects, both natural and
acquired, which, as you will find, distort and invalidate all that I have
to say about poetry. The lack of a sound university training has always
made it impossible for me to distinguish between an iambic and a dactyl,
and if this were not enough to condemn one for ever, the practice of
prose has bred in me, as in most prose writers, a foolish jealousy, a
righteous indignation--anyhow, an emotion which the critic should be
without. For how, we despised prose writers ask when we get together,
could one say what one meant and observe the rules of poetry? Conceive
dragging in "blade" because one had mentioned "maid"; and pairing "sorrow"
with "borrow"? Rhyme is not only childish, but dishonest, we
prose writers say. Then we go on to say, And look at their rules! How
easy to be a poet! How strait the path is for them, and how strict! This
you must do; this you must not. I would rather be a child and walk in a
crocodile down a suburban path than write poetry, I have heard prose
writers say. It must be like taking the veil and entering a religious
order--observing the rites and rigours of metre. That explains why they
repeat the same thing over and over again. Whereas we prose writers (I am
only telling you the sort of nonsense prose writers talk when they are
alone) are masters of language, not its slaves; nobody can teach us;
nobody can coerce us; we say what we mean; we have the whole of life for
our province. We are the creators, we are the explorers. . . . So we run
on--nonsensically enough, I must admit.

Now that I have made a clean breast of these deficiencies, let us
proceed. From certain phrases in your letter I gather that you think that
poetry is in a parlous way, and that your case as a poet in this
particular autumn Of 1931 is a great deal harder than Shakespeare's,
Dryden's, Pope's, or Tennyson's. In fact it is the hardest case that has
ever been known. Here you give me an opening, which I am prompt to seize,
for a little lecture. Never think yourself singular, never think your own
case much harder than other people's. I admit that the age we live in
makes this difficult. For the first time in history there are readers--a
large body of people, occupied in business, in sport, in nursing their
grandfathers, in tying up parcels behind counters--they all read now; and
they want to be told how to read and what to read; and their teachers--the
reviewers, the lecturers, the broadcasters--must in all humanity make
reading easy for them; assure them that literature is violent and
exciting, full of heroes and villains; of hostile forces perpetually in
conflict; of fields strewn with bones; of solitary victors riding off on
white horses wrapped in black cloaks to meet their death at the turn of
the road. A pistol shot rings out. "The age of romance was over. The
age of realism had begun"--you know the sort of thing. Now of course
writers themselves know very well that there is not a word of truth in
all this--there are no battles, and no murders and no defeats and no
victories. But as it is of the utmost importance that readers should be
amused, writers acquiesce. They dress themselves up. They act their
parts. One leads; the other follows. One is romantic, the other realist.
One is advanced, the other out of date. There is no harm in it, so long
as you take it as a joke, but once you believe in it, once you begin to
take yourself seriously as a leader or as a follower, as a modern or as a
conservative, then you become a self-conscious, biting, and scratching
little animal whose work is not of the slightest value or importance to
anybody. Think of yourself rather as something much humbler and less
spectacular, but to my mind, far more interesting--a poet in whom live
all the poets of the past, from whom all poets in time to come will
spring. You have a touch of Chaucer in you, and something of Shakespeare;
Dryden, Pope, Tennyson--to mention only the respectable among your
ancestors--stir in your blood and sometimes move your pen a little to the
right or to the left. In short you are an immensely ancient, complex, and
continuous character, for which reason please treat yourself with respect
and think twice before you dress up as Guy Fawkes and spring out upon
timid old ladies at street corners, threatening death and demanding

However, as you say that you are in a fix ("it has never been so hard to
write poetry as it is to-day and that poetry may be, you think, at its
last gasp in England the novelists are doing all the interesting things
now"), let me while away the time before the post goes in imagining your
state and in hazarding one or two guesses which, since this is a letter,
need not be taken too seriously or pressed too far. Let me try to put
myself in your place; let me try to imagine, with your letter to help me,
what it feels like to be a young poet in the autumn of 1931. (And taking
my own advice, I shall treat you not as one poet in particular, but as
several poets in one.) On the floor of your mind, then--is it not this
that makes you a poet?--rhythm keeps up its perpetual beat. Sometimes it
seems to die down to nothing; it lets you eat, sleep, talk like other
people. Then again it swells and rises and attempts to sweep all the
contents of your mind into one dominant dance. To-night is such an
occasion. Although you are alone, and have taken one boot off and are
about to undo the other, you cannot go on with the process of undressing,
but must instantly write at the bidding of the dance. You snatch pen and
paper; you hardly trouble to hold the one or to straighten the other. And
while you write, while the first stanzas of the dance are being fastened
down, I will withdraw a little and look out of the window. A woman
passes, then a man; a car glides to a stop and then--but there is no need
to say what I see out of the window, nor indeed is there time, for I am
suddenly recalled from my observations by a cry of rage or despair. Your
page is crumpled in a ball; your pen sticks upright by the nib in the
carpet. If there were a cat to swing or a wife to murder now would be the
time. So at least I infer from the ferocity of your expression. You are
rasped, jarred, thoroughly out of temper. And if I am to guess the
reason, it is, I should say, that the rhythm which was opening and
shutting with a force that sent shocks of excitement from your head to
your heels has encountered some hard and hostile object upon which it
has smashed itself to pieces. Something has worked in which cannot be
made into poetry; some foreign body, angular, sharp-edged, gritty, has
refused to join in the dance. Obviously, suspicion attaches to Mrs. Gape;
she has asked you to make a poem of her; then to Miss Curtis and her
confidences on the omnibus; then to C., who has infected you with a wish
to tell his story--and a very amusing one it was--in verse. But for some
reason you cannot do their bidding. Chaucer could; Shakespeare could; so
could Crabbe, Byron, and perhaps Robert Browning. But it is October 1931,
and for a long time now poetry has shirked contact with--what shall we call
it?--Shall we shortly and no doubt inaccurately call it life? And will
you come to my help by guessing what I mean? Well then, it has left all
that to the novelist. Here you see how easy it would be for me to write
two or three volumes in honour of prose and in mockery of verse; to say
how wide and ample is the domain of the one, how starved and stunted the
little grove of the other. But it would be simpler and perhaps fairer to
check these theories by opening one of the thin books of modern verse that
lie on your table. I open and I find myself instantly confused. Here are
the common objects of daily prose--the bicycle and the omnibus. Obviously
the poet is making his muse face facts. Listen:

Which of you waking early and watching daybreak
Will not hasten in heart, handsome, aware of wonder
At light unleashed, advancing; a leader of movement,
Breaking like surf on turf on road and roof,
Or chasing shadow on downs like whippet racing,
The stilled stone, halting at eyelash barrier,
Enforcing in face a profile, marks of misuse,
Beating impatient and importunate on boudoir shutters
Where the old life is not up yet, with rays
Exploring through rotting floor a dismantled mill--
The old life never to be born again?

Yes, but how will he get through with it? I read on and find:

Whistling as he shuts
His door behind him, travelling to work by tube
Or walking to the park to it to ease the bowels,

and read on and find again

As a boy lately come up from country to town
Returns for the day to his village in EXPENSIVE SHOES--

and so on again to:

Seeking a heaven on earth he chases his shadow,
Loses his capital and his nerve in pursuing
What yachtsmen, explorers, climbers and BUGGERS ARE AFTER.

These lines and the words I have emphasized are enough to confirm me in
part of my guess at least. The poet is trying to include Mrs. Gape. He is
honestly of opinion that she can be brought into poetry and will do very
well there. Poetry, he feels, will be improved by the actual, the
colloquial. But though I honour him for the attempt, I doubt that it is
wholly successful. I feel a jar. I feel a shock. I feel as if I had
stubbed my toe on the corner of the wardrobe. Am I then, I go on to ask,
shocked, prudishly and conventionally, by the words themselves? I think
not. The shock is literally a shock. The poet as I guess has strained
himself to include an emotion that is not domesticated and acclimatized
to poetry; the effort has thrown him off his balance; he rights himself,
as I am sure I shall find if I turn the page, by a violent recourse to
the poetical--he invokes the moon or the nightingale. Anyhow, the
transition is sharp. The poem is cracked in the middle. Look, it comes
apart in my hands: here is reality on one side, here is beauty on the
other; and instead of acquiring a whole object rounded and entire, I am
left with broken parts in my hands which, since my reason has been roused
and my imagination has not been allowed to take entire possession of me,
I contemplate coldly, critically, and with distaste.

Such at least is the hasty analysis I make of my own sensations as a
reader; but again I am interrupted. I see that you have overcome your
difficulty, whatever it was; the pen is once more in action, and having
torn up the first poem you are at work upon another. Now then if I want
to understand your state of mind I must invent another explanation to
account for this return of fluency. You have dismissed, as I suppose, all
sorts of things that would come naturally to your pen if you had been
writing prose--the charwoman, the omnibus, the incident on the Channel
boat. Your range is restricted--I judge from your expression--concentrated
and intensified. I hazard a guess that you are thinking now, not about
things in general, but about yourself in particular. There is a fixity, a
gloom, yet an inner glow that seem to hint that you are looking within
and not without. But in order to consolidate these flimsy guesses about
the meaning of an expression on a face, let me open another of the books
on your table and check it by what I find there. Again I open at random
and read this:

To penetrate that room is my desire,
The extreme attic of the mind, that lies
Just beyond the last bend in the corridor.
Writing I do it. Phrases, poems are keys.
Loving's another way (but not so sure).
A fire's in there, I think, there's truth at last
Deep in a lumber chest. Sometimes I'm near,
But draughts puff out the matches, and I'm lost.
Sometimes I'm lucky, find a key to turn,
Open an inch or two--but always then
A bell rings, someone calls, or cries of "fire"
Arrest my hand when nothing's known or seen,
And running down the stairs again I mourn.

and then this:

There is a dark room,
The locked and shuttered womb,
Where negative's made positive.
Another dark room,
The blind and bolted tomb,
Where positives change to negative.
We may not undo that or escape this, who
Have birth and death coiled in our bones,
Nothing we can do
Will sweeten the real rue,
That we begin, and end, with groans.

And then this:

Never being, but always at the edge of Being
My head, like Death mask, is brought into the Sun.
The shadow pointing finger across cheek,
I move lips for tasting, I move hands for touching,
But never am nearer than touching,
Though the spirit leans outward for seeing.
Observing rose, gold, eyes, an admired landscape,
My senses record the act of wishing
Wishing to be
Rose, gold, landscape or another--
Claiming fulfilment in the act of loving.

Since these quotations are chosen at random and I have yet found three
different poets writing about nothing, if not about the poet himself, I
hold that the chances are that you too are engaged in the same
occupation. I conclude that self offers no impediment; self joins in the
dance; self lends itself to the rhythm; it is apparently easier to write
a poem about oneself than about any other subject. But what does one mean
by "oneself"? Not the self that Wordsworth, Keats, and Shelley have
described--not the self that loves a woman, or that hates a tyrant, or
that broods over the mystery of the world. No, the self that you are
engaged in describing is shut out from all that. It is a self that sits
alone in the room at night with the blinds drawn. In other words the poet
is much less interested in what we have in common than in what he has
apart. Hence I suppose the extreme difficulty of these poems--and I have
to confess that it would floor me completely to say from one reading or
even from two or three what these poems mean. The poet is trying honestly
and exactly to describe a world that has perhaps no existence except for
one particular person at one particular moment. And the more sincere he
is in keeping to the precise outline of the roses and cabbages of his
private universe, the more he puzzles us who have agreed in a lazy spirit
of compromise to see roses and cabbages as they are seen, more or less,
by the twenty-six passengers on the outside of an omnibus. He strains to
describe; we strain to see; he flickers his torch; we catch a flying
gleam. It is exciting; it is stimulating; but is that a tree, we ask, or
is it perhaps an old woman tying up her shoe in the gutter?

Well, then, if there is any truth in what I am saying--if that is you
cannot write about the actual, the colloquial, Mrs. Gape or the Channel
boat or Miss Curtis on the omnibus, without straining the machine of
poetry, if, therefore, you are driven to contemplate landscapes and
emotions within and must render visible to the world at large what you
alone can see, then indeed yours is a hard case, and poetry, though still
breathing--witness these little books--is drawing her breath in short,
sharp gasps. Still, consider the symptoms. They are not the symptoms of
death in the least. Death in literature, and I need not tell you how
often literature has died in this country or in that, comes gracefully,
smoothly, quietly. Lines slip easily down the accustomed grooves. The old
designs are copied so glibly that we are half inclined to think them
original, save for that very glibness. But here the very opposite is
happening: here in my first quotation the poet breaks his machine because
he will clog it with raw fact. In my second, he is unintelligible because
of his desperate determination to tell the truth about himself. Thus I
cannot help thinking that though you may be right in talking of the
difficulty of the time, you are wrong to despair.

Is there not, alas, good reason to hope? I say "alas" because then I
must give my reasons, which are bound to be foolish and certain also to
cause pain to the large and highly respectable society of necrophils--Mr.
Peabody, and his like--who much prefer death to life and are even now
intoning the sacred and comfortable words, Keats is dead, Shelley is
dead, Byron is dead. But it is late: necrophily induces slumber; the old
gentlemen have fallen asleep over their classics, and if what I am about
to say takes a sanguine tone--and for my part I do not believe in poets
dying; Keats, Shelley, Byron are alive here in this room in you and you
and you--I can take comfort from the thought that my hoping will not
disturb their snoring. So to continue--why should not poetry, now that it
has so honestly scraped itself free from certain falsities, the wreckage
of the great Victorian age, now that it has so sincerely gone down into
the mind of the poet and verified its outlines--a work of renovation that
has to be done from time to time and was certainly needed, for bad poetry
is almost always the result of forgetting oneself--all becomes distorted
and impure if you lose sight of that central reality--now, I say, that
poetry has done all this, why should it not once more open its eyes, look
out of the window and write about other people? Two or three hundred
years ago you were always writing about other people. Your pages were
crammed with characters of the most opposite and various kinds--Hamlet,
Cleopatra, Falstaff. Not only did we go to you for drama, and for the
subtleties of human character, but we also went to you, incredible though
this now seems, for laughter. You made us roar with laughter. Then later,
not more than a hundred years ago, you were lashing our follies,
trouncing our hypocrisies, and dashing off the most brilliant of satires.
You were Byron, remember; you wrote Don Juan. You were Crabbe also; you
took the most sordid details of the lives of peasants for your theme.
Clearly therefore you have it in you to deal with a vast variety of
subjects; it is only a temporary necessity that has shut you up in one
room, alone, by yourself.

But how are you going to get out, into the world of other people? That is
your problem now, if I may hazard a guess--to find the right relationship,
now that you know yourself, between the self that you know and the world
outside. It is a difficult problem. No living poet has, I think,
altogether solved it. And there are a thousand voices prophesying
despair. Science, they say, has made poetry impossible; there is no
poetry in motor cars and wireless. And we have no religion. All is
tumultuous and transitional. Therefore, so people say, there can be no
relation between the poet and the present age. But surely that is
nonsense. These accidents are superficial; they do not go nearly deep
enough to destroy the most profound and primitive of instincts, the
instinct of rhythm. All you need now is to stand at the window and let
your rhythmical sense open and shut, open and shut, boldly and freely,
until one thing melts in another, until the taxis are dancing with the
daffodils, until a whole has been made from all these separate fragments.
I am talking nonsense, I know. What I mean is, summon all your courage,
exert all your vigilance, invoke all the gifts that Nature has been
induced to bestow. Then let your rhythmical sense wind itself in and out
among men and women, omnibuses, sparrows--whatever come along the
street--until it has strung them together in one harmonious whole. That
perhaps is your task--to find the relation between things that seem
incompatible yet have a mysterious affinity, to absorb every experience
that comes your way fearlessly and saturate it completely so that your
poem is a whole, not a fragment; to re-think human life into poetry and
so give us tragedy again and comedy by means of characters not spun out
at length in the novelist's way, but condensed and synthesised in the
poet's way-that is what we look to you to do now. But as I do not know
what I mean by rhythm nor what I mean by life, and as most certainly I
cannot tell you which objects can properly be combined together in a
poem--that is entirely your affair--and as I cannot tell a dactyl from an
iambic, and am therefore unable to say how you must modify and expand the
rites and ceremonies of your ancient and mysterious art--I will move on
to safer ground and turn again to these little books themselves.

When, then, I return to them I am, as I have admitted, filled, not with
forebodings of death, but with hopes for the future. But one does not
always want to be thinking of the future, if, as sometimes happens, one
is living in the present. When I read these poems, now, at the present
moment, I find myself--reading, you know, is rather like opening the door
to a horde of rebels who swarm out attacking one in twenty places at
once--hit, roused, scraped, bared, swung through the air, so that life
seems to flash by; then again blinded, knocked on the head--all of which
are agreeable sensations for a reader (since nothing is more dismal than
to open the door and get no response), and all I believe certain proof
that this poet is alive and kicking. And yet mingling with these cries of
delight, of jubilation, I record also, as I read, the repetition in the
bass of one word intoned over and over again by some malcontent. At last
then, silencing the others, I say to this malcontent, "Well, and what do
YOU want?" Whereupon he bursts out, rather to my discomfort, "Beauty."
Let me repeat, I take no responsibility for what my senses say when I
read; I merely record the fact that there is a malcontent in me who
complains that it seems to him odd, considering that English is a mixed
language, a rich language; a language unmatched for its sound and colour,
for its power of imagery and suggestion--it seems to him odd that these
modern poets should write as if they had neither ears nor eyes, neither
soles to their feet nor palms to their hands, but only honest
enterprising book-fed brains, uni-sexual bodies and--but here I
interrupted him. For when it comes to saying that a poet should be
bisexual, and that I think is what he was about to say, even I, who have
had no scientific training whatsoever, draw the line and tell that voice
to be silent.

But how far, if we discount these obvious absurdities, do you think there
is truth in this complaint? For my own part now that I have stopped
reading, and can see the poems more or less as a whole, I think it is
true that the eye and ear are starved of their rights. There is no sense
of riches held in reserve behind the admirable exactitude of the lines I
have quoted, as there is, for example, behind the exactitude of Mr.
Yeats. The poet clings to his one word, his only word, as a drowning man
to a spar. And if this is so, I am ready to hazard a reason for it all
the more readily because I think it bears out what I have just been
saying. The art of writing, and that is perhaps what my malcontent means
by "beauty," the art of having at one's beck and call every word in the
language, of knowing their weights, colours, sounds, associations, and
thus making them, as is so necessary in English, suggest more than they
can state, can be learnt of course to some extent by reading--it is
impossible to read too much; but much more drastically and effectively by
imagining that one is not oneself but somebody different. How can you
learn to write if you write only about one single person? To take the
obvious example. Can you doubt that the reason why Shakespeare knew every
sound and syllable in the language and could do precisely what he liked
with grammar and syntax, was that Hamlet, Falstaff and Cleopatra rushed
him into this knowledge; that the lords, officers, dependants, murderers
and common soldiers of the plays insisted that he should say exactly what
they felt in the words expressing their feelings? It was they who taught
him to write, not the begetter of the Sonnets. So that if you want to
satisfy all those senses that rise in a swarm whenever we drop a poem
among them--the reason, the imagination, the eyes, the ears, the palms of
the hands and the soles of the feet, not to mention a million more that
the psychologists have yet to name, you will do well to embark upon a
long poem in which people as unlike yourself as possible talk at the tops
of their voices. And for heaven's sake, publish nothing before you are

That, I am sure, is of very great importance. Most of the faults in the
poems I have been reading can be explained, I think, by the fact that
they have been exposed to the fierce light of publicity while they were
still too young to stand the strain. It has shrivelled them into a
skeleton austerity, both emotional and verbal, which should not be
characteristic of youth. The poet writes very well; he writes for the eye
of a severe and intelligent public; but how much better he would have
written if for ten years he had written for no eye but his own! After
all, the years from twenty to thirty are years (let me refer to your
letter again) of emotional excitement. The rain dripping, a wing
flashing, someone passing--the commonest sounds and sights have power to
fling one, as I seem to remember, from the heights of rapture to the
depths of despair. And if the actual life is thus extreme, the visionary
life should be free to follow. Write then, now that you are young,
nonsense by the ream. Be silly, be sentimental, imitate Shelley, imitate
Samuel Smiles; give the rein to every impulse; commit every fault of
style, grammar, taste, and syntax; pour out; tumble over; loose anger,
love, satire, in whatever words you can catch, coerce or create, in
whatever metre, prose, poetry, or gibberish that comes to hand. Thus you
will learn to write. But if you publish, your freedom will be checked;
you will be thinking what people will say; you will write for others when
you ought only to be writing for yourself. And what point can there be in
curbing the wild torrent of spontaneous nonsense which is now, for a few
years only, your divine gift in order to publish prim little books of
experimental verses? To make money? That, we both know, is out of the
question. To get criticism? But you friends will pepper your manuscripts
with far more serious and searching criticism than any you will get from
the reviewers. As for fame, look I implore you at famous people; see how
the waters of dullness spread around them as they enter; observe their
pomposity, their prophetic airs; reflect that the greatest poets were
anonymous; think how Shakespeare cared nothing for fame; how Donne tossed
his poems into the waste-paper basket; write an essay giving a single
instance of any modern English writer who has survived the disciples and
the admirers, the autograph hunters and the interviewers, the dinners and
the luncheons, the celebrations and the commemorations with which English
society so effectively stops the mouths of its singers and silences their

But enough. I, at any rate, refuse to be necrophilus. So long as you and
you and you, venerable and ancient representatives of Sappho,
Shakespeare, and Shelley are aged precisely twenty-three and propose--0
enviable lot!--to spend the next fifty years of your lives in writing
poetry, I refuse to think that the art is dead. And if ever the
temptation to necrophilize comes over you, be warned by the fate of that
old gentleman whose name I forget, but I think that it was Peabody. In
the very act of consigning all the arts to the grave he choked over a
large piece of hot buttered toast and the consolation then offered him
that he was about to join the elder Pliny in the shades gave him, I am
told, no sort of satisfaction whatsoever.

And now for the intimate, the indiscreet, and indeed, the only really
interesting parts of this letter. . . .


When the first number of LYSISTRATA appeared, I confess that I was deeply
disappointed. It was so well printed, on such good paper. It looked
established, prosperous. As I turned the pages it seemed to me that
wealth must have descended upon Somerville, and I was about to answer the
request of the editor for an article with a negative, when I read,
greatly to my relief, that one of the writers was badly dressed, and
gathered from another that the women's colleges still lack power and
prestige. At this I plucked up heart, and a crowd of questions that have
been pressing to be asked rushed to my lips saying: "Here is our chance."

I should explain that like so many people nowadays I am pestered with
questions. I find it impossible to walk down the street without stopping,
it may be in the middle of the road. to ask: Why? Churches, public
houses, parliaments, shops, loud speakers, motor cars, the drone of an
aeroplane in the clouds, and men and women all inspire questions. Yet
what is the point of asking questions of oneself? They should be asked
openly in public. But the great obstacle to asking questions openly in
public is, of course, wealth. The little twisted sign that comes at the
end of a question has a way of making the rich writhe; power and prestige
come down upon it with all their weight. Questions, therefore, being
sensitive, impulsive and often foolish, have a way of picking their
asking place with care. They shrivel up in an atmosphere of power,
prosperity, and time-worn stone. They die by the dozen on the threshold
of great newspaper offices. They slink away to less favoured, less
flourishing quarters where people are poor and therefore have nothing to
give, where they have no power and therefore have nothing to lose. Now
the questions that have been pestering me to ask them decided, whether
rightly or wrongly, that they could be asked in LYSISTRATA. They said:
"We do not expect you to ask us in----," here they named some of our most
respectable dailies and weeklies; "nor in----," here they named some of
our most venerable institutions. "But, thank Heaven!" they exclaimed,
"are not women's colleges poor and young? Are they not inventive,
adventurous? Are they not out to create a new----"

"The editor forbids feminism," I interposed severely.

"What is feminism?" they screamed with one accord, and as I did not
answer at once, a new question was flung at me: "Don't you think it high
time that a new----"

But I stopped them by reminding them that they had only two thousand
words at their disposal. Upon that, they withdrew, consulted together,
and finally put forward the request that I should introduce one or two of
them of the simplest, tamest, and most obvious. For example, there is the
question that always bobs up at the beginning of term when societies
issue their invitations and universities open their doors--why lecture,
why be lectured?

In order to place this question fairly before you, I will describe, for
memory has kept the picture bright, one of those rare but, as Queen
Victoria would have put at, never-to-be-sufficiently-lamented occasions
when in deference to friendship, or in a desperate attempt to acquire
information about, perhaps, the French Revolution, it seemed necessary to
attend a lecture. The room to begin with had a hybrid look--it was not for
sitting in, nor yet for eating in. Perhaps there was a map on the wall;
certainly there was a table on a platform, and several rows of rather
small, rather hard, comfortless little chairs. These were occupied
intermittently, as if they shunned each other's company, by people of
both sexes, and some had notebooks and were tapping their fountain pens,
and some had none and gazed with the vacancy and placidity of bull frogs
at the ceiling. A large clock displayed its cheerless face,--and when the
hour struck in strode a harried-looking man, a man from whose face
nervousness, vanity, or perhaps the depressing and impossible nature of
his task had removed all traces of ordinary humanity. There was a
momentary stir. He had written a book, and for a moment it is interesting
to see people who have written books. Everybody gazed at him. He was bald
and not hairy; had a mouth and a chin; in short he was a man like
another, although he had written a book. He cleared his throat and the
lecture began. Now the human voice is an instrument of varied power; it
can enchant and it can soothe; it can rage and it can despair; but when
it lectures it almost always bores. What he said was sensible enough;
there was learning in it and argument and reason; but as the voice went
on attention wandered. The face of the clock seemed abnormally pale; the
hands too suffered from some infirmity. Had they the gout? Were they
swollen? They moved so slowly. They reminded one of the painful progress
of a three-legged fly that has survived the winter. How many flies on an
average survive the English winter, and what would be the thoughts of
such an insect on waking to find itself being lectured on the French
Revolution? The enquiry was fatal. A link had been lost--a paragraph
dropped. It was useless to ask the lecturer to repeat his words; on he
plodded with dogged pertinacity. The origin of the French Revolution was
being sought for--also the thoughts of flies. Now there came one of those
flat stretches of discourse when minute objects can be seen coming for
two or three miles ahead. "Skip!" we entreated him--vainly. He did
not skip. There was a joke. Then the voice went on again; then it seemed
that the windows wanted washing; then a woman sneezed; then the voice
quickened; then there was a peroration and then--thank Heaven!--the
lecture was over.

Why, since life holds only so many hours, waste one of them on being
lectured? Why, since printing presses have been invented these many
centuries, should he not have printed his lecture instead of speaking it?
Then, by the fire in winter, or under an apple tree in summer, it could
have been read, thought over, discussed; the difficult ideas pondered,
the argument debated. It could have been thickened and stiffened. There
would have been no need of those repetitions and dilutions with which
lectures have to be watered down and brightened up, so as to attract the
attention of a miscellaneous audience too apt to think about noses and
chins, women sneezing and the longevity of flies.

It may be, I told these questions, that there is some reason,
imperceptible to outsiders, which makes lectures an essential part of
university discipline. But why--here another rushed to the forefront--why,
if lectures are necessary as a form of education, should they not be
abolished as a form of entertainment? Never does the crocus flower or the
beech tree redden but there issues simultaneously from all the
universities of England, Scotland and Ireland a shower of notes from
desperate secretaries entreating So-and-so and So-and-so and So-and-so to
come down and address them upon art or literature or politics or
morality--And why?

In the old days, when newspapers were scarce and carefully lent about
from hall to rectory, such laboured methods of rubbing up minds and
imparting ideas were no doubt essential. But now, when every day of the
week scatters our tables with articles and pamphlets in which every shade
of opinion is expressed, far more tersely than by word of mouth, why
continue an obsolete custom which not merely wastes time and temper, but
incites the most debased of human passions--vanity, ostentation,
self-assertion, and the desire to convert? Why encourage your elders to
turn themselves into prigs and prophets, when they are ordinary men and
women? Why force them to stand on a platform for forty minutes while you
reflect upon the colour of their hair and the longevity of flies? Why not
let them talk to you and listen to you, naturally and happily, on the
floor? Why not create a new form of society founded on poverty and
equality? Why not bring together people of all ages and both sexes and
all shades of fame and obscurity so that they can talk, without mounting
platforms or reading papers or wearing expensive clothes or eating
expensive food? Would not such a society be worth, even as a form of
education, all the papers on art and literature that have ever been read
since the world began? Why not abolish prigs and prophets? Why not invent
human intercourse? Why not try?

Here, being sick of the word "why," I was about to indulge myself with a
few reflections of a general nature upon society as it was, as it is, as
it might be, with a few fancy pictures of Mrs. Thrale entertaining Dr.
Johnson, Lady Holland amusing Lord Macaulay thrown in, when such a
clamour arose among the questions that I could hardly hear myself think.
The cause of the clamour was soon apparent. I had incautiously and
foolishly used the word "literature." Now if there is one word that
excites questions and puts them in a fury it is this word "literature."
There they were, screaming and crying, asking questions about poetry and
fiction and criticism, each demanding to be heard, each certain that his
was the only question that deserved an answer. At last, when they had
destroyed all my fancy pictures of Lady Holland and Dr. Johnson, one
insisted, for he said that foolish and rash as he might be he was less so
than the others, that he should be asked. And his question was, why learn
English literature at universities when you can read it for yourselves in
books? But I said that it is foolish to ask a question that has already
been answered--English literature is, I believe, already taught at the
universities. Besides, if we are going to start an argument about it, we
should need at least twenty volumes, whereas we have only about seven
hundred words remaining. Still, as he was importunate, I said I would ask
the question and introduce it to the best of my ability, without
expressing any opinion of my own, by copying down the following fragment
of dialogue.

The other day I went to call upon a friend of mine who earns her living
as a publisher's reader. The room was a little dark, it seemed to me,
when I went in. Yet, as the window was open and it was a fine spring day,
the darkness must have been spiritual--the effect of some private sorrow I
feared. Her first words as I came in confirmed my fears:

"Alas, poor boy!" she exclaimed, tossing the manuscript she was reading
to the ground with a gesture of despair. Had some accident happened to
one of her relations, I asked, motoring or climbing?

"If you call three hundred pages on the evolution of the Elizabethan
sonnet an accident." she said.

"Is that all?" I replied with relief.

"All?" she retaliated, "Isn't it enough?" And, beginning to pace up
and down the room she exclaimed: "Once he was a clever boy; once he was
worth talking to; once he cared about English literature. But now----"
She threw out her hands as if words failed her--but not at all. There
followed such a flood of lamentation and vituperation--but reflecting how
hard her life was, reading manuscripts day in, day out, I excused
her--that I could not follow the argument. All I could gather was that
this lecturing about English literature--"if you want to teach them to
read English," she threw in, "teach them to read Greek"--this passing
of examinations in English literature, which led to all this writing
about English literature, was bound in the end to be the death and burial
of English literature. "The tombstone," she was proceeding, "will be a
bound volume of----" when I stopped her and told her not to talk such
nonsense. "Then tell me," she said, standing over me with her fists
clenched, "do they write any better for it? Is poetry better, is fiction
better, is criticism better now that they have been taught how to read
English literature?" As if to answer her own question she read a passage
from the manuscript on the floor. "And each the spit and image of the
other!" she groaned, lifting it wearily to its place with the
manuscripts on the shelf.

"But think of all they must know," I tried to argue.

"Know?" she echoed me. "Know? What d'you mean by 'know'?" As that was
a difficult question to answer off-hand, I passed it over by saying:
"Well, at any rate they'll be able to make their livings and teach other
people." Whereupon she lost her temper and, seizing the unfortunate work
upon the Elizabethan sonnet, whizzed it across the room. The rest of the
visit passed in picking up the fragments of a teapot that had belonged to
her grandmother.

Now of course a dozen other questions clamour to be asked about churches
and parliaments and public houses and shops and loudspeakers and men and
women; but mercifully time is up; silence falls.

PROFESSIONS FOR WOMEN (* A paper read to The Women's Service League.)

When your secretary invited me to come here, she told me that your
Society is concerned with the employment of women and she suggested that
I might tell you something about my own professional experiences. It is
true I am a woman; it is true I am employed; but what professional
experiences have I had? It is difficult to say. My profession is
literature; and in that profession there are fewer experiences for women
than in any other, with the exception of the stage--fewer, I mean, that
are peculiar to women. For the road was cut many years ago--by Fanny
Burney, by Aphra Behn, by Harriet Martineau, by Jane Austen, by George
Eliot--many famous women, and many more unknown and forgotten, have been
before me, making the path smooth, and regulating my steps. Thus, when I
came to write, there were very few material obstacles in my way. Writing
was a reputable and harmless occupation. The family peace was not broken
by the scratching of a pen. No demand was made upon the family purse. For
ten and sixpence one can buy paper enough to write all the plays of
Shakespeare--if one has a mind that way. Pianos and models, Paris, Vienna
and Berlin, masters and mistresses, are not needed by a writer. The
cheapness of writing paper is, of course, the reason why women have
succeeded as writers before they have succeeded in the other professions.

But to tell you my story--it is a simple one. You have only got to figure
to yourselves a girl in a bedroom with a pen in her hand. She had only to
move that pen from left to right--from ten o'clock to one. Then it
occurred to her to do what is simple and cheap enough after all--to slip a
few of those pages into an envelope, fix a penny stamp in the corner, and
drop the envelope into the red box at the corner. It was thus that I
became a journalist; and my effort was rewarded on the first day of the
following month--a very glorious day it was for me--by a letter from an
editor containing a cheque for one pound ten shillings and sixpence. But
to show you how little I deserve to be called a professional woman, how
little I know of the struggles and difficulties of such lives, I have to
admit that instead of spending that sum upon bread and butter, rent,
shoes and stockings, or butcher's bills, I went out and bought a cat--a
beautiful cat, a Persian cat, which very soon involved me in bitter
disputes with my neighbours.

What could be easier than to write articles and to buy Persian cats with
the profits? But wait a moment. Articles have to be about something.
Mine, I seem to remember, was about a novel by a famous man. And while I
was writing this review, I discovered that if I were going to review
books I should need to do battle with a certain phantom. And the phantom
was a woman, and when I came to know her better I called her after the
heroine of a famous poem, The Angel in the House. It was she who used to
come between me and my paper when I was writing reviews. It was she who
bothered me and wasted my time and so tormented me that at last I killed
her. You who come of a younger and happier generation may not have heard
of her--you may not know what I mean by the Angel in the House. I will
describe her as shortly as I can. She was intensely sympathetic. She was
immensely charming. She was utterly unselfish. She excelled in the
difficult arts of family life. She sacrificed herself daily. If there was
chicken, she took the leg; if there was a draught she sat in it--in short
she was so constituted that she never had a mind or a wish of her own,
but preferred to sympathize always with the minds and wishes of others.
Above all--I need not say it---she was pure. Her purity was supposed to
be her chief beauty--her blushes, her great grace. In those days--the
last of Queen Victoria--every house had its Angel. And when I came to
write I encountered her with the very first words. The shadow of her
wings fell on my page; I heard the rustling of her skirts in the room.
Directly, that is to say, I took my pen in my hand to review that novel
by a famous man, she slipped behind me and whispered: "My dear, you are
a young woman. You are writing about a book that has been written by a
man. Be sympathetic; be tender; flatter; deceive; use all the arts and
wiles of our sex. Never let anybody guess that you have a mind of your
own. Above all, be pure." And she made as if to guide my pen. I now
record the one act for which I take some credit to myself, though the
credit rightly belongs to some excellent ancestors of mine who left me a
certain sum of money--shall we say five hundred pounds a year?--so that
it was not necessary for me to depend solely on charm for my living. I
turned upon her and caught her by the throat. I did my best to kill her.
My excuse, if I were to be had up in a court of law, would be that I
acted in self-defence. Had I not killed her she would have killed me. She
would have plucked the heart out of my writing. For, as I found, directly
I put pen to paper, you cannot review even a novel without having a mind
of your own, without expressing what you think to be the truth about
human relations, morality, sex. And all these questions, according to the
Angel of the House, cannot be dealt with freely and openly by women; they
must charm, they must conciliate, they must--to put it bluntly--tell lies
if they are to succeed. Thus, whenever I felt the shadow of her wing or
the radiance of her halo upon my page, I took up the inkpot and flung it
at her. She died hard. Her fictitious nature was of great assistance to
her. It is far harder to kill a phantom than a reality. She was always
creeping back when I thought I had despatched her. Though I flatter
myself that I killed her in the end, the struggle was severe; it took
much time that had better have been spent upon learning Greek grammar; or
in roaming the world in search of adventures. But it was a real
experience; it was an experience that was bound to befall all women
writers at that time. Killing the Angel in the House was part of the
occupation of a woman writer.

But to continue my story. The Angel was dead; what then remained? You may
say that what remained was a simple and common object--a young woman in
a bedroom with an inkpot. In other words, now that she had rid herself of
falsehood, that young woman had only to be herself. Ah, but what is
"herself"? I mean, what is a woman? I assure you, I do not know. I do not
believe that you know. I do not believe that anybody can know until she
has expressed herself in all the arts and professions open to human
skill. That indeed is one of the reasons why I have come here out of
respect for you, who are in process of showing us by your experiments
what a woman is, who are in process Of providing us, by your failures and
successes, with that extremely important piece of information.

But to continue the story of my professional experiences. I made one
pound ten and six by my first review; and I bought a Persian cat with the
proceeds. Then I grew ambitious. A Persian cat is all very well, I said;
but a Persian cat is not enough. I must have a motor car. And it was thus
that I became a novelist--for it is a very strange thing that people will
give you a motor car if you will tell them a story. It is a still
stranger thing that there is nothing so delightful in the world as
telling stories. It is far pleasanter than writing reviews of famous
novels. And yet, if I am to obey your secretary and tell you my
professional experiences as a novelist, I must tell you about a very
strange experience that befell me as a novelist. And to understand it you
must try first to imagine a novelist's state of mind. I hope I am not
giving away professional secrets if I say that a novelist's chief desire
is to be as unconscious as possible. He has to induce in himself a state
of perpetual lethargy. He wants life to proceed with the utmost quiet and
regularity. He wants to see the same faces, to read the same books, to do
the same things day after day, month after month, while he is writing, so
that nothing may break the illusion in which he is living--so that
nothing may disturb or disquiet the mysterious nosings about, feelings
round, darts, dashes and sudden discoveries of that very shy and illusive
spirit, the imagination. I suspect that this state is the same both for
men and women. Be that as it may, I want you to imagine me writing a
novel in a state of trance. I want you to figure to yourselves a girl
sitting with a pen in her hand, which for minutes, and indeed for hours,
she never dips into the inkpot. The image that comes to my mind when I
think of this girl is the image of a fisherman lying sunk in dreams on
the verge of a deep lake with a rod held out over the water. She was
letting her imagination sweep unchecked round every rock and cranny of
the world that lies submerged in the depths of our unconscious being. Now
came the experience, the experience that I believe to be far commoner
with women writers than with men. The line raced through the girl's
fingers. Her imagination had rushed away. It had sought the pools, the
depths, the dark places where the largest fish slumber. And then there
was a smash. There was an explosion. There was foam and confusion. The
imagination had dashed itself against something hard. The girl was roused
from her dream. She was indeed in a state of the most acute and difficult
distress. To speak without figure she had thought of something, something
about the body, about the passions which it was unfitting for her as a
woman to say. Men, her reason told her, would be shocked. The
consciousness of--what men will say of a woman who speaks the truth about
her passions had roused her from her artist's state of unconsciousness.
She could write no more. The trance was over. Her imagination could work
no longer. This I believe to be a very common experience with women
writers--they are impeded by the extreme conventionality of the other
sex. For though men sensibly allow themselves great freedom in these
respects, I doubt that they realize or can control the extreme severity
with which they condemn such freedom in women.

These then were two very genuine experiences of my own. These were two of
the adventures of my professional life. The first--killing the Angel in
the House--I think I solved. She died. But the second, telling the truth
about my own experiences as a body, I do not think I solved. I doubt that
any woman has solved it yet. The obstacles against her are still
immensely powerful--and yet they are very difficult to define. Outwardly,
what is simpler than to write books? Outwardly, what obstacles are there
for a woman rather than for a man? Inwardly, I think, the case is very
different; she has still many ghosts to fight, many prejudices to
overcome. Indeed it will be a long time still, I think, before a woman
can sit down to write a book without finding a phantom to be slain, a
rock to be dashed against. And if this is so in literature, the freest of
all professions for women, how is it in the new professions which you are
now for the first time entering?

Those are the questions that I should like, had I time, to ask you. And
indeed, if I have laid stress upon these professional experiences of
mine, it is because I believe that they are, though in different forms,
yours also. Even when the path is nominally open--when there is nothing
to prevent a woman from being a doctor, a lawyer, a civil servant--there
are many phantoms and obstacles, as I believe, looming in her way. To
discuss and define them is I think of great value and importance; for
thus only can the labour be shared, the difficulties be solved. But
besides this, it is necessary also to discuss the ends and the aims for
which we are fighting, for which we are doing battle with these
formidable obstacles. Those aims cannot be taken for granted; they must
be perpetually questioned and examined. The whole position, as I see
it--here in this hall surrounded by women practising for the first time
in history I know not how many different professions--is one of
extraordinary interest and importance. You have won rooms of your own in
the house hitherto exclusively owned by men. You are able, though not
without great labour and effort, to pay the rent. You are earning your
five hundred pounds a year. But this freedom is only a beginning--the room
is your own, but it is still bare. It has to be furnished; it has to be
decorated; it has to be shared. How are you going to furnish it, how are
you going to decorate it? With whom are you going to share it, and upon
what terms? These, I think are questions of the utmost importance and
interest. For the first time in history you are able to ask them; for the
first time you are able to decide for yourselves what the answers should
be. Willingly would I stay and discuss those questions and answers--but
not to-night. My time is up; and I must cease.


(* Written in August 1940, for an American symposium
on current matters concerning women.)

The Germans were over this house last night and the night before that.
Here they are again. It is a queer experience, lying in the dark and
listening to the zoom of a hornet which may at any moment sting you to
death. It is a sound that interrupts cool and consecutive thinking about
peace. Yet it is a sound--far more than prayers and anthems--that should
compel one to think about peace. Unless we can think peace into existence
we---not this one body in this one bed but millions of bodies yet to be
born--will lie in the same darkness and hear the same death rattle
overhead. Let us think what we can do to create the only efficient
air-raid shelter while the guns on the hill go pop pop pop and the
searchlights finger the clouds and now and then, sometimes close at hand,
sometimes far away, a bomb drops.

Up there in the sky young Englishmen and young German men are fighting
each other. The defenders are men, the attackers are men. Arms are not
given to Englishwomen either to fight the enemy or to defend herself. She
must lie weaponless to-night. Yet if she believes that the fight going on
up in the sky is a fight by the English to protect freedom, by the
Germans to destroy freedom, she must fight, so far as she can, on the
side of the English. How far can she fight for freedom without firearms?
By making arms, or clothes or food. But there is another way of fighting
for freedom without arms; we can fight with the mind. We can make ideas
that will help the young Englishman who is fighting up in the sky to
defeat the enemy.

But to make ideas effective, we must be able to fire them off. We must
put them into action. And the hornet in the sky rouses another hornet in
the mind. There was one zooming in THE TIMES this moming--a woman's voice
saying, "Women have not a word to say in politics." There is no woman in
the Cabinet; nor in any responsible post. All the idea makers who are in
a position to make ideas effective are men. That is a thought that damps
thinking, and encourages irresponsibility. Why not bury the head in the
pillow, plug the ears, and cease this futile activity of idea-making?
Because there are other tables besides officer tables and conference
tables. Are we not leaving the young Englishman without a weapon that
might be of value to him if we give up private thinking, tea-table
thinking, because it seems useless? Are we not stressing our disability
because our ability exposes us perhaps to abuse, perhaps to contempt?
"I will not cease from mental fight," Blake wrote. Mental fight means
thinking against the current, not with it.

That current flows fast and furious. It issues in a spate of words from
the loudspeakers and the politicians. Every day they tell us that we are
a free people, fighting to defend freedom. That is the current that has
whirled the young airman up into the sky and keeps him circling there
among the clouds. Down here, with a roof to cover us and a gas mask
handy, it is our business to puncture gas bags and discover seeds of
truth. It is not true that we are free. We are both prisoners
to-night--he boxed up in his machine with a gun handy; we lying in the
dark with a gas mask handy. If we were free we should be out in the open,
dancing, at the play, or sitting at the window talking together. What is
it that prevents us? "Hitler!" the loudspeakers cry with one voice. Who
is Hitler? What is he? Aggressiveness, tyranny, the insane love of power
made manifest, they reply. Destroy that, and you will be free.

The drone of the planes is now like the sawing of a branch overhead.
Round and round it goes, sawing and sawing at a branch directly above the
house. Another sound begins sawing its way in the brain. "Women of
ability"--it was Lady Astor speaking in THE TIMES this morning--"are held
down because of a subconscious Hitlerism in the hearts of men." Certainly
we are held down. We are equally prisoners tonight--the Englishmen in
their planes, the Englishwomen in their beds. But if he stops to think he
may be killed; and we too. So let us think for him. Let us try to drag
up into consciousness the subconscious Hitlerism that holds us down. It
is the desire for aggression; the desire to dominate and enslave. Even in
the darkness we can see that made visible. We can see shop windows
blazing; and women gazing; painted women; dressed-up women; women with
crimson lips and crimson fingernails. They are slaves who are trying to
enslave. If we could free ourselves from slavery we should free men from
tyranny. Hitlers are bred by slaves.

A bomb drops. All the windows rattle. The anti-aircraft guns are getting
active. Up there on the hill under a net tagged with strips of green and
brown stuff to imitate the hues of autumn leaves, guns are concealed. Now
they all fire at once. On the nine o'clock radio we shall be told
"Forty-four enemy planes were shot down during the night, ten of them by
anti-aircraft fire." And one of the terms of peace, the loudspeakers
say, is to be disarmament. There are to be no more guns, no army, no
navy, no air force in the future. No more young men will be trained to
fight with arms. That rouses another mind-hornet in the chambers of the
brain--another quotation. "To fight against a real enemy, to earn undying
honour and glory by shooting total strangers, and to come home with my
breast covered with medals and decorations, that was the summit of my
hope. . . . It was for this that my whole life so far had been dedicated,
my education, training, everything. . . ."

Those were the words of a young Englishman who fought in the last war. In
the face of them, do the current thinkers honestly believe that by
writing "Disarmament" on a sheet of paper at a conference table they
will have done all that is needful? Othello's occupation will be gone;
but he will remain Othello. The young airman up in the sky is driven not
only by the voices of loudspeakers; he is driven by voices in
himself--ancient instincts, instincts fostered and cherished by education
and tradition. Is he to be blamed for those instincts? Could we switch
off the maternal instinct at the command of a table full of politicians?
Suppose that imperative among the peace terms was: "Child-bearing is to
be restricted to a very small class of specially selected women," would
we submit? Should we not say, "The maternal instinct is a woman's glory.
It was for this that my whole life has been dedicated, my education,
training, everything. . . ." But if it were necessary. for the sake of
humanity, for the peace of the world, that childbearing should be
restricted, the maternal instinct subdued, women would attempt it. Men
would help them. They would honour them for their refusal to bear
children. They would give them other openings for their creative power.
That too must make part of our fight for freedom. We must help the young
Englishmen to root out from themselves the love of medals and
decorations. We must create more honourable activities for those who try
to conquer in themselves their fighting instinct, their subconscious
Hitlerism. We must compensate the man for the loss of his gun.

The sound of sawing overhead has increased. All the searchlights are
erect. They point at a spot exactly above this roof. At any moment a bomb
may fall on this very room. One, two, three, four, five, six . . . the
seconds pass. The bomb did not fall. But during those seconds of suspense
all thinking stopped. All feeling, save one dull dread, ceased. A nail
fixed the whole being to one hard board. The emotion of fear and of hate
is therefore sterile, unfertile. Directly that fear passes, the mind
reaches out and instinctively revives itself by trying to create. Since
the room is dark it can create only from memory. It reaches out to the
memory of other Augusts--in Bayreuth, listening to Wagner; in Rome,
walking over the Campagna; in London. Friends' voices come back. Scraps
of poetry return. Each of those thoughts, even in memory, was far more
positive, reviving, healing and creative than the dull dread made of fear
and hate. Therefore if we are to compensate the young man for the loss of
his glory and of his gun, we must give him access to the creative
feelings. We must make happiness. We must free him from the machine. We
must bring him out of his prison into the open air. But what is the use
of freeing the young Englishman if the young German and the young Italian
remain slaves?

The searchlights, wavering across the flat, have picked up the plane now.
From this window one can see a little silver insect turning and twisting
in the light. The guns go pop pop pop. Then they cease. Probably the
raider was brought down behind the hill. One of the pilots landed safe in
a field near here the other day. He said to his captors, speaking fairly
good English, "How glad I am that the fight is over!" Then an
Englishman gave him a cigarette, and an Englishwoman made him a cup of
tea. That would seem to show that if you can free the man from the
machine, the seed does not fall upon altogether stony ground. The seed
may be fertile.

At last all the guns have stopped firing. All the searchlights have been
extinguished. The natural darkness of a summer's night returns. The
innocent sounds of the country are heard again. An apple thuds to the
ground. An owl hoots, winging its way from tree to tree. And some
half-forgotten words of an old English writer come to mind: "The
huntsmen are up in America. . . ." Let us send these fragmentary notes
to the huntsmen who are up in America, to the men and women whose sleep
has not yet been broken by machine-gun fire, in the belief that they will
rethink them generously and charitably, perhaps shape them into something
serviceable. And now, in the shadowed half of the world, to sleep.


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