Old and New Masters Part 8

But there is more than the truth of ugliness in these amazing ballads of which the _Grand Testament_ is full. Villon was by nature a wors.h.i.+pper of beauty. The lament over the defeat of his dream of fair lords and ladies by the reality of a withered and dissatisfying world runs like a torment through his verse. No one has ever celebrated the inevitable pa.s.sing of loveliness in lovelier verse than Villon has done in the _Ballade des Dames du Temps Jadis._ I have heard it maintained that Rossetti has translated the radiant beauty of this ballade into his _Ballad of Dead Ladies._ I cannot agree. Even his beautiful translation of the refrain,

But where are the snows of yesteryear,

seems to me to injure simplicity with an ornament, and to turn natural into artificial music. Compare the opening lines in the original and in the translation, and you will see the difference between the sincere expression of a vision and the beautiful writing of an exercise. Here is Villon's beginning:--

Dictes-moy ou, n'en quel pays, Est Flora, la belle Romaine?

Archipiade, ne Thas, Qui fut sa cousine germaine?

And here is Rossetti's jaunty English:--

Tell me now in what hidden way is Lady Flora, the lovely Roman?

Where's Hipparchia, and where is Thas, Neither of them the fairer woman?

One sees how Rossetti is inclined to romanticize that which is already romantic beyond one's dreams in its naked and golden simplicity. I would not quarrel with Rossetti's version, however, if it had not been often put forward as an example of a translation which was equal to the original. It is certainly a wonderful version if we compare it with most of those that have been made from Villon. Mr. Stacpoole's, I fear, have no rivulets of music running through them to make up for their want of prose exact.i.tude. Admittedly, however, translation of Villon is difficult. Some of his most beautiful poems are simple as catalogues of names, and the secret of their beauty is a secret elusive as a fragrance borne on the wind. Mr. Stacpoole may be congratulated on his courage in undertaking an impossible task--a task, moreover, in which he challenges comparison with Rossetti, Swinburne, and Andrew Lang. His book, however, is meant for the general public rather than for poets and scholars--at least, for that intelligent portion of the general public which is interested in literature without being over-critical. For its purpose it may be recommended as an interesting, picturesque, and judicious book.

The Villon of Stevenson is little better than a criminal monkey of genius. The Villon of Mr. Stacpoole is at least the makings of a man.

X

POPE

Pope is a poet whose very admirers belittle him. Mr. Saintsbury, for instance, even in the moment of inciting us to read him, observes that "it would be scarcely rash to say that there is not an original thought, sentiment, image, or example of any of the other categories of poetic substance to be found in the half a hundred thousand verses of Pope."

And he has still less to say in favour of Pope as a man. He denounces him for "rascality" and goes on with characteristic irresponsibility to suggest that "perhaps ... there is a natural connection between the two kinds of this dexterity of fingering--that of the artist in words, and that of the pickpocket or the forger." If Pope had been a contemporary, Mr. Saintsbury, I imagine, would have stunned him with a huge mattock of adjectives. As it is, he seems to be in two minds whether to bury or to praise him. Luckily, he has tempered his moral sense with his sense of humour, and so comes to the happy conclusion that as a matter of fact, when we read or read about Pope, "some of the proofs which are most d.a.m.ning morally, positively increase one's aesthetic delight."

One is interested in Pope's virtues as a poet and his vices as a man almost equally. It is his virtues as a man and his vices as a poet that are depressing. He is usually at his worst artistically when he is at his best morally. He achieves wit through malice: he achieves only rhetoric through virtue. It is not that one wishes he had been a bad son or a Uriah Heep in his friends.h.i.+ps. It is pleasant to remember the pleasure he gave his mother by allowing her to copy out parts of his translation of the _Iliad_, and one respects him for refusing a pension of 300 a year out of the secret service money from his friend Craggs.

But one wishes that he had put neither his filial piety nor his friends.h.i.+p into writing. Mr. Saintsbury, I see, admires "the masterly and delightful craftsmans.h.i.+p in words" of the tribute to Craggs; but then Mr. Saintsbury also admires the _Elegy on an Unfortunate Lady_--a mere att.i.tude in verse, as chill as a weeping angel in a graveyard.

Pope's attractiveness is less that of a real man than of an inhabitant of Lilliput, where it is a matter of no importance whether or not one lives in obedience to the Ten Commandments. We can regard him with amus.e.m.e.nt as a liar, a forger, a glutton, and a slanderer of his kind.

If his letters are the dullest letters ever written by a wit, it is because he reveals in them not his real vices but his imaginary virtues.

They only become interesting when we know the secret history of his life and read them as the moralizings of a doll Pecksniff. Historians of literature often a.s.sert--mistakenly, I think--that Pliny's letters are dull, because they are merely the literary exercises of a man over-conscious of his virtues. But Pliny's virtues, however tip-tilted, were at least real. Pope's letters are the literary exercises of a man plat.i.tudinizing about virtues he did not possess. They have an impersonality, like that of the leading articles in _The Times_. They have all the qualities of the essay except intimate confession. They are irrelevant scrawls which might as readily have been addressed to one correspondent as another. So much so is this, that when Pope published them, he altered the names of the recipients of some of them so as to make it appear that they were written to famous persons when, as a matter of fact, they were written to private and little-known friends.

The story of the way in which he tampered with his letters and arranged for their "unauthorized" publication by a pirate publisher is one of the most amazing in the history of forgery. It was in reference to this that Whitwell Elwin declared that Pope "displayed a complication of imposture, degradation, and effrontery which can only be paralleled in the lives of professional forgers and swindlers." When he published his correspondence with Wycherley, his contemporaries were amazed that the boyish Pope should have written with such an air of patronage to the aged Wycherley and that Wycherley should have suffered it. We know, now, however, that the correspondence is only in part genuine, and that Pope used portions of his correspondence with Caryll and published them as though they had been addressed to Wycherley. Wycherley had remonstrated with Pope on the extravagant compliments he paid him: Pope had remonstrated with Caryll on similar grounds. In the Wycherley correspondence, Pope omits Wycherley's remonstrance to him and publishes his own remonstrance to Caryll as a letter from himself to Wycherley.

From that time onwards Pope spared no effort in getting his correspondence "surrept.i.tiously" published. He engaged a go-between, a disreputable actor disguised as a clergyman, to approach Curll, the publisher, with an offer of a stolen collection of letters, and, when the book was announced, he attacked Curll as a villain, and procured a friend in the House of Lords to move a resolution that Curll should be brought before the House on a charge of breach of privilege, one of the letters (it was stated) having been written to Pope by a peer. Curll took a number of copies of the book with him to the Lords, and it was discovered that no such letter was included. But the advertis.e.m.e.nt was a n.o.ble one. Unfortunately, even a man of genius could not devise elaborate schemes of this kind without ultimately falling under suspicion, and Curll wrote a narrative of the events which resulted in seriously discrediting Pope.

Pope was surely one of the least enviable authors who ever lived. He had fame and fortune and friends. But he had not the const.i.tution to enjoy his fortune, and in friends.h.i.+p he had not the gift of fidelity. He secretly published his correspondence with Swift and then set up a pretence that Swift had been the culprit. He earned from Bolingbroke in the end a hatred that pursued him in the grave. He was always begging Swift to go and live with him at Twickenham. But Swift found even a short visit trying. "Two sick friends never did well together," he wrote in 1727, and he has left us verses descriptive of the miseries of great wits in each other's company:--

Pope has the talent well to speak, But not to reach the ear; His loudest voice is low and weak, The Dean too deaf to hear.

Awhile they on each other look, Then different studies choose; The Dean sits plodding o'er a book, Pope walks and courts the muse.

"Mr. Pope," he grumbled some years later, "can neither eat nor drink, loves to be alone, and has always some poetical scheme in his head."

Swift, luckily, stayed in Dublin and remained Pope's friend. Lady Mary, Wortley Montagu went to Twickenham and became Pope's enemy. The reason seems to have been that he was more eager for an exchange of compliments than for friends.h.i.+p. He affected the att.i.tude of a man in love, when Lady Mary saw in him only a monkey in love. He is even said to have thrown his little makes.h.i.+ft of a body, in its canvas bodice and its three pairs of stockings, at her feet, with the result that she burst out laughing. Pope took his revenge in the _Epistle to Martha Blount_, where, describing Lady Mary as Sappho, he declared of another lady that her different aspects agreed as ill with each other--

As Sappho's diamonds with her dirty smock; Or Sappho at her toilet's greasy task With Sappho fragrant at an evening mask; So morning insects, that in muck begun, s.h.i.+ne, buzz, and fly-blow in the evening sun.

His relations with his contemporaries were too often begun in compliments only to end in abuse of this kind. Even while he was on good terms with them, he was frequently doing them ill turns. Thus, he persuaded a publisher to get Dennis to write abusively of Addison's _Cato_ in order that he might have an excuse in his turn for writing abusively of Dennis, apparently vindicating Addison but secretly taking a revenge of his own. Addison was more embarra.s.sed than pleased by so savage a defence, and hastened to a.s.sure Dennis that he had had nothing to do with it. Addison also gave offence to Pope by his too judicious praise of _The Rape of the Lock_ and the translation of the _Iliad_.

Thus began the maniacal suspicion of Addison, which was expressed with the genius of venom in the _Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot._

There was never a poet whose finest work needs such a running commentary of discredit as Pope's. He may be said, indeed, to be the only great poet in reading whom the commentary is as necessary as the text. One can enjoy Shakespeare or Sh.e.l.ley without a note: one is inclined even to resent the intrusion of the commentator into the upper regions of poetry. But Pope's verse is a guide to his age and the incidents of his waspish existence, lacking a key to which one misses three-fourths of the entertainment. The _Danciad_ without footnotes is one of the obscurest poems in existence: with footnotes it becomes a perfect epic of literary entomology. And it is the same with at least half of his work. Thus, in the _Imitations of Horace_, a reference to Russell tells us little till we read in a delightful footnote:

There was a Lord Russell who, by living too luxuriously, had quite spoiled his const.i.tution. He did not love sport, but used to go out with his dogs every day only to hunt for an appet.i.te. If he felt anything of that, he would cry out, "Oh, I have found it!" turn short round and ride home again, though they were in the midst of the finest chase. It was this lord who, when he met a beggar, and was entreated by him to give him something because he was almost famished with hunger, called him a "happy dog."

There may have been a case for neglecting Pope before Mr. Elwin and Mr.

Courthope edited and annotated him--though he had been edited well before--but their monumental edition has made him of all English poets one of the most incessantly entertaining.

Pope, however, is a charmer in himself. His venom has graces. He is a stinging insect, but of how brilliant a hue! There are few satires in literature richer in the daintiness of malice than the _Epistle to Martha Blount_ and the _Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot_. The "characters" of women in the former are among the most precious of those railleries of s.e.x in which mankind has always loved to indulge. The summing-up of the perfect woman:

And mistress of herself, though china fall,

is itself perfect in its wit. And the fickle lady, Narcissa, is a portrait in porcelain:

Narcissa's nature, tolerably mild, To make a wash, would hardly stew a child; Has even been proved to grant a lover's prayer.

And paid a tradesman once, to make him stare;...

Now deep in Taylor and the Book of Martyrs, Now drinking citron with his Grace and Chartres; Now conscience chills her and now pa.s.sion burns; And atheism and religion take their turns; A very heathen in the carnal part, Yet still a sad, good Christian at the heart.

The study of Chloe, who "wants a heart," is equally delicate and witty:

Virtue she finds too painful an endeavour, Content to dwell in decencies for ever-- So very reasonable, so unmoved, As never yet to love, or to be loved.

She, while her lover pants upon her breast, Can mark the figures on an Indian chest; And when she sees her friend in deep despair, Observes how much a chintz exceeds mohair!...

Would Chloe know if you're alive or dead?

She bids her footman put it in her head.

Chloe is prudent--would you too be wise?

Then never break your heart when Chloe dies.

The _Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot_ is still more dazzling. The venom is pa.s.sionate without ever ceasing to be witty. Pope has composed a masterpiece of his vanities and hatreds. The characterizations of Addison as Atticus, and of Lord Hervey as Sporus:

Sporus, that mere white curd of a.s.s's milk--

Sporus, "the bug with gilded wings"--are portraits one may almost call beautiful in their bitter phrasing. There is nothing make-believe here as there is in the virtue of the letters. This is Pope's confession, the image of his soul. Elsewhere in Pope the accomplishment is too often rhetorical, though _The Rape of the Lock_ is as delicate in artifice as a French fairy-tale, the _Dunciad_ an amusing a.s.sault of a major Lilliputian on minor Lilliputians, and the _Essay on Criticism_--what a regiment of witty lines to be written by a youth of twenty or twenty-one!--much nearer being a great essay in verse than is generally admitted nowadays. As for the _Essay on Man_, one can read! it more than once only out of a sense of duty. Pope has nothing to tell us that we want to know about man except in so far as he dislikes him. We praise him as the poet who makes remarks--as the poet, one might almost say, who makes faces. It is when he sits in the scorner's chair, whether in good humour or in bad, that he is the little lord of versifiers.

XI

JAMES ELROY FLECKER

James Elroy Flecker died in January 1915, having added at least one poem to the perfect anthology of English verse. Probably his work contains a good deal that is permanent besides this. But one is confident at least of the permanence of _The Old s.h.i.+ps_. Readers coming a thousand years hence upon the beauty, the romance and the colour of this poem will turn eagerly, one imagines, in search of other work from the same pen. This was the flower of the poet's genius. It was the exultant and original speech of one who was in a great measure the seer of other men's visions. Flecker was much given to the translation of other poets, and he did not stop at translating their words. He translated their imagination also into careful verse. He was one of those poets whose genius is founded in the love of literature more than in the love of life. He seems less an interpreter of the earth than one who sought after a fantastic world which had been created by Swinburne and the Parna.s.sians and the old painters and the tellers of the _Arabian Nights_.

"He began," Mr. J.C. Squire has said, "by being more interested in his art than in himself." And all but a score or so of his poems suggest that this was his way to the last. He was one of those for whom the visible world exists. But it existed for him less in nature than in art.

He does not give one the impression of a poet who observed minutely and delightedly as Mr. W.H. Davies observes. His was a painted world inhabited by a number of chosen and exquisite images. He found the real world by comparison disappointing. "He confessed," we are told, "that he had not greatly liked the East--always excepting, of course, Greece."

This was almost a necessity of his genius; and it is interesting to see how in some of his later work his imagination is feeling its way back from the world of illusion to the world of real things--from Bagdad and Babylon to England. His poetry does not as a rule touch the heart; but in _Oak and Olive_ and _Brumana_ his spectatorial sensuousness at last breaks down and the cry of the exile moves us as in an intimate letter from a friend since dead. Those are not mere rhetorical reproaches to the "traitor pines" which

sang what life has found The falsest of fair tales;