The Bridling of Pegasus Part 9

Nor, in spite of much vagueness, will it be possible for Mr. Arnold to escape from this consequence of his dictum that poetry is a criticism of life. For at last, after much that seems to us like beating about the bush, he goes straight to the point, and makes the fatal confession in plain words.

As compared with Leopardi, Wordsworth, though at many points less lucid, though far less a master of style, far less of an artist, gains so much by his criticism of life being, in certain matters of profound importance, healthful and true, whereas Leopardi's pessimism is not, that the value of Wordsworth's poetry, on the whole, stands higher for us, I think, than that of Leopardi's, as it stands higher for us, I think, than that of any modern poetry except Goethe's.

Higher, because it is more healthful! That any critic, not an abject Philistine, should say such a thing, amazes us beyond words. Surely Mr.

Arnold is aware that there are persons whose opinion on that subject carries much weight, who consider that Goethe's criticism of life is neither healthful nor true, but on the contrary false or mischievous, yet who do not on that account deny to Goethe the t.i.tle of a great poet. Is Mr. Arnold really serious when he a.s.serts that, other things being equal, one poet is less great than another poet because the first is a pessimist, and the other is an optimist? If he is, let us have two more volumes of Selections; one containing all the best optimist poetry, and the other containing all the best pessimist poetry, that was ever written. Which collection would be the more true, we do not undertake to know, and, as critics and disinterested lovers of poetry, we do not care. But we entertain no doubt whatever which Selection would contain the finest poetry. It would not be the optimist one. Some of the finest poetry ever written upon life is to be found surely in the Old Testament. What might be taken as its motto? "Vanity of Vanities. All is Vanity." As far as this life, and any criticism of it are concerned, it is a very Gospel of Pessimism.

Is the conclusion then that a pessimistic criticism of life necessarily makes a poet greater than another poet who criticises it from an optimistic point of view? Not in the least. The consideration--we do not say to the positive philosopher, to the historian, to the moralist, but--to the disinterested lover of poetry, is simply irrelevant.

But there is an att.i.tude towards life which does give a poet the chance at least of being greater than either a poet who criticises life as a pessimist, or than a poet who criticises it as an optimist. That att.i.tude is one neither of pessimism nor of optimism; indeed, not a criticism of life at all, or at least not such a criticism of life as to leave it open to any one to declare that it is healthful and true, or that it is insalubrious and false. Will Mr. Arnold tell us what is Shakespeare's criticism of life? Is it pessimistic or optimistic? We are almost alarmed at asking the question; for who knows that, in doing so, we may not be sowing the seeds of a controversy as long and as interminable as the controversy respecting the moral purpose, the criticism of life in _Hamlet_? Once started, the controversy will go on for ever, precisely because there is no way of ending it. What const.i.tutes, not the superiority, but the comparative inferiority, of Byron and Wordsworth alike, is their excessive criticism of life. They criticise life overmuch.

It is the foible of each of them. What const.i.tutes the superiority of Shakespeare is, that he does not so much criticise life, as present it. He holds the mirror up to nature, and is content to do so, showing it with all its beautiful and all its ugly features, and with perfect dispa.s.sionateness. Hence his unequalled greatness.

We regret we have not s.p.a.ce to set this forth more at length. But Mr.

Arnold will scarcely misunderstand us; and we would venture to ask him to ponder these objections, and to let his consciousness play freely about them. If he does so, we have little doubt that the theory about poetry being a criticism of life, with its appalling consequences to the critic, to the disinterested lover of poetry, to the adherent of culture, to the friend of sweetness and light, and in fact to every one but the Philistine with his stock ideas, will silently be dropped.

But if Mr. Arnold sees insuperable objections to this course, and the canon about poetry being a criticism of life is to be added to that list of delightful formul, which, during the last decade, have shed so much light on our condition, then we can only once more appeal from Mr. Arnold to Mr. Arnold, and ask how it is that Wordsworth can be considered to have criticised life, and to "deal with that in which life really consists," if it be true, as Mr. Arnold tells us it is true, that

Wordsworth's eyes avert their ken From half of human fate.

How, we shall still have to ask, can a poet be said to have criticised life of whom such an ardent admirer as M. Scherer can observe, "As for cities, Wordsworth seeks to ignore them. He takes them for a discordant note which it is only just and right to drown and get rid of in the general harmony of creation."

But we must end; and we submit that we have established our case.

Wordsworth can be made to figure as the greatest poet since Milton, only by canons of criticism that would make him not only a greater poet than Milton, but a greater poet than any poet that preceded Milton. If this be so, let us know it. But if not, it is vain work, trying to extol him, as a poet, above Byron. Mr. Arnold has done Byron injustice by making selections from his works, and a.s.serting that selections are better than the whole of the works from which they are selected. You might as well select from a mountain. What should we think of the process that said, "Here is an edelweiss, here some heather, here a lump of quartz, here a bit of ice from a glacier, here some water from a torrent, here some pine-cones, here some eggs from an eagle's nest; and now you know all about Mont Blanc"? Byron is no more to be known in that fashion than the Matterhorn is. You must make acquaintances with pastoral valleys, with yawning precipices, with roaring cataracts, with tinkling cattle-bells, with the rumble of avalanches, with the growl of thunder, with the zigzag lightning, with storm, and mists, and sudden burst of tenderest sunshine, with these, with more, in fact with all, if Alp or Byron is to be really known. But Mr. Arnold has rendered Byron one service at least. When he says that Byron and Wordsworth stand first and pre-eminent among the English poets of this century, he relieves Byron of danger of rivalry.

DANTE'S REALISTIC TREATMENT OF THE IDEAL

READ AT THE TWENTIETH ANNUAL MEETING OF THE DANTE SOCIETY ON JUNE 13, 1900.

To discourse of Dante, concerning whom, ever since Boccaccio lectured on the _Divina Commedia_ in the _Duomo_ of Florence, more than five hundred years ago, there has been an unbroken procession of loving commentators, must always be a difficult undertaking; and the difficulty is increased when the audience addressed, as I believe is the case this evening, is composed, for the most part, of serious students of the austere Florentine. The only claim I can have on your attention is that I am, in that respect at least, in a more or less degree, one of yourselves. It is now close on forty years since, in Rome, as Rome then was, one repaired, day after day, to the Baths of Caracalla--not, as now, denuded of the sylvan growth of successive centuries, but cloaked, from shattered base to ruined summit, in tangled greenery--and in the silent sunshine of an Imperial Past surrendered oneself to

quella fonte Che spande di parlar s largo fiume,

that unfailing stream of s.p.a.cious speech which Dante, you remember, ascribes to Virgil, which Dante equally shares with him, and to each alike of whom one can sincerely say:

Vagliami il lungo studio e il grande amore, Che m'han fatto cercar lo tuo volume.

But love and study of Dante will not of themselves suffice to make discourse concerning him interesting or adequate; and I am deeply impressed with the disadvantages under which I labour this evening. But my task has been made even exceptionally perilous, since it has been preceded by the entrancing influence of music, and music that borrowed an added charm from the melodious words of the poet himself. May it not be with you as it was with him when the musician Casella--"Casella mio"--acceded to his request in the Purgatorial Realm, and sang to him, he says,

s dolcemente, Che la dolcezza ancor dentro mi suona--

sang to him so sweetly that the sweetness of it still sounded in his ears; words that strangely recall the couplet in Wordsworth, though I scarcely think Wordsworth was a Dante scholar:

The music in my heart I bore Long after it was heard no more.

Many of you remember, I am sure, the entire pa.s.sage in the second canto of the _Purgatorio_. But, since there may be some who have forgotten it--and the best pa.s.sages in the _Divina Commedia_ can never be recalled too often--and since, moreover, it will serve as a fitting introduction to the theme on which I propose for a brief while to descant this evening, let me recall it to your remembrance. Companioned by Virgil, and newly arrived on the sh.o.r.es of Purgatory, Dante perceives a barque approaching, so swift and light that it causes no ripple on the water, driven and steered only by the wings of an Angel of the Lord, and carrying a hundred disembodied spirits, singing "_In exitu Israel de gypto_." As they disembark, one of them recognises Dante, and stretches out his arms to embrace the Poet. The pa.s.sage is too beautiful to be shorn of its loveliness either by curtailment or by mere translation:

Io vidi uno di lor trarresi avante Per abbracciarmi con s grande affetto, Che mosse me a far lo somigliante.

O ombre vane, fuor che nell' aspetto!

Tre volte dietro a lei le mani avvinsi, E tante mi tornai con esse al petto.

Among them was there one who forward pressed, So keen to fold me to his heart, that I Instinctively was moved to do the like.

O shades intangible, save in your seeming!

Toward him did I thrice outstretch my arms, And thrice they fell back empty to my side.[2]

Words that will recall to many of you the lines in the second book of the _neid_, where neas describes to Dido how the phantom of his perished wife appeared to him as he was seeking for her through the flames and smoke of Troy, and how in vain he strove to fold her in one farewell embrace.

Ter conatus ibi collo dare bracchia circ.u.m, Ter frustra comprensa ma.n.u.s effugit imago.

Similarly, the incorporeal figure in the _Divine Comedy_ bids Dante desist from the attempt to embrace him, since it is useless; and then Dante discerns it is that of Casella, who used oftentimes in Florence to sing to him, and now a.s.sures the poet that, as he loved him upon earth, so here he loves him still. Encouraged by the tender words, Dante calls him "Casella mio," and addresses to him the following request:

Se nuova legge non ti toglie Memoria o uso all' amoroso canto, Che mi solea quetar tutte mie voglie, Di ci ti piaccia consolare alquanto L'anima mia, che con la sua persona Venendo qui, affannata tanto.

If by new dispensation not deprived Of the remembrance of belovd song Wherewith you used to soothe my restlessness, I pray you now a little while a.s.suage My spirit, which, since burdened with the body In journeying here, is wearied utterly.

Quickly comes the melodious response:

"Amor che nella mente mi ragiona,"

Cominci egli allor s dolcemente, Che la dolcezza ancor dentro mi suona.

Lo mio Maestro, ed io, e quella gente Ch'eran con lui, parevan s contenti, Com'a nessun tocca.s.se altro la mente.

"Love that holds high discourse within mind,"

With such sweet tenderness he thus began That still the sweetness lingers in my ear.

Virgil, and I, and that uncarnal group That with him were, so captivated seemed, That in our hearts was room for naught beside.

Not so, however, the guide of the spirits newly arrived in Purgatory.

Seeing them "_fissi ed attenti alle sue note_," enthralled by Casella's singing, he begins to rate them soundly as "_spiriti lenti_," lazy, loitering spirits, asks them what they mean by thus halting on the way, and bids them hasten to the spot where they will be gradually purged of their earthly offences, and be admitted to the face of G.o.d. The canto closes with the following exquisite lines:

Come quando, cogliendo biada o loglio, Gli colombi adunati alla pastura, Queti, senza mostrar l'usato orgoglio, Se cosa appare ond' elli abbian paura, Subitamente lasciano star l'esca, Perch a.s.saliti son da maggior cura; Cos vid'io quella masnada fresca Lasciar il canto, e fuggir ver la costa, Com'uom che va, n sa dove riesca.

As when a flight of doves, in quest of food, Have settled on a field of wheat or tares, And there still feed in silent quietude, If by some apparition that they dread A sudden scared, forthway desert the meal, Since by more strong anxiety a.s.sailed, So saw I that new-landed company Forsake the song and seek the mountain side, Like one who flees, but flies he knows not whither.

Now, if we consider this episode in its integrity, do we not find ourselves, from first to last, essentially in the region of the Ideal?

Whether you believe in the existence of a local habitation named Purgatory, or you do not, none of us, not even Dante himself, has seen it, save with the mind's eye. It was said of his austere countenance by his contemporaries that it was the face of the man who had seen h.e.l.l. But the phrase, after all, was figurative, and not even the divine poet had, with the bodily vision, seen what Virgil, in one of the most pathetic of his lines, calls the further ash.o.r.e. Moreover, for awhile, and in what may be termed the exordium of the episode, Dante surrenders himself wholly to this Ideal, and treats it idealistically. First he discerns only two wings of pure white light, which, when he has grown more accustomed to their brightness, he perceives to be the Angel of the Lord, the steersman of the purgatorial bark:

Vedi che sdegna gli argomenti umani, S che remo non vuol, n altro velo Che l'ale sue, tra liti s lontani

Trattando l'aere con l'eterne penne--

lines that for ethereal beauty, are, I think unmatched; and I will not presume to render them into verse. But what they say is that the Angel had no need of mortal expedients, of sail, or oar, or anything beside, save his own wings, that fanned the air with their eternal breath. The barque, thus driven and thus steered, is equally unsubstantial and ideal, for it makes no ripple in the wave through which it glides. But at length--not, you may be quite sure, of purpose prepense, but guided by that unerring instinct which is the great poet's supreme gift--Dante gradually pa.s.ses from idealistic to realistic treatment of the episode, thereby compelling you, by what Shakespeare, in _The Tempest_, through the mouth of Prospero, calls "my so potent art," to believe implicitly in its occurrence, even if your incapacity to linger too long in the rarefied atmosphere of the Ideal has begun to render you incredulous concerning it. For all at once he introduces Casella, Florence, his own past cares and labours there, the weariness of the spirit that comes over all of us, even from our very spiritual efforts, and the soothing power of tender music. Then, with a pa.s.sing touch of happy egotism, which has such a charm for us in poets that are dead, but which, I am told, is resented, though perhaps not by the gracious or the wise, in living ones, Dante enforces our belief by representing Casella as forthwith chanting a line of the poet's own that occurs in a _Canzone_ of the _Convito_:

Amor che nella mente mi ragiona.

Love that holds high discourse within my mind.