It is curious to mark Hawthorne"s attempts to break away from himself--from the man that heredity, and circ.u.mstance, and the divine gift of genius had made him. He naturally "haunts the mouldering lodges of the past"; but when he came to England (where such lodges are abundant), he was ill-pleased and cross-grained. He knew that a long past, with mysteries, dark places, malisons, curses, historic wrongs, was the proper atmosphere of his art. But a kind of conscientious desire to be something other than himself--something more ordinary and popular--make him thank Heaven that his chosen atmosphere was rare in his native land.
He grumbled at it, when he was in the midst of it; he grumbled in England; and how he grumbled in Rome! He permitted the American Eagle to make her nest in his bosom, "with the customary infirmity of temper that characterises this unhappy fowl," as he says in his essay "The Custom House." "The general truculency of her att.i.tude" seems to "threaten mischief to the inoffensive community" of Europe, and especially of England and Italy.
Perhaps Hawthorne travelled too late, when his habits were too much fixed. It does not become Englishmen to be angry because a voyager is annoyed at not finding everything familiar and customary in lands which he only visits because they are strange. This is an inconsistency to which English travellers are particularly p.r.o.ne. But it is, in Hawthorne"s case, perhaps, another instance of his conscientious attempts to be, what he was not, very much like other people. His unexpected explosions of Puritanism, perhaps, are caused by the sense of being too much himself. He speaks of "the Squeamish love of the Beautiful" as if the love of the Beautiful were something unworthy of an able-bodied citizen. In some arts, as in painting and sculpture, his taste was very far from being at home, as his Italian journals especially prove. In short, he was an artist in a community for long most inartistic. He could not do what many of us find very difficult--he could not take Beauty with gladness as it comes, neither shrinking from it as immoral, nor getting girlishly drunk upon it, in the aesthetic fashion, and screaming over it in an intoxication of surprise. His tendency was to be rather shy and afraid of Beauty, as a pleasant but not immaculately respectable acquaintance. Or, perhaps, he was merely deferring to Anglo- Saxon public opinion.
Possibly he was trying to wean himself from himself, and from his own genius, when he consorted with odd amateur socialists in farm-work, and when he mixed, at Concord, with the "queer, strangely-dressed, oddly-behaved mortals, most of whom took upon themselves to be important agents of the world"s destiny, yet were simple bores of a very intense water." They haunted Mr. Emerson as they haunted Sh.e.l.ley, and Hawthorne had to see much of them. But they neither made a convert of him, nor irritated him into resentment. His long-enduring kindness to the unfortunate Miss Delia Bacon, an early believer in the nonsense about Bacon and Shakespeare, was a model of manly and generous conduct. He was, indeed, an admirable character, and his goodness had the bloom on it of a courteous and kindly nature that loved the Muses. But, as one has ventured to hint, the development of his genius and taste was hampered now and then, apparently, by a desire to put himself on the level of the general public, and of their ideas. This, at least, is how one explains to oneself various remarks in his prefaces, journals, and note-books.
This may account for the moral allegories which too weirdly haunt some of his short, early pieces. Edgar Poe, in a pa.s.sage full of very honest and well-chosen praise, found fault with the allegorical business.
Mr. Hutton, from whose "Literary Essays" I borrow Poe"s opinion, says: "Poe boldly a.s.serted that the conspicuously ideal scaffoldings of Hawthorne"s stories were but the monstrous fruits of the bad transcendental atmosphere which he breathed so long." But I hope this way of putting it is not Poe"s. "Ideal scaffoldings," are odd enough, but when scaffoldings turn out to be "fruits" of an "atmosphere," and monstrous fruits of a "bad transcendental atmosphere," the brain reels in the fumes of mixed metaphors. "Let him mend his pen," cried Poe, "get a bottle of visible ink, come out from the Old Manse, cut Mr. Alcott," and, in fact, write about things less impalpable, as Mr. Mallock"s heroine preferred to be loved, "in a more human sort of way."
Hawthorne"s way was never too ruddily and robustly human. Perhaps, even in "The Scarlet Letter," we feel too distinctly that certain characters are moral conceptions, not warmed and wakened out of the allegorical into the real. The persons in an allegory may be real enough, as Bunyan has proved by examples. But that culpable clergyman, Mr. Arthur Dimmesdale, with his large, white brow, his melancholy eyes, his hand on his heart, and his general resemblance to the High Church Curate in Thackeray"s "Our Street," is he real? To me he seems very unworthy to be Hester"s lover, for she is a beautiful woman of flesh and blood. Mr. Dimmesdale was not only immoral; he was unsportsmanlike. He had no more pluck than a church- mouse. His miserable pa.s.sion was degraded by its brevity; how could he see this woman"s disgrace for seven long years, and never pluck up heart either to share her shame or _peccare forliter_? He is a lay figure, very cleverly, but somewhat conventionally made and painted. The vengeful husband of Hester, Roger Chillingworth, is a Mr. Casaubon stung into jealous anger. But his att.i.tude, watching ever by Dimmesdale, tormenting him, and yet in his confidence, and ever unsuspected, reminds one of a conception dear to d.i.c.kens. He uses it in "David Copperfield,"
where Mr. Micawber (of all people!) plays this trick on Uriah Heep; he uses it in "Hunted Down"; he was about using it in "Edwin Drood"; he used it (old Martin and Pecksniff) in "Martin Chuzzlewit." The person of Roger Chillingworth and his conduct are a little too melodramatic for Hawthorne"s genius.
In d.i.c.kens"s manner, too, is Hawthorne"s long sarcastic address to Judge Pyncheon (in "The House of the Seven Gables"), as the judge sits dead in his chair, with his watch ticking in his hand. Occasionally a chance remark reminds one of d.i.c.kens; this for example: He is talking of large, black old books of divinity, and of their successors, tiny books, Elzevirs perhaps. "These little old volumes impressed me as if they had been intended for very large ones, but had been unfortunately blighted at an early stage of their growth." This might almost deceive the elect as a piece of the true Boz. Their widely different talents did really intersect each other where the perverse, the grotesque, and the terrible dwell.
To myself "The House of the Seven Gables" has always appeared the most beautiful and attractive of Hawthorne"s novels. He actually gives us a love story, and condescends to a pretty heroine. The curse of "Maule"s Blood" is a good old romantic idea, terribly handled. There is more of lightness, and of a cobwebby dusty humour in Hepzibah Pyncheon, the decayed lady shopkeeper, than Hawthorne commonly cares to display. Do you care for the "first lover," the Photographer"s Young Man? It may be conventional prejudice, but I seem to see him going about on a tricycle, and I don"t think him the right person for Phoebe. Perhaps it is really the beautiful, gentle, oppressed Clifford who haunts one"s memory most, a kind of tragic and thwarted Harold Skimpole. "How pleasant, how delightful," he murmured, but not as if addressing any one. "Will it last? How balmy the atmosphere through that open window! An open window! How beautiful that play of sunshine. Those flowers, how very fragrant! That young girl"s face, how cheerful, how blooming. A flower with the dew on it, and sunbeams in the dewdrops . . . " This comparison with Skimpole may sound like an unkind criticism of Clifford"s character and place in the story--it is only a chance note of a chance resemblance.
Indeed, it may be that Hawthorne himself was aware of the resemblance.
"An individual of Clifford"s character," he remarks, "can always be p.r.i.c.ked more acutely through his sense of the beautiful and harmonious than through his heart." And he suggests that, if Clifford had not been so long in prison, his aesthetic zeal "might have eaten out or filed away his affections." This was what befell Harold Skimpole--himself "in prisons often"--at Coavinses! The Judge Pyncheon of the tale is also a masterly study of swaggering black-hearted respectability, and then, in addition to all the poetry of his style, and the charm of his haunted air, Hawthorne favours us with a brave conclusion of the good sort, the old sort. They come into money, they marry, they are happy ever after.
This is doing things handsomely, though some of our modern novelists think it coa.r.s.e and degrading. Hawthorne did not think so, and they are not exactly better artists than Hawthorne.
Yet he, too, had his economies, which we resent. I do not mean his not telling us what it was that Roger Chillingworth saw on Arthur Dimmesdale"s bare breast. To leave that vague is quite legitimate. But what had Miriam and the spectre of the Catacombs done? Who was the spectre? What did he want? To have told all this would have been better than to fill the novel with padding about Rome, sculpture, and the Ethics of Art. As the silly saying runs: "the people has a right to know" about Miriam and her ghostly acquaintance. {10} But the "Marble Faun" is not of Hawthorne"s best period, beautiful as are a hundred pa.s.sages in the tale.
Beautiful pa.s.sages are as common in his prose as gold in the richest quartz. How excellent are his words on the first faint but certain breath of Autumn in the air, felt, perhaps, early in July. "And then came Autumn, with his immense burthen of apples, dropping them continually from his overladen shoulders as he trudged along." Keats might have written so of Autumn in the orchards--if Keats had been writing prose.
There are geniuses more sunny, large, and glad than Hawthorne"s, none more original, more surefooted, in his own realm of moonlight and twilight.
CHAPTER XI: THE PARADISE OF POETS
We were talking of Love, Constancy, the Ideal. "Who ever loved like the poets?" cried Lady Violet Lebas, her pure, pale cheek flushing. "Ah, if ever I am to love, he shall be a singer!"
"Tenors are popular, very," said Lord Walter.
"I mean a poet," she answered witheringly.
Near them stood Mr. Witham, the author of "Heart"s Chords Tangled."
"Ah," said he, "that reminds me. I have been trying to catch it all the morning. That reminds me of my dream."
"Tell us your dream," murmured Lady Violet Lebas, and he told it.
"It was through an unfortunate but pardonable blunder," said Mr. Witham, "that I died, and reached the Paradise of Poets. I had, indeed, published volumes of verse, but with the most blameless motives. Other poets were continually sending me theirs, and, as I could not admire them, and did not like to reply by critical remarks, I simply printed some rhymes for the purpose of sending them to the gentlemen who favoured me with theirs. I always wrote on the fly-leaf a quotation from the "Iliad," about giving copper in exchange for gold; and the few poets who could read Greek were gratified, while the others, probably, thought a compliment was intended. Nothing could be less culpable or pretentious, but, through some mistake on the part of Charon, I was drafted off to the Paradise of Poets.
"Outside the Golden Gate a number of Shadows were waiting, in different att.i.tudes of depression and languor. Bavius and Maevius were there, still complaining of "cliques," railing at Horace for a mere rhymer of society, and at Virgil as a plagiarist, "Take away his cribs from Homer and Apollonius Rhodius," quoth honest Maevius, "and what is there left of him?" I also met a society of gentlemen, in Greek costume, of various ages, from a half-naked minstrel with a tortoisesh.e.l.l lyre in his hand to an elegant of the age of Pericles. They all consorted together, talking various dialects of Aeolic, Ionian, Attic Greek, and so forth, which were plainly not intelligible to each other. I ventured to ask one of the company who he was, but he, with a sweep of his hand, said, "We are Homer!" When I expressed my regret and surprise that the Golden Gate had not yet opened for so distinguished, though collective, an artist, my friend answered that, according to Fick, Peppmuller, and many other learned men, they were Homer. "But an impostor from Chios has got in somehow," he said; "they don"t pay the least attention to the Germans in the Paradise of Poets."
"At this moment the Golden Gates were thrown apart, and a fair lady, in an early Italian costume, carrying a laurel in her hand, appeared at the entrance. All the Shadows looked up with an air of weary expectation, like people waiting for their turn in a doctor"s consulting-room. She beckoned to me, however, and I made haste to follow her. The words "Charlatan!" "You a poet!" in a variety of languages, greeted me by way of farewell from the Shadows.
""The renowned Laura, if I am not mistaken," I ventured to remark, recognising her, indeed, from the miniature in the Laurentian library at Florence.
"She bowed, and I began to ask for her adorer, Petrarch.
""Excuse me," said Laura, as we glided down a mossy path, under the shade of trees particularly dear to poets, "excuse me, but the sonneteer of whom you speak is one whose name I cannot bear to mention. His conduct with Burns"s Clarinda, his heartless infatuation for Stella--"
""You astonish me," I said. "In the Paradise of Poets--"
""They are poets still--incorrigible!" answered the lady; then slightly raising her voice of silver, as a beautiful appearance in a toga drew near, she cried "_Catullo mio_!"
"The greeting between these accomplished ghosts was too kindly to leave room for doubt as to the ardour of their affections.
""Will you, my Catullus," murmured Laura, "explain to this poet from the land of fogs, any matters which, to him, may seem puzzling and unfamiliar in our Paradise?"
"The Veronese, with a charming smile, took my hand, and led me to a shadowy arbour, whence we enjoyed a prospect of many rivers and mountains in the poets" heaven. Among these I recognised the triple crest of the Eildons, Grongar Hill, Cithaeron and Etna; while the reed-fringed waters of the Mincius flowed musically between the banks and braes o" bonny Doon to join the Tweed. Blithe ghosts were wandering by, in all varieties of apparel, and I distinctly observed Dante"s Beatrice, leaning loving on the arm of Sir Philip Sidney, while Dante was closely engaged in conversation with the lost Lenore, celebrated by Mr. Edgar Allan Poe.
""In what can my knowledge of the Paradise of Poets be serviceable to you, sir?" said Catullus, as he flung himself at the feet of Laura, on the velvet gra.s.s.
""I am disinclined to seem impertinently curious," I answered, "but the ladies in this fair, smiling country--have the G.o.ds made them poetical?"
""Not generally," replied Catullus. "Indeed, if you would be well with them, I may warn you never to mention poetry in their hearing. They never cared for it while on earth, and in this place it is a topic which the prudent carefully avoid among ladies. To tell the truth, they have had to listen to far too much poetry, and too many discussions on the caesura. There are, indeed, a few lady poets--very few. Sappho, for example; indeed I cannot recall any other at this moment. The result is that Phaon, of all the shadows here, is the most distinguished by the fair. He was not a poet, you know; he got in on account of Sappho, who adored him. They are estranged now, of course."
""You interest me deeply," I answered. "And now, will you kindly tell me why these ladies are here, if they were not poets?"
""The women that were our ideals while we dwelt on earth, the women we loved but never won, or, at all events, never wedded, they for whom we sighed while in the arms of a recognised and legitimate affection, have been chosen by the Olympians to keep us company in Paradise!"
""Then wherefore," I interrupted, "do I see Robert Burns loitering with that lady in a ruff,--Ca.s.sandra, I make no doubt--Ronsard"s Ca.s.sandra?
And why is the incomparable Clarinda inseparable from Petrarch; and Miss Patty Blount, Pope"s flame, from the Syrian Meleager, while _his_ Heliodore is manifestly devoted to Mr. Emerson, whom, by the way, I am delighted, if rather surprised, to see here?"
""Ah," said Catullus, "you are a new-comer among us. Poets will be poets, and no sooner have they attained their desire, and dwelt in the company of their earthly Ideals, than they feel strangely, yet irresistibly drawn to Another. So it was in life, so it will ever be. No Ideal can survive a daily companionship, and fortunate is the poet who did not marry his first love!"
""As far as that goes," I answered, "most of you were highly favoured; indeed, I do not remember any poet whose Ideal was his wife, or whose first love led him to the altar."
""I was not a marrying man myself," answered the Veronese; "few of us were. Myself, Horace, Virgil--we were all bachelors."
""And Lesbia!"
"I said this in a low voice, for Laura was weaving bay into a chaplet, and inattentive to our conversation.
""Poor Lesbia!" said Catullus, with a suppressed sigh. "How I misjudged that girl! How cruel, how causeless were my reproaches," and wildly rending his curled locks and laurel crown, he fled into a thicket, whence there soon arose the melancholy notes of the Ausonian lyre."
""He is incorrigible," said Laura, very coldly; and she deliberately began to tear and toss away the fragments of the chaplet she had been weaving. "I shall never break him of that habit of versifying. But they are all alike."
""Is there n.o.body here," said I, "who is happy with his Ideal--n.o.body but has exchanged Ideals with some other poet?"
""There is one," she said. "He comes of a northern tribe; and in his life-time he never rhymed upon his unattainable lady, or if rhyme he did, the accents never carried her name to the ears of the vulgar. Look there."
"She pointed to the river at our feet, and I knew the mounted figure that was riding the ford, with a green-mantled lady beside him like the Fairy Queen.