Part 4
_Mrs. Allonby._ Ah, all that I have noticed is that they are horribly tedious when they are good husbands, and abominably conceited when they are not.
_Lady Hunstanton._ Well, I suppose the type of husband has completely changed since my young days, but I’m bound to state that poor dear Hunstanton was the most delightful of creatures, and as good as gold.
_Mrs. Allonby._ Ah, my husband is a sort of promissory note; I am tired of meeting him.
_Lady Caroline._ But you renew him from time to time, don’t you?
_Mrs. Allonby._ Oh no, Lady Caroline. I have only had one husband as yet. I suppose you look upon me as quite an amateur.
_Lady Caroline._ With your views on life I wonder you married at all.
_Mrs. Allonby._ So do I. --_A Woman of No Importance (Act II.)_
Compare such a discharge of wit with the current popular “Revue” with its slap stick farce, its reference to booze, to negroes, to sporting drummers and the absurd bids for applause by a little thrown in about the flag--and let us hope that we may produce a Wilde.
But for sheer color and gorgeous vision, Wilde achieved nothing better than his unpublished Burmese Masque, _For Love of the King_. As in a lightning flash the eye takes in a scene of wondrous richness. King Beng on his ruby sewn cushion; the blinding blue of an eastern sky; the hundred waiting elephants; the peacocks; the silken banners “propelled with measured rhythm”; the tables and chairs piled high with fruits on golden dishes; the flower crowned courtiers and dancing girls, some half nude, others splendidly robed. But everywhere that intense brightness of a sunlit scene. There is little in the Masque that would make it attractive to a stage manager, much that should attract a scenario man. Indeed, it reads as though Wilde had visualized the possibilities of the screen world. I copy from Act II, Scene I:
“The jungle once more. Time; noonday. In place of the hut is a building, half Burmese, half Italian villa, of white, thick wood, with curled roofs rising on roofs gilded and adorned with spiral carvings and a myriad golden and jewel-incrusted bells. On the broad verandahs are thrown Eastern carpets, rugs, embroideries.
“The world is sun soaked. The surrounding trees stand sentinel like in the burning light. Burmese servants squat motionless, smoking on the broad white steps that lead from the house to the garden. The crows croak drowsily at intervals. Parrots scream intermittently. The sound of a guitar playing a Venetian love song can be heard coming from the interior. Otherwise life apparently sleeps.”
It is an arabesque: it is a something very like that novel Wilde wanted to write, the novel that was to have been as splendid as a Persian rug; it is a word weaving in silk and gold and splendid feathers taken from quetzal, and peacock, and golden crested wren. It is, in a word, Oscar Wilde in his glory; a free fantasia of description; a rhapsodie of color.
As may well be imagined, Wilde was the target of the dramatic critics of his day, especially of those of the malignant type. The type is not unfamiliar and Coleridge has characterized it.
No private grudge they need, no personal spite; The _viva sectio_ is its own delight! All enmity, all envy, they disclaim, Disinterested thieves of our good name; Cool, sober murderers of their neighbor’s fame.
But Wilde was no Keats to be wounded by abuse. For instance, consider his letter to _St. James’s Gazette_ from which I copy a paragraph as follows:
“... When criticism becomes in England a real art, as it should be, and when none but those of artistic instincts and artistic cultivation is allowed to write about works of art, artists will, no doubt, read criticisms with a certain amount of intellectual interest. As things are at present, the criticisms of ordinary newspapers are of no interest whatsoever, except in so far as they display, in its crudest form, the Boetianism of a country that has produced some Athenians, and in which some Athenians have come to dwell.”
Much that passed as adverse criticism of Wilde’s dramatic work, grew out of personal dislike--some out of scandal which had already begun to raise a reptant head. There was one Charles Brookfield for instance, who not only was active in adverse criticism, but also produced a burlesque on _Lady Windemere’s Fan_ entitled _The Poet and the Puppets_, the poet being Wilde. It was the same Charles Brookfield who was largely responsible for collecting the evidence against Wilde, which brought about his downfall very soon after. Indeed, Brookfield and a few others entertained Queensberry at a banquet in celebration of the conviction of Wilde. It was “criticism” of the kind impeached by Coleridge in a never to be forgotten passage that should not be lost to the world. “As soon as the critic betrays that he knows more of his author than the author’s publications could have told him; as soon as from this more intimate knowledge, elsewhere obtained, he avails himself of the slightest trait against the author; his censure immediately becomes personal injury, his sarcasms personal insults. He ceases to be a critic and takes on him the most contemptible character to which a rational creature can be degraded, that of a gossip, backbiter, _pasquillant_; but with this heavy aggravation, that he steals the unquiet, the deforming passions of the world into the museum; into the very place which, next to the chapel and oratory, should be our sanctuary and secure place of refuge; offers abominations on the altar of the Muses, and makes its sacred paling the very circle in which he conjures up the lying and profane spirit.” And it is because of the existence in the Wilde case of so much of that which Coleridge thundered against, that much of the so-called criticism of Wilde’s dramatic work must be cast out. But the wonder of it all is that knowing what was behind, for he must have been cognizant of it, Wilde fought so well. If ever man died in the last ditch it was he. Greatly he dared and we love him for his daring. We find him throwing down the gage to the whole body of critics in a brilliant interview published in _The Sketch_ of January 9th, 1895, three months before his downfall, when he knew perfectly well that the dark clouds were rolling up, and that poison tongues were fast wagging. He is talking to Gilbert Burgess. Hear him:
“... For a man to be a dramatic critic is as foolish and inartistic as it would be for a man to be a critic of epics or a pastoral critic or a critic of lyrics. All modes of art are one, and the modes of art that employ words as its medium are quite indivisible. The result of the vulgar specialization of criticism is an elaborate scientific knowledge of the stage--almost as elaborate as that of the stage carpenter, and quite on a par with that of the call boy--combined with an entire incapacity to realize that a play is a work of art or to receive any artistic impression at all....
“... The aim of the true critic is to try to chronicle his moods, not to try to correct the masterpieces of others.... Real critics? Ah, how perfectly charming they would be! I am always waiting for their arrival. An inaudible school would be nice.... There are just two real critics in London ... I think I had better not mention their names; it might make the others jealous ... I do not write to please cliques. I write to please myself.... It is a burning shame that there should be one law for men and another law for women. I think there should be no law for anybody....”
The whole interview is too long to quote and I have taken some of the salient passages. The complete thing may be read in the New York Daily Tribune of January 27th, 1895, under the heading _A Highly Artistic Interview_.
WILDE AS CRITIC
The critic of the critics was himself a critic. Whether he modified his work to suit his editors, or whether he was of the kindly sympathetic nature of a Michael Monahan or a William Marion Reedy is impossible to say, but certain it is that the Wilde of the criticisms is altogether a different being from the Wilde of the satirical epigram. You find very little of the Wilde perversities and idiosyncrasies, certainly none of the Hazlitt waspishness nor any of the Mencken bluntness. Now and then there are discovered occasional touches of tenderness as in his criticism of William Morris’s _House of the Wolfings_, (_Pall Mall Gazette_, March 2nd, 1889) and again in the review of W. B. Yeats’ _Fairy and Folk Tales of the Irish Peasantry_, written for the magazine of which Wilde was editor, the _Woman’s World_, February, 1889. There is a geniality almost equal to that of Charles Lamb or of Leigh Hunt somewhat evident. “As we read Mr. Morris’s story (The Wolfings) with its fine alternations of verse and prose, its decorative and descriptive beauties, its wonderful handling of romantic and adventurous themes, we cannot but feel that we are as far removed from the ignoble fiction as we are from the ignoble facts of our own day. We breathe a purer air, and have dreams of a time when life had a kind of poetical quality of its own, and was simple, stately and complete.” Certainly, Wilde as critic sought to be just, was at pains to write frankly, vividly, accurately as possible. As critic he was thoroughly in earnest. The clever smartness we discover in him in his plays is absent in his critical work.
I think that the very real Wilde was revealed in a little essay, a writing that appeared in _The Speaker_, February 8th, 1890. It deals with a translation of the works of Chuang Tzu as made by Mr. Herbert Giles, British Consul at Tamsui. With the Chinaman, Wilde was sympathetic. The idea pleased him that all modes of government are wrong, that they are unscientific because of their tendency to alter the natural environment of men; immoral because they interfere with the individual. In the essay there is a ring of Edmund Burke with his “the thing, government, the thing itself, is the abuse.” It pleased Wilde immensely to find that the sage born in the fourth century before Christ denounced the uplifter, because trying to make others good was as foolish an occupation as “beating a drum in a forest to find a fugitive.” Wilde found a man after his heart in the philosopher who declared against chattering about clever men, and lauding good men, and, what was worse, deifying powerful men. Then there is this by Wilde, talking about the accumulation of wealth, which, he says, Chuang Tzu denounces as eloquently as Mr. Hyndman. Wilde agrees with the philosopher, or at any rate, interprets him approvingly.
“The accumulation of wealth is to him the origin of evil. It makes the strong violent and the weak dishonest. It creates the petty thief and puts him in a bamboo cage. It creates the big thief and sets him on a throne of white jade. It is the father of competition, and competition is the waste, as well as the destruction, of energy. The order of nature is rest, repetition and peace. Weariness and war are the results of an artificial society based upon capital; and the richer the society gets, the more thoroughly bankrupt it is, for it has neither sufficient rewards for the good nor sufficient punishment for the wicked. There is also this to be remembered--that the prizes of the world degrade a man as much as the world’s punishments. The age is rotten with the worship of success. As for education, true wisdom can neither be learnt nor taught. It is a spiritual state to which he who lives in harmony with nature attains. Knowledge is shallow if we compare it with the extent of the unknown, and only the unknowable is of value. Society produces rogues, and education makes one rogue cleverer than others.”
Compare that with the passage in _The Critic As Artist_, a speech that Wilde puts into the mouth of Gilbert:
_Ernest._ We exist, then, to do nothing?
_Gilbert._ It is to do nothing that the elect exist. Action is limited and relative. Unlimited and absolute is the vision of him who sits at ease and watches, who walks in loneliness and dreams. But we who are born at the close of this wonderful age, are at once too cultured and too critical, too intellectually subtle and too curious of exquisite pleasures, to accept any speculations about life in exchange for life itself. To us the “citta divina” is colorless, and the “fruitio Dei” without meaning. Metaphysics do not satisfy our temperaments, and religious ecstasy is out of date. The world through which the Academic philosopher becomes “the spectator of all time and of all existence” is not really an ideal world, but simply a world of abstract ideas. When we enter it, we starve amidst the chill mathematics of thought. The courts of the city of God are not open to us now. Its gates are guarded by Ignorance, and to pass them we have to surrender all that in our nature is most divine. It is enough that our fathers believed. They have exhausted the faith-faculty of the species.
And in another place, later, in the same essay:
The security of society lies in custom and unconscious instinct, and the basis of the stability of society, as a healthy organism, is the complete absence of any intelligence amongst its members. The great majority of people, being fully aware of this, rank themselves naturally on the side of that splendid system that elevates them to the dignity of machines, and rage so wildly against the intrusion of the intellectual faculty into any question that concerns life, that one is tempted to define man as a rational animal who always loses his temper when he is called upon to act in accordance with the dictates of reason.
Certainly, the philosophy of Chuang Tzu impressed Wilde greatly, influenced him more than has been generally thought, and, in fact, the philosophical basis of the greater part of the essay _The Critic As Artist_ rests on that of the Chinese mystic, with a decided substratum of Boehme. Boehme, certainly. The idea of self-surrender that Boehme promulgated, you find everywhere in Wilde, like a recurring golden thread in a tapestry. There is the Boehme “to-be” for which one will is necessary; for the “becoming,” two. So Wilde:
Yes, Ernest: the contemplative life, the life that has for its aim not _doing_ but _being_, and not _being_ merely, but _becoming_--that is what the critical spirit can give us.
The mystery of it is that Wilde should have so intermixed in his own life and philosophy the self-surrender of Boehme with the self-assertion of Nietzsche. That he did so is not to be denied--to attempt to explain how it so came to be is impossible. But then, who can explain another? Who can understand or explain himself? The truth is that Wilde, like everyone else, was a bundle of vain strivings, as Thoreau put it. Wilde, like everyone else, gathered together his things to make a bridge to the moon and wound up by making something like a woodshed of the material. So do we all. Man’s reach certainly does exceed his grasp. Browning said much there in a half dozen words.
Of course, there are _Sententiae_, little impatiences, sympathetic critic though he was. “Most modern novels are more remarkable for their crime than for their culture.” “Though the Psalm of Life be shouted from Maine to California, that would not make it good poetry.” “Pathology is rapidly becoming the basis of sensational literature, and in art, as in politics, there is a great future for monsters.” “Such novels as ---- are possibly more easy to write than to read.” “There seems to be some curious connection between piety and poor rhymes.” “It is always a pleasure to come across an American poet who is not national, and who tries to give expression to the literature that he loves rather than to the land he lives in. The Muses care so little for geography!”--but as critic of literature Wilde was eminently fair and just, pointing out the good in writers so vastly apart as Walt Whitman, Pater, Yeats, Blunt, Matthew Arnold; dropping his own prejudices, getting inside the skins of those whose work he found to be worthy.
WILDE AS ESSAYIST
Perhaps Wilde was to the fashionable of London much as the robust Henry Fielding was to the literary world when Samuel Richardson wrote _Clarissa Harlowe_. He had to shock the polite world out of its terrible complacency. For there were such proper waxen figures as Samuel Smiles and Martin Farquahar Tupper cooing, and there were many who modeled their conduct upon the example of Sir Charles Grandison--milk and water men, sanctified prigs, pious and irreproachable gentlemen in whose mouths butter would not melt. To be respectable was the one virtue, and tender sensibilities were shocked when Shaw wore a woolen shirt and when Morris solemnly sat on his silk hat. Yet, there must have been a secret delight in scandal. Turning over the newspapers of the day we find prominence given to items with salacious base. For instance, the crimes of Jack the Ripper, the Charles Dilke divorce case, the Parnell-O’Shea tangle, Stead’s Maiden Tribute of Modern Babylon. The fascination of murder held them as now. Quiet men and women found something of vast interest in reading reports of acts of violence, in living in imagination unrestrained lives. But, the record of crime had been left to inept hands. To be sure in novels, action hinged upon crime, but in novels criminals were always black, lost souls who bore the brand of Cain on their brows, had no single redeeming trait and went their way for a time certain of being laid by the heels. It was, then, a tremendous and daring conception of Oscar Wilde to take a wholesale murderer as the subject of an essay, but he did so and produced a most interesting piece of work conceived in graceful vein in his _Pen, Pencil and Poison_--the story of Thomas Griffiths Wainewright. The subject of the essay has been confused with another murderer, Henry Wainwright, also an educated man with literary tastes, familiar with the actors and poets of his day, but the last named murderer was but a clumsy fellow compared with Wilde’s hero.
The late Max Nordau in his book _Degeneration_ has found, stupidly enough, evidence of a love for “immorality” in Wilde because of the essay, tearing from the context certain passages and adducing them as proof of Wilde’s diabolism. One paragraph is truly amusing in its ingenuousness. I quote from page 320:
“Oscar Wilde apparently admires immorality, sin and crime. In a very affectionate biographical treatise on Thomas Griffith Wainewright, designer, painter, and author, and the murderer of several people, he says: ‘He was a forger of no mean or ordinary capabilities, and as a subtle and secret poisoner almost without a rival in this or any age.’ ‘This remarkable man, so powerful with pen and pencil, and poison.’ ‘He sought to find expression by pen or poison.’ ‘When a friend reproached him with the murder of Helen Abercrombie, he shrugged his shoulders and said: “Yes; it was a dreadful thing to do, but she had very thick ankles.”’ ‘His crimes seem to have had an important effect upon his art. They gave a strong personality to his style, a quality that his early work certainly lacked.’ ‘There is no sin except stupidity.’ ‘An idea that is not dangerous is unworthy of being called an idea at all.’
“He cultivates incidently a slight mysticism in colours. ‘He,’ Wainewright, ‘had that curious love of green which in individuals is always the sign of subtle, artistic temperament, and in nations is said to denote a laxity, if not a decadence, of morals.’”
That, of course, is sheer stupidity. We do not denounce Charles Dickens because he told the story of Bill Sikes, of the Artful Dodger, of Fagin, nor do we shudder at the name of Conrad because he ended _Victory_ as he did. Doubtless, Max Nordau, on similar grounds to those on which he condemned Wilde and Ibsen and Nietzsche as degenerates, might have found cause to place the Bible on his index expurgatoris. The fact is that Oscar Wilde wrote a fine essay on the murderer and not perhaps so much because he was a murderer, as that he was one of those extraordinary men who failed to become what he bade to be, and was the friend and companion of such men as Charles Lamb, Dickens, Macready and Hablot Browne. Perhaps Wilde had in mind his own case, certainly there are prophetic passages and there is for example a parallel existing between the incident told by Gide when he met Wilde in connection with Wainewright.
While he was in gaol, Dickens, Macready, and Hablot Browne came across him by chance. They had been going over the prisons of London, searching for artistic effects, and in Newgate they suddenly caught sight of Wainewright. He met them with a defiant stare, Forster tells us, but Macready was “horrified to recognize a man familiarly known to him in former years, and at whose table he had dined.”
Look at the essay on Wainewright as the picture of a man who tortures himself, a man of taste and sensibility at whose heart the worm of misery gnawed constantly, a man sickened with secret maladies, a man with brain on fire who moved among his fellows with a smiling face, fearing at every moment the knocking at the gate which would mean his doom--read the essay with all that in mind and you will be rightly attuned for the pleasure. No show mannikin, no machine of creaking wood has Wilde in his Wainewright, but a living thing, a frightened thing, a tormented thing, a vice ridden thing. You feel the daily fear that must have been in the murderer’s heart though Wilde does not play on the vulgar emotions, displaying remorse crudely as Dickens does in his tale of the murderer Jonas Chuzzlewit. But, in some mysterious manner, Wilde makes his reader sense a melancholy, just as Beethoven makes us sense a melancholy in that immortal passage of his seventh symphony when the stringed instruments sob in the bass.
Here is Wilde’s picture of the man in the midst of the things that he loved:
And so, in his own library, as he describes it, we find the delicate fictile vase of the Greek, with its exquisitely painted figures and the faint ΚΑΛΟΕ finely traced upon its side, and behind it hangs an engraving of the “Delphic Sibyl” of Michael Angelo, or of the “Pastoral” of Giorgione. Here is a bit of Florentine majolica, and here a rude lamp from some old Roman tomb. On the table lies a book of Hours “cased in a cover of solid silver gilt, wrought with quaint devices and studded with small brilliants and rubies,” and close by it “squats a little ugly monster, a Lar, perhaps, dug up in the sunny fields of corn-bearing Sicily.” Some dark antique bronzes contrast “with the pale gleam of two noble _Christi Crucifixi_, one carved in ivory, the other molded in wax.” He has his trays of Tassie’s gems, his tiny Louis-Quatorze _bonbonniere_ with a miniature by Petitot, his highly prized “brown-biscuit teapots, filagree-worked,” his citron morocco letter-case and his “pomona-green” chair.