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diff --git a/old/50171-0.txt b/old/50171-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index ff4e141..0000000 --- a/old/50171-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,802 +0,0 @@ -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 50171 *** - -THE ART OF - -AUBREY BEARDSLEY - -Introduction by ARTHUR SYMONS - -BONI AND LIVERIGHT, INC. - -PUBLISHERS -- NEW YORK - -1918 - - -[Illustration: Aubrey Beardsley] - -CONTENTS - - -Preface - -Aubrey Beardsley by Arthur Symons - - - ILLUSTRATIONS - - 1. Portrait of Aubrey Beardsley. - 2. The Litany of Mary Magdalen. - 3. A Portrait of Aubrey Beardsley. By Himself. - 4. Incipit Vita Nova. - 5. Sandro Botticelli. - 6. "Siegfried." From "The Studio." - 7. Merlin. From "Le Morte d'Arthur." - 8. Vignette. From "Le Morte d'Arthur" - 9. La Beale Isoud at Joyous Gard. From "Le Morte d'Arthur." - 10. How Queen Guenever Made Her a Nun. From "Le Morte d'Arthur." - 11. "Of a Neophyte and How the Black Art Was Revealed Unto Him." - 12. The Kiss of Judas. - 13. A Suggested Reform in Ballet Costume. - 14. Baron Verdigris. - 15. The Woman in the Moon. - 16. The Peacock Skirt. - 17. The Black Cape. - 18. The Platonic Lament. - 19. Enter Herodias. - 20. The Eyes of Herod. - 21. The Stomach Dance. - 22. The Toilette of Salomé. - 23. The Dancer's Reward. - 24. The Climax. - 25. The Toilette of Salomé. First Drawing. - 26. John and Salomé. - 27. Salomé on Settle. - 28. Design for Tailpiece. - 29. Design for "Salomé." From "The Studio." - 30. Design for the Cover of "The Yellow Book" Prospectus. - 31. Night Piece. - 32. Portrait of Mrs. Patrick Campbell. - 33. Title Page Ornament for "The Yellow Book." - 34. Comedy Ballet of Marionettes, I. From "The Yellow Book." Vol. II. - 35. Comedy Ballet of Marionettes, II. From "The Yellow Book." Vol. II. - 36. Comedy Ballet of Marionettes, III. - 37. Garçons de Café. From "The Yellow Book." Vol. II. - 38. The Slippers of Cinderella. - 39. Portrait of Mantegna. From "The Yellow Book." Vol. III. - 40. The Wagnerites. From "The Yellow Book." Vol. III. - 41. La Dame Aux Camélias. From "The Yellow Book." Vol. III. - 42. Madame Réjane. - 43. Portrait of Balzac. - 44. Design for Frontispiece to "An Evil Motherhood." - 45. Design for Front Cover of "Pierrot." - 46. Design for End Paper of "Pierrot." - 47. Design for End Paper of "Pierrot." - 48. Lysistrata. - 49. An Athenian Woman. - 50. Myrrhina. - 51. The Dream. - 52. The Baron's Prayer. - 53. The Rape of the Lock. - 54. Design for the Prospectus of "The Savoy." - 55. Another Design for the Prospectus of "The Savoy." - 56. Cover Design. From "The Savoy" No. 1. - 57. Contents Page. From "The Savoy" No. 1. - 58. The Abbé. From "Under the Hill." - 59. The Fourth Tableau of "Das Rheingold." - 60. Erda. To illustrate "Das Rheingold." - 61. Flosshilde. To illustrate "Das Rheingold." - 62. The Death of Pierrot. - 63. Ave Atque Vale: Catullus, Carmen, Cl. - 64. Aubrey Beardsley's Book-Plate. - - - - -AUBREY BEARDSLEY - -AN ESSAY WITH A PREFACE - -BY - -ARTHUR SYMONS - - - - -PREFACE - - -It was in the summer of 1895 that I first met Aubrey Beardsley. A -publisher had asked me to form and edit a new kind of magazine, -which was to appeal to the public equally in its letterpress and its -illustrations: need I say that I am defining the "Savoy"? It was, -I admit, to have been something of a rival to the "Yellow Book," -which had by that time ceased to mark a movement, and had come to be -little more than a publisher's magazine. I forget exactly when the -expulsion of Beardsley from the "Yellow Book" had occurred; it had -been sufficiently recent, at all events, to make Beardsley singularly -ready to fall in with my project when I went to him and asked him to -devote himself to illustrating my quarterly. He was supposed, just -then, to be dying; and as I entered the room, and saw him lying out -on a couch, horribly white, I wondered if I had come too late. He was -full of ideas, full of enthusiasm, and I think it was then that he -suggested the name "Savoy," finally adopted after endless changes and -uncertainties. - -A little later we met again at Dieppe, where for a month I saw him -daily. It was at Dieppe that the "Savoy" was really planned, and it -was in the cafe which Mr. Sickert has so often painted that I wrote -the slightly pettish and defiant "Editorial Note," which made so many -enemies for the first number. Dieppe just then was a meeting-place for -the younger generation; some of us spent the whole summer there, lazily -but profitably; others came and went. Beardsley at that time imagined -himself to be unable to draw anywhere but in London. He made one or -two faint attempts, and even prepared a canvas for a picture which was -never painted, in the hospitable studio in which M. Jacques Blanche -painted the admirable portrait reproduced in the frontispiece. But he -found many subjects, some of which he afterwards worked out, in the -expressive opportunities of the Casino and the beach, lie never walked; -I never saw him look at the sea; but at night he was almost always to -be seen watching the gamblers at _petits chevaux_, studying them with a -sort of hypnotised attention for that picture of "_The Little Horses_," -which was never done. He liked the large, deserted rooms, at hours when -no one was there; the sense of frivolous things caught at a moment of -suspended life, _en deshabillé_. He would glance occasionally, but -with more impatience, at the dances, especially the children's dances, -in the concert room; but he rarely missed a concert, and would glide -in every afternoon, and sit on the high benches at the side, always -carrying his large, gilt-leather portfolio with the magnificent, old, -red-lined folio paper, which he would often open, to write some lines -in pencil. He was at work then, with an almost pathetic tenacity, at -his story, never to be finished, the story which never could have been -finished, "_Under the Hill_," a new version, a parody (like Laforgue's -parodies, but how unlike them, or anything!) of the story of Venus -and Tannhäuser. Most of it was done at these concerts, and in the -little, close writing-room, where visitors sat writing letters. The -fragment published in the first two numbers of the "_Savoy_" had passed -through many stages before it found its way there, and would have -passed through more if it had ever been carried further. Tannhäuser, -not quite willingly, had put on Abbé's disguise, and there were other -unwilling disguises in those brilliant, disconnected, fantastic pages, -in which every sentence was meditated over, written for its own sake, -and left to find its way in its own paragraph. It could never have -been finished, for it had never really been begun; but what undoubted, -singular, literary ability there is in it, all the same! - -I think Beardsley would rather have been a great writer than a great -artist; and I remember, on one occasion, when he had to fill up a -form of admission to some library to which I was introducing him, his -insistence on describing himself as "man of letters." At one time -he was going to write an essay on "_Les Liaisons Dangereuses_," at -another he had planned a book on Rousseau. But his plans for writing -changed even more quickly than his plans for doing drawings, and with -less profitable results in the meantime. He has left no prose except -that fragment of a story; and in verse only the three pieces published -in the "_Savoy_." Here, too, he was terribly anxious to excel; and his -patience over a medium so unfamiliar, and hence so difficult, to him -as verse, was infinite. We spent two whole days on the grassy ramparts -of the old castle at Arques-la-Bataille, near Dieppe; I working at -something or other in one part, he working at "_The Three Musicians_" -in another. The eight stanzas of that amusing piece of verse are -really, in their own way, a _tour de force_; by sheer power of will, by -deliberately saying to himself, "I will write a poem," and by working -with such strenuous application that at last a certain result, the kind -of result he had willed, did really come about, he succeeded in doing -what he had certainly no natural aptitude for doing. How far was that -more genuine aspect of his genius also an "infinite capacity for taking -pains?" - -The republication by Mr. Lane, the publisher of the "_Yellow Book_," -of Beardsley's contributions in prose and verse to the "_Savoy_," its -"rival," as Mr. Lane correctly calls it, with the illustrations which -there accompanied them, reopens a little, busy chapter in contemporary -history. It is the history of yesterday, and it seems already at this -distance of half a century. Then, what brave petulant outbursts of -poets and artists, what comic rivalries and reluctances of publishers, -what droll conflicts of art and morality, what thunders of the trumpets -of the press! The press is silent now, or admiring; the publishers have -changed places, and all rivalries are handsomely buried, with laudatory -inscriptions on their tombstones. The situation has its irony, which -would have appealed most to the actor most conspicuously absent from -the scene. - -Beardsley was very anxious to be a writer, and, though in his verse -there was no merit except that of a thing done to order, to one's -own order, and done without a flaw in the process, there was, in his -prose, a much finer quality, and his fragment of an unachieved and -unplanned romance has a savour of its own. It is the work, not of a -craftsman, but of an amateur, and in this it may be compared with the -prose of Whistler, so great an artist in his own art and so brilliant -an amateur in the art of literature. Beardsley too was something of a -wit, and in his prose one sees hard intellect, untinged with sentiment, -employed on the work of fancy. He wrote and he saw, unimaginatively, -and without passion, but with a fierce sensitive precision; and he saw -by preference things elaborately perverse, full of fantastic detail, -unlikely and possible things, brought together from the four corners -of the universe. All those descriptions in "_Under the Hill_" are -the equivalent of his drawings, and they are of especial interest in -showing how definitely he saw things, and with what calm minuteness -he could translate what seemed a feverish drawing into oddly rational -words. Listen, for instance, to this garden-picture: "In the middle -was a huge bronze fountain with three basins. From the first rose a -many-breasted dragon and four little loves mounted upon swans, and -each love was furnished with a bow and arrow. Two of them that faced -the monster seemed to recoil in fear, two that were behind made bold -enough to aim their shafts at him. From the verge of the second sprang -a circle of slim golden columns that supported silver doves with -tails and wings spread out. The third, held by a group of grotesquely -attenuated satyrs, is centred with a thin pipe hung with masks and -roses and capped with children's heads." The picture was never drawn, -but does it want more than the drawing? - -The prose of "_Under the Hill_" does not arrive at being really good -prose, but it has felicities that astonish, those felicities by which -the amateur astonishes the craftsman. The imaginary dedication is the -best, the most sustained, piece of writing in it, but there is wit -everywhere, subtly intermingled with fancy, and there are touches of -color such as this: "Huge moths, so richly winged that they must have -banqueted upon tapestries and royal stuffs, slept on the pillars that -flanked either side of the gateway, and the eyes of all the moths -remained open and were burning and bursting with a mesh of veins." -Here and there is a thought or a mental sensation like that of "the -irritation of loveliness that can never be entirely comprehended, or -ever enjoyed to the utmost." There are many affectations, some copied -from Oscar Wilde, others personal enough, such as the use of French -words instead of English ones: "chevelure" for hair, and "pantoufles" -for slippers. I do not think that Beardsley finally found a place for -the word which he had adapted from the French, "papillions," instead of -"papillons" or butterflies; it would have come amusingly, and it was -one of his pet words. But his whole conception of writing was that of a -game with words; some obsolete game with a quaint name, like that other -favorite word of his, "spellicans," for which he did find a place in -the story. - -Taken literally, this fragment is hardly more than a piece of nonsense, -and was hardly meant to be more than that. Yet, beyond the curiosity -and ingenuity of the writing, how much there is of real skill in the -evocation of a certain impossible but quite credible atmosphere! Its -icy artificiality is indeed one of its qualities, and produces, by -mere negation, an emotional effect. Beardsley did not believe in his -own enchantments, was never haunted by his own terrors, and, in his -queer sympathy and familiarity with evil, had none of the ardors of a -lost soul. In the place of Faust he would have kept the devil at his -due distance by a polite incredulity, openly expressed, as to the very -existence of his interlocutor. - -It was on the balcony of the Hotel Henri IV, at Arques, one of those -September evenings, that I had the only quite serious, almost solemn, -conversation I ever had with Beardsley. Not long before we had gone -together to visit Alexandre Dumas fils at Puy, and it was from -talking of that thoughtful, but entirely, Parisian writer, and his -touching, in its unreal way so real, "Dame aux Camélias" (the novel, -not the play), which Beardsley admired so much, that we passed into -an unexpectedly intimate mood of speculation. Those stars up yonder, -whether they were really the imprisoning worlds of other creatures like -ourselves; the strange ways by which the soul might have come and must -certainly go; death, and the future: it was such things that I found -him speaking, for once without mockery. And he told me then a singular -dream or vision which he had had when a child, waking up at night in -the moonlight and seeing a great crucifix, with a bleeding Christ, -falling off the wall, where certainly there was not, and had never -been, any crucifix. It is only by remembering that one conversation, -that vision, the tone of awe with which he told it, that I can, with a -great effort, imagine to myself the Beardsley whom I knew with his so -positive intelligence, his imaginative sight of the very spirit of man -as a thing of definite outline, transformed finally into the Beardsley -who died in the peace of the last sacraments of the Church, holding the -rosary between his fingers. - -And yet, if you read carefully the book of letters to an unnamed -friend, which has been published six years after his death, it will -be seen that here too, as always, we are in the presence of a real -thing. In these naked letters we see a man die. And the man dies inch -by inch, like one who slips inch by inch over a precipice, and knows -that the grasses at which his fingers tear, clutching their feeble -roots, are but delaying him for so many instants, and that he must -soon fall. We see a fine, clear-sighted intellect set on one problem: -how to get well: then, how to get a little better; and then, how not -to get worse. He records the weather of each day, and each symptom of -his disease; with a desperate calmness, which but rarely deserts or -betrays him. To-day he feels better and can read Laclos; to-morrow he -is not so well, and he must hear no music. He has pious books and pious -friends for the days when he is driven back upon himself, and must turn -aside his attention from suffering which brings despair. Nothing exists -any longer, outside himself; and there may be safety somewhere, in a -"preservative girdle" or in a friend's prayer. He asks for both. Both -are to keep him alive. He meets at Mentone someone who seems worse than -himself, and who yet "lives on and does things. My spirits have gone -up immensely since I have known him." A change of sky, the recurrence -of a symptom: "to-day, alas, there is a downpour and I am miserably -depressed." He reads S. Alphonsus Liguori, and it is "mere physical -exhaustion more than hardness of heart that leaves me so apathetic -and uninterested." He clings to religion as to his friend, thinking -that it may help him to keep himself in life. He trains himself to be -gentle, to hope little, to attack the sources of health stealthily. A -"wonderful stretch of good health," a few whole days of it, makes him -"tremble at moments." "Don't think me foolish to haggle about a few -months," he writes, when he is hoping, all the time, that "the end is -less near than it seems." He is received into the Church, makes his -first confession, makes his first communion. It seems to him that each -is a new clutch upon the roots of the grasses. - -The whole book is a study in fear, and by its side everything else that -has been done, imaginatively or directly, on that fierce passion, seems -mere oratory or a talking beside the question. Here Beardsley is, as -he is in his drawings, close, absorbed, limited, and unflinching. That -he should be so honest with his fear; that he should sit down before -its face and study it feature by feature; that he should never turn -aside his eyes for more than an instant, make no attempt to escape, but -sit at home with it, travel with it, see it in his mirror, taste it -with the sacrament: that is the marvellous thing, and the sign of his -fundamental sincerity in life and art. - - - - -AUBREY BEARDSLEY - - -_Anima naturaliter pagana_, Aubrey Beardsley ended a long career, -at the age of twenty-six, in the arms of the Church. No artist of -our time, none certainly whose work has been in black and white, has -reached a more universal, or a more contested fame; none has formed -himself, out of such alien elements, a more personal originality of -manner; none has had so wide an influence on contemporary art. He -had the fatal speed of those who are to die young; that disquieting -completeness and extent of knowledge, that absorption of a lifetime -in an hour, which we find in those who hasten to have done their -work before noon, knowing that they will not see the evening. He had -played the piano in drawing-rooms as an infant prodigy, before, I -suppose, he had ever drawn a line: famous at twenty as a draughtsman, -he found time, in those incredibly busy years which remained to him, -to deliberately train himself into a writer of prose which was, in -its way, as original as his draughtsmanship, and into a writer of -verse which had at least ingenious and original moments. He seemed -to have read everything, and had his preferences as adroitly in -order, as wittily in evidence, as almost any man of letters; indeed, -he seemed to know more, and was a sounder critic, of books than of -pictures; with perhaps a deeper feeling for music than for either. His -conversation had a peculiar kind of brilliance different in order but -scarcely inferior in quality to that of any other contemporary master -of that art; a salt, whimsical dogmatism, equally full of convinced -egoism and of imperturbable keen-sightedness. Generally choosing to -be paradoxical; and vehement on behalf of any enthusiasm of the mind, -he was the dupe of none of his own statements, or indeed of his own -enthusiasms, and, really, very coldly impartial. I scarcely except -even his own judgment of himself in spite of his petulant, amusing -self-assertion, so full of the childishness of genius. He thought, -and was right in thinking, very highly of himself; he admired himself -enormously; but his intellect would never allow itself to be deceived -even about his own accomplishments. - -This clear, unemotional intellect, emotional only in the perhaps -highest sense, where emotion almost ceases to be recognizable, in the -abstract, for ideas, for lines, left him with all his interests in -life, with all his sociability, of a sort essentially very lonely. Many -people were devoted to him, but he had, I think, scarcely a friend, -in the fullest sense of the word; and I doubt if there were more than -one or two people for whom he felt any real affection. In spite of -constant ill-health he had am astonishing tranquility of nerves; and -it was doubtless that rare quality which kept him, after all, alive so -long. How far he had deliberately acquired command over his nerves and -his emotions, as he deliberately acquired command over brain and hand, -I do not know. But there it certainly was, one of the bewildering -characteristics of so contradictory a temperament. - -One of his poses, as people say, one of those things, that is, in -which he was most sincere, was his care in outwardly conforming to the -conventions which make for elegance and restraint; his necessity of -dressing well, of showing no sign of the professional artist. He had a -great contempt for, what seemed to inferior craftsmen, inspiration, for -what I have elsewhere called the plenary inspiration of first thoughts; -and he hated the outward and visible signs of an inward yeastiness and -incoherency. It amused him to denounce everything, certainly, which -Baudelaire would have denounced; and, along with some mere _gaminerie_, -there was a very serious and adequate theory of art at the back of all -his destructive criticisms. It was a profound thing which he said to -a friend of mine who asked him whether he ever saw visions: "No," he -replied, "I do not allow myself to see them except on paper." All his -art is in that phrase. - -And he attained, to the full, one certainly of his many desires, and -that one, perhaps, of which he was most keenly or most continuously -conscious: contemporary fame of a popular singer or a professional -beauty, the fame of Yvette Guilbert or of Cléo de Mérode. And there was -logic in his insistence on this point, in his eagerness after immediate -and clamorous success. Others might have waited; he knew that he had -not the time to wait. After all, posthumous fame is not a very cheering -prospect to look forward to, on the part of those who have worked -without recompense, if the pleasure or the relief of work is not enough -in itself. Every artist has his own secret, beyond the obvious one, of -why he works, it is generally some unhappiness, some dissatisfaction -with the things about one, some too desperate or too contemptuous sense -of the meaning of existence. At one period of his life a man works -at his art to please a woman; then he works because he is tired of -pleasing her. Work for the work's sake it always must be, in a profound -sense; and, with Beardsley, not less certainly than with Blake or with -Rosetti. But that other, that accidental, significant motive, was, with -Beardsley, the desire to fill his few working years with the immediate -echo of a great notoriety. - -Like most artists who have thought much of popularity he had an immense -contempt for the public; and the desire to kick that public into -admiration, and then to kick it for admiring the wrong thing or not -knowing why it was admiring, led him into many of his most outrageous -practical jokes of the pen. He was partly right and partly wrong, for -he was indiscriminate; and to be indiscriminate is always to be partly -right and partly wrong. The wish to _épater le bourgeois_ is a natural -one, and, though a little beside the question, does not necessarily -lead one astray. The general public, of course, does not in the least -know why it admires the right thing to-day though it admired the wrong -thing yesterday. But there is such a thing as denying your Master while -you are rebuking a servant-girl. Beardsley was without the very sense -of respect; it was one of his limitations. - -And this limitation was an unfortunate one, for it limited his -ambition. With the power of creating beauty, which should be pure -beauty, he turned aside, only too often, to that lower kind of beauty -which is the mere beauty of technique in a composition otherwise -meaningless, trivial, or grotesque. Saying to himself, "I can do what -I like; there is nothing I could not do if I chose to, if I chose to -take the trouble; but why should I offer hard gold when an I.O.U. will -be just the same? I can pay up whenever the money is really wanted," he -allowed himself to be content with what he knew would startle, doing -it with infinite pains, to his own mind conscientiously, but doing it -with that lack of reverence for great work which is one of the most -sterlizing characteristics of the present day. - -The epithet _fin de siècle_ has been given, somewhat loosely, to a -great deal of modern French art, and to art which, in one way or -another, seems to attach itself to contemporary France. Out of the -great art of Manet, the serious art of Degas, the exquisite art of -Whistler, all, in such different ways, so modern, there has come into -existence a new, very modern, very far from great or serious or really -exquisite kind of art, which has expressed itself largely in the -"Courrier Français," the "Gil Blas Illustré," and the posters. All this -art may be said to be what the quite new art of the poster certainly -is, art meant for the street, for people who are walking fast. It -comes into competition with the newspapers, with the music-halls; half -contemptuously, it popularises itself; and, with real qualities and a -real measure of good intention, finds itself forced to seek for sharp, -sudden, arresting means of expression. Instead of seeking pure beauty, -the seriousness and self-absorption of great art, it takes, wilfully -and for effect, that beauty which is least evident, indeed least -genuine; nearest to ugliness in the grotesque, nearest to triviality -in a certain elegant daintiness, nearest also to brutality and the -spectacular vices. Art is not sought for its own sake, but the manual -craftsman perfects himself to express a fanciful, ingenious, elaborate, -somewhat tricky way of seeing things, which he has deliberately -adopted. It finds its own in the eighteenth century, so that Willette -becomes a kind of petty, witty Watteau of Montmartre; it parodies -the art of stained glass, with Grasset and his followers; it juggles -with iron bars and masses of shadow, like Lautrec. And, in its direct -assault on the nerves, it pushes naughtiness to obscenity, deforms -observation into caricature, dexterity of line and handling being -cultivated as one cultivates a particular, deadly _bottle_ in fencing. - -And this art, this art of the day and hour, competes not merely with -the appeal and the popularity of the theatrical spectacle, but directly -with theatrical methods, the methods of stage illusion. The art of the -ballet counts for much, in the evolution of many favorite effects of -contemporary drawing, and not merely because Degas has drawn dancers, -with his reserved, essentially classical mastery of form. By its -rapidity of flight within bounds, by its bird-like and flower-like -caprices of color and motion, by that appeal to the imagination which -comes from its silence (to which music is but like an accompanying -shadow, so closely, so discreetly, does it follow the feet of the -dancers), by its appeal to the eyes and to the senses, its adorable -artificiality, the ballet has tempted almost every draughtsman, as -the interiors of music-halls have also been singularly tempting, with -their extraordinary tricks of light, their suddenness of gesture, their -triumphant tinsel, their fantastic humanity. And pantomime, too, in the -French and correct, rather than in the English and incorrect, sense -of that word, has had its significant influence. In those pathetic -gaieties of Willette, in the windy laughter of the frivolities of -Chéret, it is the masquerade, the English clown or acrobat seen at the -Folies-Bergère, painted people mimicking puppets, who have begotten -this masquerading humanity of posters and illustrated papers. And the -point of view is the point of view of Pierrot-- - - "le subtil génie - De sa malice infinie - De poète-grimacier"-- - - Verlaine's _Pierrot gamin_. - -Pierrot is one of the types we live, or of the moment, perhaps, out -of which we are just passing. Pierrot is passionate; but he does not -believe in great passions. He feels himself to be sickening with a -fever, or else perilously convalescent; for love is a disease, which he -is too weak to resist or endure. He has worn his heart on his sleeve -so long, that it has hardened in the cold air. He knows that his face -is powdered, and, if he sobs, it is without tears; and it is hard to -distinguish, under the chalk, if the grimace which twists his mouth -awry is more laughter or mockery. He knows that he is condemned to be -always in public, that emotion would be supremely out of keeping with -his costume, that he must remember to be fantastic if he would not be -merely ridiculous. And so he becomes exquisitely false, dreading above -all things that "one touch of nature" which would ruffle his disguise, -and leave him defenceless. Simplicity, in him, being the most laughable -thing in the world, he becomes learned, perverse, intellectualising his -pleasures, brutalising his intellect; his mournful contemplation of -things becoming a kind of grotesque joy, which he expresses in the only -symbols at his command, tracing his Giotto's O with the elegance of his -pirouette. - -And Beardsley, with almost more than the Parisian's deference to -Paris, and to the moment, was, more than any Parisian, this _Pierrot -gamin_. He was more than that, but he was that: to be that was part -of what he learnt from France. It helped him to the pose which helped -him to reveal himself: as Burne-Jones had helped him when he did -the illustrations to the "Morte d'Arthur," (Ill. 7-10) as Japanese -art helped him to free himself from that influence, as Eisen and -Saint-Aubin showed him the way to the "Rape of the Lock." (Ill. 53) -He had that originality which surrenders to every influence, yet -surrenders to absorb, not to be absorbed; that originality which, -constantly shifting, is true always to its centre. Whether he learnt -from M. Grasset or from Mr. Ricketts, from an 1830 fashion-plate, -or from an engraved plate by Hogarth, whether the scenery of -Arques-la-Bataille composed itself into a pattern in his mind, or, -in the Casino at Dieppe, he made a note of the design of a looped-up -window-blind, he was always drawing to himself, out of the order of -art or the confusion of natural things, the thing he wanted, the thing -he could make his own. And he found, in the French art of the moment, -a joyous sadness, the service to God of Mephistopheles, which his own -temperament and circumstances were waiting to suggest to him--. - -"In more ways than one do men sacrifice to the rebellious angels," says -St. Augustine; and Beardsley's sacrifice, together with that of all -great decadent art, the art of Rops or the art of Baudelaire, is really -a sacrifice to the eternal beauty, and only seemingly to the powers of -evil. And here let me say that I have no concern with what neither he -nor I could have had absolute knowledge of, his own intention in his -work. A man's intention, it must be remembered, from the very fact that -it is conscious, is much less intimately himself than the sentiment -which his work conveys to me. So large is the sub-conscious element in -all artistic creation, that I should have doubted whether Beardsley -himself knew what he intended to do, in this or that really significant -drawing. Admitting that he could tell exactly what he had intended, I -should be quite prepared to show that he had really done the very -contrary. - -Thus when I say he was a profoundly spiritual artist, though seeming to -care chiefly for the manual part of his work; that he expresses evil -with an intensity which lifted it into a region almost of asceticism, -though attempting, not seldom, little more than a joke or a caprice in -line: and that he was above all, though almost against his own will, -a satirist who has seen the ideal; I am putting forward no paradox, -nothing really contradictory, but a simple analysis of the work as it -exists. - -At times he attains pure beauty, has the unimpaired vision; in the -best of the "Salomé" (Ills. 15-29) designs here and there afterwards. -From the first it is a diabolic beauty, but it is not yet divided -against itself. The consciousness of sin is always there, but it is -sin first transfigured by beauty, and then disclosed by beauty; sin, -conscious of itself, of its inability to escape itself, and showing in -its ugliness the law it has broken. His world is a world of phantoms, -in which the desire of the perfecting of mortal sensations, a desire -of infinity, has over-passed mortal limits, and poised them, so faint, -so quivering, so passionate for flight, in a hopeless and strenuous -immobility. They have the sensitiveness of the spirit, and that bodily -sensitiveness which wastes their veins and imprisons them in the -attitude of their luxurious meditation. They are too thoughtful to -be ever really simple, or really absorbed by either flesh or spirit. -They have nothing of what is "healthy" or merely "animal" in their -downward course towards repentance; no overwhelming passion hurries -them beyond themselves; they do not capitulate to an open assault of -the enemy of souls. It is the soul in them that sins, sorrowfully, -without reluctance, inevitably. Their bodies are faint and eager with -wantonness; they desire more pleasure than there is in the world, -fiercer and more exquisite pains, a more intolerable suspense. They -have put off the common burdens of humanity, and put on that loneliness -which is the rest of saints and the unrest of those who have sinned -with the intellect. They are a little lower than the angels, and they -walk between these and the fallen angels, without part or lot in the -world. - -Here, then, we have a sort of abstract spiritual corruption, revealed -in beautiful form; sin transfigured by beauty. And here, even if we -go no further, is an art intensely spiritual, an art in which evil -purifies itself by its own intensity, and the beauty which transfigures -it. The one thing in the world which is without hope is that mediocrity -which is the sluggish content of inert matter. Better be vividly -awake to evil than, in mere somnolence, close the very issues and -approaches of good and evil. For evil itself, carried to the point of -a perverse ecstasy, becomes a kind of good, by means of that energy -which, otherwise directed, is virtue; and which can never, no matter -how its course may be changed, fail to retain something of its original -efficacy. The devil is nearer to God, by the whole height from which -he fell, than the average man who has not recognised his own need to -rejoice or to repent. And so a profound spiritual corruption, instead -of being a more "immortal" thing than the gross and pestiferous -humanity of Hogarth or of Rowlandson, is more nearly, in the final -and abstract sense, moral, for it is the triumph of the spirit over -the flesh, to no matter what end. It is a form of divine possession, -by which the inactive and materialising soul is set in fiery motion, -lured from the ground, into at least a certain high liberty. And -so we find evil justified of itself, and an art consecrated to the -revelation of evil equally justified; its final justification being -that declared by Plotinus, in his treatise "On the Nature of Good -and Evil." "But evil is permitted to remain by itself alone on account -of the superior power and nature of good; because it appears from -necessity everywhere comprehended and bound, in beautiful bands, like -men fettered with golden chains, lest it should be produced openly to -the views of divinity, or lest mankind should always behold its horrid -shape when perfectly naked; and such is the supervening power of good, -that whenever a glimpse of perfect evil is obtained we are immediately -recalled to the memory of good by the image of the beautiful with which -evil is invested." - -In those drawings of Beardsley which are grotesque rather than -beautiful, in which now all the beauty takes refuge, is itself a moral -judgment. Look at that drawing called "The Scarlet Pastorale."[1] In -front, a bloated harlequin struts close to the footlights, outside the -play, on which he turns his back; beyond, sacramental candles have been -lighted, and are guttering down in solitude, under an unseen wind. And -between, on the sheer darkness of the stage, a bald and plumed Pierrot, -holding in his vast, collapsing paunch with a mere rope of roses, shows -the cloven foot, while Pierrette points at him in screaming horror, -and the fat dancer turns on her toes indifferently. Need we go further -to show how much more than Gautier's meaning lies in the old paradox -of "Mademoiselle de Maupin," that "perfection of line is virtue?" That -line which rounds the deformity of the cloven-footed sin, the line -itself, is at once the revelation and the condemnation of vice, for it -is part of that artistic logic which is morality. - -Beardsley is the satirist of an age without convictions, and he can -but paint hell as Baudelaire did, without pointing for contrast to any -contemporary paradise. He employs the same rhetoric as Baudelaire, -a method of emphasis which it is uncritical to think insecure. In -that terrible annunciation of evil which he called "The Mysterious -Rose-Garden," the lantern-bearing angel with winged sandals whispers, -from among the falling roses, tidings of more than "pleasant sins." -The leering dwarfs, the "monkeys," by which the mystics symbolised -the earthlier vices; those immense bodies swollen with the lees of -pleasure, and those cloaked and masked desires shuddering in gardens -and smiling ambiguously at interminable toilets; are part of a -symbolism which loses nothing by lack of emphasis. And the peculiar -efficacy of this satire is that it is so much the satire of desire -returning upon itself, the mockery of desire enjoyed, the mockery of -desire denied. It is because he loves beauty that beauty's degradation -obsesses him; it is because he is supremely conscious of virtue that -vice has power to lay hold upon him. And, unlike those other acceptable -satirists of our day, with whom satire exhausts itself in the rebuke -of a drunkard leaning against a lamp-post, or a lady paying the wrong -compliment in a drawing-room, he is the satirist of essential things; -it is always the soul, and not the body's discontent only, which cries -out of these insatiable eyes, that have looked on all their lusts, -and out of these bitter mouths, that have eaten the dust of all their -sweetness, and out of these hands, that have laboured delicately for -nothing, and out of these feet, that have run after vanities. They -are so sorrowful because they have seen beauty, and because they have -departed from the line of beauty. - -And after all, the secret of Beardsley is there; in the line itself -rather than in anything, intellectually realised, which the line is -intended to express. With Beardsley everything was a question of form: -his interest in his work began when the paper was before him and the -pen in his hand. And so, in one sense, he may be said never to have -known what he wanted to do, while, in another, he knew very precisely -indeed. He was ready to do, within certain limits, almost anything you -suggested to him; as, when left to himself, he was content to follow -the caprice of the moment. What he was sure of was his power of doing -exactly what he proposed to himself to do: the thing itself might be -"Salomé" or "Belinda," "Ali Baba" or "Réjane," the "Morte d'Arthur" or -the "Rheingold" or the "Liaisons Dangereuses;" the design might be for -an edition of a classic or for the cover of a catalogue of second-hand -books. And the design might seem to have no relation with the title of -its subject, and, indeed, might have none: its relation was of line to -line within the limits of its own border, and to nothing else in the -world. Thus he could change his whole manner of working five or six -times over in the course of as many years, seem to employ himself much -of the time on trivial subjects, and yet retain, almost unimpaired, -an originality which consisted in the extreme beauty and the absolute -certainty of design. - -It was a common error, at one time, to say that Beardsley could not -draw. He certainly did not draw the human body with any attempt at -rendering its own lines, taken by themselves; indeed, one of his -latest drawings, an initial letter to "Volpone," is almost the first -in which he has drawn a nude figure realistically. But he could draw, -with extraordinary skill, in what is after all the essential way: he -could make a line do what he wanted it to do, express the conception -of form which it was his intention to express; and this is what the -conventional draughtsman, Bouguereau, for instance, cannot do. The -conventional draughtsman, any Academy student, will draw a line which -shows quite accurately the curve of a human body, but all his science -of drawing will not make you feel that line, will not make that line -pathetic, as in the little, drooping body which a satyr and a Pierrot -are laying in a puff-powder coffin, in the tail-piece to "Salomé." -(Ill. 28.) - -And then, it must never be forgotten, Beardsley was a decorative -artist, and not anything else. From almost the very first he accepted -convention; he set himself to see things as pattern. Taking freely -all that the Japanese could give him, that release from the bondage -of what we call real things, which comes to one man from an intense -spirituality, to another from a consciousness of material form so -intense that it becomes abstract, he made the world over again in his -head, as if it existed only when it was thus re-made, and not even -then, until it had been set down in black line on a white surface, -in white line on a black surface. Working, as the decorative artist -must work, in symbols almost as arbitrary, almost as fixed, as the -squares of a chess-board, he swept together into his pattern all the -incongruous things in the world, weaving them into congruity by his -pattern. Using the puff-box, the toilet-table, the ostrich-feather hat, -with a full consciousness of their suggestive quality in a drawing of -archaic times, a drawing purposely fantastic, he put these things to -beautiful uses, because he liked their forms, and because his space of -white or black seemed to require some such arrangement of lines. They -were the minims and crotchets by which he wrote down his music; they -made the music, but they were not the music. - -In the "Salomé" (Ills. 15-29) drawings, in most of the "Yellow Book" -(Ills. 33, 34, 35, 37, 40, 41) drawings, we see Beardsley under this -mainly Japanese influence; with, now and later, in his less serious -work the but half-admitted influence of what was most actual, perhaps -most temporary, in the French art of the day. Pierrot gamin, in -"Salomé" itself, alternates, in such irreverences as the design of -"The Black Cape," (Ill. 17) with the creator of the noble line, in the -austere and terrible design of "The Climax," (Ill. 24) the ornate and -vehement design of "The Peacock Skirt." (Ill. 16.) Here we get pure -outline, as in the frontispiece; a mysterious intricacy, as in the -border of the title-page and of the table of contents; a paradoxical -beauty of mere wilfulness, but a wilfulness which has its meaning, -its excuse, its pictorial justification, as in "The Toilette." (Ill. -22). The "Yellow Book" and the first drawings for the "Savoy," (Ills. -54-57) a new influence has come into the work, the influence of the -French eighteenth century. This influence, artificial as it is, draws -him nearer, though somewhat unquietly nearer, to nature. Drawings like -"The Fruit Bearers," in the first number of the "Savoy," with its solid -and elaborate richness of ornament, or "The Coiffing," in the third -number, with its delicate and elaborate grace, its witty concentration -of line; drawings like the illustrations to the "Rape of the Lock," -(Ill. 53) have, with less extravagance, and also a less strenuous -intellectual effort, a new mastery of elegant form, not too far removed -from nature while still subordinated to the effect of decoration, to -the instinct of line. In the illustrations to Ernest Dowson's "Pierrot -of the Minute," (Ills. 45-47) we have a more deliberate surrender, -for the moment, to Eisen and Saint-Aubin, as yet another manner -is seen working itself out. The illustrations to "Mademoiselle de -Maupin," seemed to me, when I first saw them, with the exception of -one extremely beautiful design in colour, to show a certain falling -off in power, an actual weakness in the handling of the pen. But, in -their not quite successful feeling after natural form, they did but -represent, as I afterwards found, the moment of transition to what must -now remain for us, and may well remain, Beardsley's latest manner. The -four initial letters to "Volpone," the last of which was finished not -more than three weeks before his death, have a new quality both of hand -and of mind. They are done in pencil, and they lose, as such drawings -are bound to lose, very greatly in the reduced reproduction. But, in -the original, they are certainly, in sheer technical skill, equal -to anything he had ever done, and they bring at the last, and with -complete success, nature itself into the pattern. And here, under some -solemn influence, the broken line of beauty has reunited; "the care is -over," and the trouble has gone out of this no less fantastic world, in -which Pan still smiles from his terminal column among the trees, but -without the old malice. Human and animal form reassert themselves, with -a new dignity, under this new respect for their capabilities. Beardsley -has accepted the convention of nature itself, turning it to his own -uses, extracting from it his own symbols, but no longer rejecting it -for a convention entirely of his own making. And thus in his last work, -done under the very shadow of death, we find new possibilities for an -art, conceived as pure line, conducted through mere pattern, which, -after many hesitations, has resolved finally upon the great compromise, -that compromise which the greatest artists have made, between the -mind's outline and the outline of visible things. - -[1] This drawing is not reproduced in this volume. - - -[Illustrations: see above.] - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's The Art of Aubrey Beardsley, by Aubrey Beardsley - - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 50171 *** |