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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: De Profundis + + +Author: Oscar Wilde + + + +Release Date: April 13, 2007 [eBook #921] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DE PROFUNDIS*** +</pre> +<p><a name="startoftext"></a></p> +<p>Transcribed from the 1913 Methuen & Co. edition by David +Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org. Note that later editions of +De Profundis contained more material. The most complete +editions are still in copyright in the U.S.A.</p> +<h1>DE PROFUNDIS</h1> +<p>. . . Suffering is one very long moment. We cannot +divide it by seasons. We can only record its moods, and +chronicle their return. With us time itself does not +progress. It revolves. It seems to circle round one +centre of pain. The paralysing immobility of a life every +circumstance of which is regulated after an unchangeable pattern, +so that we eat and drink and lie down and pray, or kneel at least +for prayer, according to the inflexible laws of an iron formula: +this immobile quality, that makes each dreadful day in the very +minutest detail like its brother, seems to communicate itself to +those external forces the very essence of whose existence is +ceaseless change. Of seed-time or harvest, of the reapers +bending over the corn, or the grape gatherers threading through +the vines, of the grass in the orchard made white with broken +blossoms or strewn with fallen fruit: of these we know nothing +and can know nothing.</p> +<p>For us there is only one season, the season of sorrow. +The very sun and moon seem taken from us. Outside, the day +may be blue and gold, but the light that creeps down through the +thickly-muffled glass of the small iron-barred window beneath +which one sits is grey and niggard. It is always twilight +in one’s cell, as it is always twilight in one’s +heart. And in the sphere of thought, no less than in the +sphere of time, motion is no more. The thing that you +personally have long ago forgotten, or can easily forget, is +happening to me now, and will happen to me again to-morrow. +Remember this, and you will be able to understand a little of why +I am writing, and in this manner writing. . . .</p> +<p>A week later, I am transferred here. Three more months +go over and my mother dies. No one knew how deeply I loved +and honoured her. Her death was terrible to me; but I, once +a lord of language, have no words in which to express my anguish +and my shame. She and my father had bequeathed me a name +they had made noble and honoured, not merely in literature, art, +archaeology, and science, but in the public history of my own +country, in its evolution as a nation. I had disgraced that +name eternally. I had made it a low by-word among low +people. I had dragged it through the very mire. I had +given it to brutes that they might make it brutal, and to fools +that they might turn it into a synonym for folly. What I +suffered then, and still suffer, is not for pen to write or paper +to record. My wife, always kind and gentle to me, rather +than that I should hear the news from indifferent lips, +travelled, ill as she was, all the way from Genoa to England to +break to me herself the tidings of so irreparable, so +irremediable, a loss. Messages of sympathy reached me from +all who had still affection for me. Even people who had not +known me personally, hearing that a new sorrow had broken into my +life, wrote to ask that some expression of their condolence +should be conveyed to me. . . .</p> +<p>Three months go over. The calendar of my daily conduct +and labour that hangs on the outside of my cell door, with my +name and sentence written upon it, tells me that it is May. . . +.</p> +<p>Prosperity, pleasure and success, may be rough of grain and +common in fibre, but sorrow is the most sensitive of all created +things. There is nothing that stirs in the whole world of +thought to which sorrow does not vibrate in terrible and +exquisite pulsation. The thin beaten-out leaf of tremulous +gold that chronicles the direction of forces the eye cannot see +is in comparison coarse. It is a wound that bleeds when any +hand but that of love touches it, and even then must bleed again, +though not in pain.</p> +<p>Where there is sorrow there is holy ground. Some day +people will realise what that means. They will know nothing +of life till they do,—and natures like his can realise +it. When I was brought down from my prison to the Court of +Bankruptcy, between two policemen,—waited in the long +dreary corridor that, before the whole crowd, whom an action so +sweet and simple hushed into silence, he might gravely raise his +hat to me, as, handcuffed and with bowed head, I passed him +by. Men have gone to heaven for smaller things than +that. It was in this spirit, and with this mode of love, +that the saints knelt down to wash the feet of the poor, or +stooped to kiss the leper on the cheek. I have never said +one single word to him about what he did. I do not know to +the present moment whether he is aware that I was even conscious +of his action. It is not a thing for which one can render +formal thanks in formal words. I store it in the +treasure-house of my heart. I keep it there as a secret +debt that I am glad to think I can never possibly repay. It +is embalmed and kept sweet by the myrrh and cassia of many +tears. When wisdom has been profitless to me, philosophy +barren, and the proverbs and phrases of those who have sought to +give me consolation as dust and ashes in my mouth, the memory of +that little, lovely, silent act of love has unsealed for me all +the wells of pity: made the desert blossom like a rose, and +brought me out of the bitterness of lonely exile into harmony +with the wounded, broken, and great heart of the world. +When people are able to understand, not merely how beautiful +---’s action was, but why it meant so much to me, and +always will mean so much, then, perhaps, they will realise how +and in what spirit they should approach me. . . .</p> +<p>The poor are wise, more charitable, more kind, more sensitive +than we are. In their eyes prison is a tragedy in a +man’s life, a misfortune, a casuality, something that calls +for sympathy in others. They speak of one who is in prison +as of one who is ‘in trouble’ simply. It is the +phrase they always use, and the expression has the perfect wisdom +of love in it. With people of our own rank it is +different. With us, prison makes a man a pariah. I, +and such as I am, have hardly any right to air and sun. Our +presence taints the pleasures of others. We are unwelcome +when we reappear. To revisit the glimpses of the moon is +not for us. Our very children are taken away. Those +lovely links with humanity are broken. We are doomed to be +solitary, while our sons still live. We are denied the one +thing that might heal us and keep us, that might bring balm to +the bruised heart, and peace to the soul in pain. . . .</p> +<p>I must say to myself that I ruined myself, and that nobody +great or small can be ruined except by his own hand. I am +quite ready to say so. I am trying to say so, though they +may not think it at the present moment. This pitiless +indictment I bring without pity against myself. Terrible as +was what the world did to me, what I did to myself was far more +terrible still.</p> +<p>I was a man who stood in symbolic relations to the art and +culture of my age. I had realised this for myself at the +very dawn of my manhood, and had forced my age to realise it +afterwards. Few men hold such a position in their own +lifetime, and have it so acknowledged. It is usually +discerned, if discerned at all, by the historian, or the critic, +long after both the man and his age have passed away. With +me it was different. I felt it myself, and made others feel +it. Byron was a symbolic figure, but his relations were to +the passion of his age and its weariness of passion. Mine +were to something more noble, more permanent, of more vital +issue, of larger scope.</p> +<p>The gods had given me almost everything. But I let +myself be lured into long spells of senseless and sensual +ease. I amused myself with being a <i>flâneur</i>, a +dandy, a man of fashion. I surrounded myself with the +smaller natures and the meaner minds. I became the +spendthrift of my own genius, and to waste an eternal youth gave +me a curious joy. Tired of being on the heights, I +deliberately went to the depths in the search for new +sensation. What the paradox was to me in the sphere of +thought, perversity became to me in the sphere of passion. +Desire, at the end, was a malady, or a madness, or both. I +grew careless of the lives of others. I took pleasure where +it pleased me, and passed on. I forgot that every little +action of the common day makes or unmakes character, and that +therefore what one has done in the secret chamber one has some +day to cry aloud on the housetop. I ceased to be lord over +myself. I was no longer the captain of my soul, and did not +know it. I allowed pleasure to dominate me. I ended +in horrible disgrace. There is only one thing for me now, +absolute humility.</p> +<p>I have lain in prison for nearly two years. Out of my +nature has come wild despair; an abandonment to grief that was +piteous even to look at; terrible and impotent rage; bitterness +and scorn; anguish that wept aloud; misery that could find no +voice; sorrow that was dumb. I have passed through every +possible mood of suffering. Better than Wordsworth himself +I know what Wordsworth meant when he said—</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Suffering is permanent, obscure, and +dark<br /> +And has the nature of infinity.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>But while there were times when I rejoiced in the idea that my +sufferings were to be endless, I could not bear them to be +without meaning. Now I find hidden somewhere away in my +nature something that tells me that nothing in the whole world is +meaningless, and suffering least of all. That something +hidden away in my nature, like a treasure in a field, is +Humility.</p> +<p>It is the last thing left in me, and the best: the ultimate +discovery at which I have arrived, the starting-point for a fresh +development. It has come to me right out of myself, so I +know that it has come at the proper time. It could not have +come before, nor later. Had any one told me of it, I would +have rejected it. Had it been brought to me, I would have +refused it. As I found it, I want to keep it. I must +do so. It is the one thing that has in it the elements of +life, of a new life, <i>Vita Nuova</i> for me. Of all +things it is the strangest. One cannot acquire it, except +by surrendering everything that one has. It is only when +one has lost all things, that one knows that one possesses +it.</p> +<p>Now I have realised that it is in me, I see quite clearly what +I ought to do; in fact, must do. And when I use such a +phrase as that, I need not say that I am not alluding to any +external sanction or command. I admit none. I am far +more of an individualist than I ever was. Nothing seems to +me of the smallest value except what one gets out of +oneself. My nature is seeking a fresh mode of +self-realisation. That is all I am concerned with. +And the first thing that I have got to do is to free myself from +any possible bitterness of feeling against the world.</p> +<p>I am completely penniless, and absolutely homeless. Yet +there are worse things in the world than that. I am quite +candid when I say that rather than go out from this prison with +bitterness in my heart against the world, I would gladly and +readily beg my bread from door to door. If I got nothing +from the house of the rich I would get something at the house of +the poor. Those who have much are often greedy; those who +have little always share. I would not a bit mind sleeping +in the cool grass in summer, and when winter came on sheltering +myself by the warm close-thatched rick, or under the penthouse of +a great barn, provided I had love in my heart. The external +things of life seem to me now of no importance at all. You +can see to what intensity of individualism I have +arrived—or am arriving rather, for the journey is long, and +‘where I walk there are thorns.’</p> +<p>Of course I know that to ask alms on the highway is not to be +my lot, and that if ever I lie in the cool grass at night-time it +will be to write sonnets to the moon. When I go out of +prison, R--- will be waiting for me on the other side of the big +iron-studded gate, and he is the symbol, not merely of his own +affection, but of the affection of many others besides. I +believe I am to have enough to live on for about eighteen months +at any rate, so that if I may not write beautiful books, I may at +least read beautiful books; and what joy can be greater? +After that, I hope to be able to recreate my creative +faculty.</p> +<p>But were things different: had I not a friend left in the +world; were there not a single house open to me in pity; had I to +accept the wallet and ragged cloak of sheer penury: as long as I +am free from all resentment, hardness and scorn, I would be able +to face the life with much more calm and confidence than I would +were my body in purple and fine linen, and the soul within me +sick with hate.</p> +<p>And I really shall have no difficulty. When you really +want love you will find it waiting for you.</p> +<p>I need not say that my task does not end there. It would +be comparatively easy if it did. There is much more before +me. I have hills far steeper to climb, valleys much darker +to pass through. And I have to get it all out of +myself. Neither religion, morality, nor reason can help me +at all.</p> +<p>Morality does not help me. I am a born antinomian. +I am one of those who are made for exceptions, not for +laws. But while I see that there is nothing wrong in what +one does, I see that there is something wrong in what one +becomes. It is well to have learned that.</p> +<p>Religion does not help me. The faith that others give to +what is unseen, I give to what one can touch, and look at. +My gods dwell in temples made with hands; and within the circle +of actual experience is my creed made perfect and complete: too +complete, it may be, for like many or all of those who have +placed their heaven in this earth, I have found in it not merely +the beauty of heaven, but the horror of hell also. When I +think about religion at all, I feel as if I would like to found +an order for those who <i>cannot</i> believe: the Confraternity +of the Faithless, one might call it, where on an altar, on which +no taper burned, a priest, in whose heart peace had no dwelling, +might celebrate with unblessed bread and a chalice empty of +wine. Every thing to be true must become a religion. +And agnosticism should have its ritual no less than faith. +It has sown its martyrs, it should reap its saints, and praise +God daily for having hidden Himself from man. But whether +it be faith or agnosticism, it must be nothing external to +me. Its symbols must be of my own creating. Only that +is spiritual which makes its own form. If I may not find +its secret within myself, I shall never find it: if I have not +got it already, it will never come to me.</p> +<p>Reason does not help me. It tells me that the laws under +which I am convicted are wrong and unjust laws, and the system +under which I have suffered a wrong and unjust system. But, +somehow, I have got to make both of these things just and right +to me. And exactly as in Art one is only concerned with +what a particular thing is at a particular moment to oneself, so +it is also in the ethical evolution of one’s +character. I have got to make everything that has happened +to me good for me. The plank bed, the loathsome food, the +hard ropes shredded into oakum till one’s finger-tips grow +dull with pain, the menial offices with which each day begins and +finishes, the harsh orders that routine seems to necessitate, the +dreadful dress that makes sorrow grotesque to look at, the +silence, the solitude, the shame—each and all of these +things I have to transform into a spiritual experience. +There is not a single degradation of the body which I must not +try and make into a spiritualising of the soul.</p> +<p>I want to get to the point when I shall be able to say quite +simply, and without affectation that the two great turning-points +in my life were when my father sent me to Oxford, and when +society sent me to prison. I will not say that prison is +the best thing that could have happened to me: for that phrase +would savour of too great bitterness towards myself. I +would sooner say, or hear it said of me, that I was so typical a +child of my age, that in my perversity, and for that +perversity’s sake, I turned the good things of my life to +evil, and the evil things of my life to good.</p> +<p>What is said, however, by myself or by others, matters +little. The important thing, the thing that lies before me, +the thing that I have to do, if the brief remainder of my days is +not to be maimed, marred, and incomplete, is to absorb into my +nature all that has been done to me, to make it part of me, to +accept it without complaint, fear, or reluctance. The +supreme vice is shallowness. Whatever is realised is +right.</p> +<p>When first I was put into prison some people advised me to try +and forget who I was. It was ruinous advice. It is +only by realising what I am that I have found comfort of any +kind. Now I am advised by others to try on my release to +forget that I have ever been in a prison at all. I know +that would be equally fatal. It would mean that I would +always be haunted by an intolerable sense of disgrace, and that +those things that are meant for me as much as for anybody +else—the beauty of the sun and moon, the pageant of the +seasons, the music of daybreak and the silence of great nights, +the rain falling through the leaves, or the dew creeping over the +grass and making it silver—would all be tainted for me, and +lose their healing power, and their power of communicating +joy. To regret one’s own experiences is to arrest +one’s own development. To deny one’s own +experiences is to put a lie into the lips of one’s own +life. It is no less than a denial of the soul.</p> +<p>For just as the body absorbs things of all kinds, things +common and unclean no less than those that the priest or a vision +has cleansed, and converts them into swiftness or strength, into +the play of beautiful muscles and the moulding of fair flesh, +into the curves and colours of the hair, the lips, the eye; so +the soul in its turn has its nutritive functions also, and can +transform into noble moods of thought and passions of high import +what in itself is base, cruel and degrading; nay, more, may find +in these its most august modes of assertion, and can often reveal +itself most perfectly through what was intended to desecrate or +destroy.</p> +<p>The fact of my having been the common prisoner of a common +gaol I must frankly accept, and, curious as it may seem, one of +the things I shall have to teach myself is not to be ashamed of +it. I must accept it as a punishment, and if one is ashamed +of having been punished, one might just as well never have been +punished at all. Of course there are many things of which I +was convicted that I had not done, but then there are many things +of which I was convicted that I had done, and a still greater +number of things in my life for which I was never indicted at +all. And as the gods are strange, and punish us for what is +good and humane in us as much as for what is evil and perverse, I +must accept the fact that one is punished for the good as well as +for the evil that one does. I have no doubt that it is +quite right one should be. It helps one, or should help +one, to realise both, and not to be too conceited about +either. And if I then am not ashamed of my punishment, as I +hope not to be, I shall be able to think, and walk, and live with +freedom.</p> +<p>Many men on their release carry their prison about with them +into the air, and hide it as a secret disgrace in their hearts, +and at length, like poor poisoned things, creep into some hole +and die. It is wretched that they should have to do so, and +it is wrong, terribly wrong, of society that it should force them +to do so. Society takes upon itself the right to inflict +appalling punishment on the individual, but it also has the +supreme vice of shallowness, and fails to realise what it has +done. When the man’s punishment is over, it leaves +him to himself; that is to say, it abandons him at the very +moment when its highest duty towards him begins. It is +really ashamed of its own actions, and shuns those whom it has +punished, as people shun a creditor whose debt they cannot pay, +or one on whom they have inflicted an irreparable, an +irremediable wrong. I can claim on my side that if I +realise what I have suffered, society should realise what it has +inflicted on me; and that there should be no bitterness or hate +on either side.</p> +<p>Of course I know that from one point of view things will be +made different for me than for others; must indeed, by the very +nature of the case, be made so. The poor thieves and +outcasts who are imprisoned here with me are in many respects +more fortunate than I am. The little way in grey city or +green field that saw their sin is small; to find those who know +nothing of what they have done they need go no further than a +bird might fly between the twilight and the dawn; but for me the +world is shrivelled to a handsbreadth, and everywhere I turn my +name is written on the rocks in lead. For I have come, not +from obscurity into the momentary notoriety of crime, but from a +sort of eternity of fame to a sort of eternity of infamy, and +sometimes seem to myself to have shown, if indeed it required +showing, that between the famous and the infamous there is but +one step, if as much as one.</p> +<p>Still, in the very fact that people will recognise me wherever +I go, and know all about my life, as far as its follies go, I can +discern something good for me. It will force on me the +necessity of again asserting myself as an artist, and as soon as +I possibly can. If I can produce only one beautiful work of +art I shall be able to rob malice of its venom, and cowardice of +its sneer, and to pluck out the tongue of scorn by the roots.</p> +<p>And if life be, as it surely is, a problem to me, I am no less +a problem to life. People must adopt some attitude towards +me, and so pass judgment, both on themselves and me. I need +not say I am not talking of particular individuals. The +only people I would care to be with now are artists and people +who have suffered: those who know what beauty is, and those who +know what sorrow is: nobody else interests me. Nor am I +making any demands on life. In all that I have said I am +simply concerned with my own mental attitude towards life as a +whole; and I feel that not to be ashamed of having been punished +is one of the first points I must attain to, for the sake of my +own perfection, and because I am so imperfect.</p> +<p>Then I must learn how to be happy. Once I knew it, or +thought I knew it, by instinct. It was always springtime +once in my heart. My temperament was akin to joy. I +filled my life to the very brim with pleasure, as one might fill +a cup to the very brim with wine. Now I am approaching life +from a completely new standpoint, and even to conceive happiness +is often extremely difficult for me. I remember during my +first term at Oxford reading in Pater’s +<i>Renaissance</i>—that book which has had such strange +influence over my life—how Dante places low in the Inferno +those who wilfully live in sadness; and going to the college +library and turning to the passage in the <i>Divine Comedy</i> +where beneath the dreary marsh lie those who were ‘sullen +in the sweet air,’ saying for ever and ever through their +sighs—</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Tristi fummo<br /> +Nell aer dolce che dal sol s’allegra.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>I knew the church condemned <i>accidia</i>, but the whole idea +seemed to me quite fantastic, just the sort of sin, I fancied, a +priest who knew nothing about real life would invent. Nor +could I understand how Dante, who says that ‘sorrow +remarries us to God,’ could have been so harsh to those who +were enamoured of melancholy, if any such there really +were. I had no idea that some day this would become to me +one of the greatest temptations of my life.</p> +<p>While I was in Wandsworth prison I longed to die. It was +my one desire. When after two months in the infirmary I was +transferred here, and found myself growing gradually better in +physical health, I was filled with rage. I determined to +commit suicide on the very day on which I left prison. +After a time that evil mood passed away, and I made up my mind to +live, but to wear gloom as a king wears purple: never to smile +again: to turn whatever house I entered into a house of mourning: +to make my friends walk slowly in sadness with me: to teach them +that melancholy is the true secret of life: to maim them with an +alien sorrow: to mar them with my own pain. Now I feel +quite differently. I see it would be both ungrateful and +unkind of me to pull so long a face that when my friends came to +see me they would have to make their faces still longer in order +to show their sympathy; or, if I desired to entertain them, to +invite them to sit down silently to bitter herbs and funeral +baked meats. I must learn how to be cheerful and happy.</p> +<p>The last two occasions on which I was allowed to see my +friends here, I tried to be as cheerful as possible, and to show +my cheerfulness, in order to make them some slight return for +their trouble in coming all the way from town to see me. It +is only a slight return, I know, but it is the one, I feel +certain, that pleases them most. I saw R--- for an hour on +Saturday week, and I tried to give the fullest possible +expression of the delight I really felt at our meeting. And +that, in the views and ideas I am here shaping for myself, I am +quite right is shown to me by the fact that now for the first +time since my imprisonment I have a real desire for life.</p> +<p>There is before me so much to do, that I would regard it as a +terrible tragedy if I died before I was allowed to complete at +any rate a little of it. I see new developments in art and +life, each one of which is a fresh mode of perfection. I +long to live so that I can explore what is no less than a new +world to me. Do you want to know what this new world +is? I think you can guess what it is. It is the world +in which I have been living. Sorrow, then, and all that it +teaches one, is my new world.</p> +<p>I used to live entirely for pleasure. I shunned +suffering and sorrow of every kind. I hated both. I +resolved to ignore them as far as possible: to treat them, that +is to say, as modes of imperfection. They were not part of +my scheme of life. They had no place in my +philosophy. My mother, who knew life as a whole, used often +to quote to me Goethe’s lines—written by Carlyle in a +book he had given her years ago, and translated by him, I fancy, +also:—</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Who never ate his bread in sorrow,<br /> +Who never spent the midnight hours<br /> +Weeping and waiting for the morrow,—<br /> +He knows you not, ye heavenly powers.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>They were the lines which that noble Queen of Prussia, whom +Napoleon treated with such coarse brutality, used to quote in her +humiliation and exile; they were the lines my mother often quoted +in the troubles of her later life. I absolutely declined to +accept or admit the enormous truth hidden in them. I could +not understand it. I remember quite well how I used to tell +her that I did not want to eat my bread in sorrow, or to pass any +night weeping and watching for a more bitter dawn.</p> +<p>I had no idea that it was one of the special things that the +Fates had in store for me: that for a whole year of my life, +indeed, I was to do little else. But so has my portion been +meted out to me; and during the last few months I have, after +terrible difficulties and struggles, been able to comprehend some +of the lessons hidden in the heart of pain. Clergymen and +people who use phrases without wisdom sometimes talk of suffering +as a mystery. It is really a revelation. One discerns +things one never discerned before. One approaches the whole +of history from a different standpoint. What one had felt +dimly, through instinct, about art, is intellectually and +emotionally realised with perfect clearness of vision and +absolute intensity of apprehension.</p> +<p>I now see that sorrow, being the supreme emotion of which man +is capable, is at once the type and test of all great art. +What the artist is always looking for is the mode of existence in +which soul and body are one and indivisible: in which the outward +is expressive of the inward: in which form reveals. Of such +modes of existence there are not a few: youth and the arts +preoccupied with youth may serve as a model for us at one moment: +at another we may like to think that, in its subtlety and +sensitiveness of impression, its suggestion of a spirit dwelling +in external things and making its raiment of earth and air, of +mist and city alike, and in its morbid sympathy of its moods, and +tones, and colours, modern landscape art is realising for us +pictorially what was realised in such plastic perfection by the +Greeks. Music, in which all subject is absorbed in +expression and cannot be separated from it, is a complex example, +and a flower or a child a simple example, of what I mean; but +sorrow is the ultimate type both in life and art.</p> +<p>Behind joy and laughter there may be a temperament, coarse, +hard and callous. But behind sorrow there is always +sorrow. Pain, unlike pleasure, wears no mask. Truth +in art is not any correspondence between the essential idea and +the accidental existence; it is not the resemblance of shape to +shadow, or of the form mirrored in the crystal to the form +itself; it is no echo coming from a hollow hill, any more than it +is a silver well of water in the valley that shows the moon to +the moon and Narcissus to Narcissus. Truth in art is the +unity of a thing with itself: the outward rendered expressive of +the inward: the soul made incarnate: the body instinct with +spirit. For this reason there is no truth comparable to +sorrow. There are times when sorrow seems to me to be the +only truth. Other things may be illusions of the eye or the +appetite, made to blind the one and cloy the other, but out of +sorrow have the worlds been built, and at the birth of a child or +a star there is pain.</p> +<p>More than this, there is about sorrow an intense, an +extraordinary reality. I have said of myself that I was one +who stood in symbolic relations to the art and culture of my +age. There is not a single wretched man in this wretched +place along with me who does not stand in symbolic relation to +the very secret of life. For the secret of life is +suffering. It is what is hidden behind everything. +When we begin to live, what is sweet is so sweet to us, and what +is bitter so bitter, that we inevitably direct all our desires +towards pleasures, and seek not merely for a ‘month or +twain to feed on honeycomb,’ but for all our years to taste +no other food, ignorant all the while that we may really be +starving the soul.</p> +<p>I remember talking once on this subject to one of the most +beautiful personalities I have ever known: a woman, whose +sympathy and noble kindness to me, both before and since the +tragedy of my imprisonment, have been beyond power and +description; one who has really assisted me, though she does not +know it, to bear the burden of my troubles more than any one else +in the whole world has, and all through the mere fact of her +existence, through her being what she is—partly an ideal +and partly an influence: a suggestion of what one might become as +well as a real help towards becoming it; a soul that renders the +common air sweet, and makes what is spiritual seem as simple and +natural as sunlight or the sea: one for whom beauty and sorrow +walk hand in hand, and have the same message. On the +occasion of which I am thinking I recall distinctly how I said to +her that there was enough suffering in one narrow London lane to +show that God did not love man, and that wherever there was any +sorrow, though but that of a child, in some little garden weeping +over a fault that it had or had not committed, the whole face of +creation was completely marred. I was entirely wrong. +She told me so, but I could not believe her. I was not in +the sphere in which such belief was to be attained to. Now +it seems to me that love of some kind is the only possible +explanation of the extraordinary amount of suffering that there +is in the world. I cannot conceive of any other +explanation. I am convinced that there is no other, and +that if the world has indeed, as I have said, been built of +sorrow, it has been built by the hands of love, because in no +other way could the soul of man, for whom the world was made, +reach the full stature of its perfection. Pleasure for the +beautiful body, but pain for the beautiful soul.</p> +<p>When I say that I am convinced of these things I speak with +too much pride. Far off, like a perfect pearl, one can see +the city of God. It is so wonderful that it seems as if a +child could reach it in a summer’s day. And so a +child could. But with me and such as me it is +different. One can realise a thing in a single moment, but +one loses it in the long hours that follow with leaden +feet. It is so difficult to keep ‘heights that the +soul is competent to gain.’ We think in eternity, but +we move slowly through time; and how slowly time goes with us who +lie in prison I need not tell again, nor of the weariness and +despair that creep back into one’s cell, and into the cell +of one’s heart, with such strange insistence that one has, +as it were, to garnish and sweep one’s house for their +coming, as for an unwelcome guest, or a bitter master, or a slave +whose slave it is one’s chance or choice to be.</p> +<p>And, though at present my friends may find it a hard thing to +believe, it is true none the less, that for them living in +freedom and idleness and comfort it is more easy to learn the +lessons of humility than it is for me, who begin the day by going +down on my knees and washing the floor of my cell. For +prison life with its endless privations and restrictions makes +one rebellious. The most terrible thing about it is not +that it breaks one’s heart—hearts are made to be +broken—but that it turns one’s heart to stone. +One sometimes feels that it is only with a front of brass and a +lip of scorn that one can get through the day at all. And +he who is in a state of rebellion cannot receive grace, to use +the phrase of which the Church is so fond—so rightly fond, +I dare say—for in life as in art the mood of rebellion +closes up the channels of the soul, and shuts out the airs of +heaven. Yet I must learn these lessons here, if I am to +learn them anywhere, and must be filled with joy if my feet are +on the right road and my face set towards ‘the gate which +is called beautiful,’ though I may fall many times in the +mire and often in the mist go astray.</p> +<p>This New Life, as through my love of Dante I like sometimes to +call it, is of course no new life at all, but simply the +continuance, by means of development, and evolution, of my former +life. I remember when I was at Oxford saying to one of my +friends as we were strolling round Magdalen’s narrow +bird-haunted walks one morning in the year before I took my +degree, that I wanted to eat of the fruit of all the trees in the +garden of the world, and that I was going out into the world with +that passion in my soul. And so, indeed, I went out, and so +I lived. My only mistake was that I confined myself so +exclusively to the trees of what seemed to me the sun-lit side of +the garden, and shunned the other side for its shadow and its +gloom. Failure, disgrace, poverty, sorrow, despair, +suffering, tears even, the broken words that come from lips in +pain, remorse that makes one walk on thorns, conscience that +condemns, self-abasement that punishes, the misery that puts +ashes on its head, the anguish that chooses sack-cloth for its +raiment and into its own drink puts gall:—all these were +things of which I was afraid. And as I had determined to +know nothing of them, I was forced to taste each of them in turn, +to feed on them, to have for a season, indeed, no other food at +all.</p> +<p>I don’t regret for a single moment having lived for +pleasure. I did it to the full, as one should do everything +that one does. There was no pleasure I did not +experience. I threw the pearl of my soul into a cup of +wine. I went down the primrose path to the sound of +flutes. I lived on honeycomb. But to have continued +the same life would have been wrong because it would have been +limiting. I had to pass on. The other half of the +garden had its secrets for me also. Of course all this is +foreshadowed and prefigured in my books. Some of it is in +<i>The Happy Prince</i>, some of it in <i>The Young King</i>, +notably in the passage where the bishop says to the kneeling boy, +‘Is not He who made misery wiser than thou art’? a +phrase which when I wrote it seemed to me little more than a +phrase; a great deal of it is hidden away in the note of doom +that like a purple thread runs through the texture of <i>Dorian +Gray</i>; in <i>The Critic as Artist</i> it is set forth in many +colours; in <i>The Soul of Man</i> it is written down, and in +letters too easy to read; it is one of the refrains whose +recurring <i>motifs</i> make <i>Salome</i> so like a piece of +music and bind it together as a ballad; in the prose poem of the +man who from the bronze of the image of the ‘Pleasure that +liveth for a moment’ has to make the image of the +‘Sorrow that abideth for ever’ it is incarnate. +It could not have been otherwise. At every single moment of +one’s life one is what one is going to be no less than what +one has been. Art is a symbol, because man is a symbol.</p> +<p>It is, if I can fully attain to it, the ultimate realisation +of the artistic life. For the artistic life is simply +self-development. Humility in the artist is his frank +acceptance of all experiences, just as love in the artist is +simply the sense of beauty that reveals to the world its body and +its soul. In <i>Marius the Epicurean</i> Pater seeks to +reconcile the artistic life with the life of religion, in the +deep, sweet, and austere sense of the word. But Marius is +little more than a spectator: an ideal spectator indeed, and one +to whom it is given ‘to contemplate the spectacle of life +with appropriate emotions,’ which Wordsworth defines as the +poet’s true aim; yet a spectator merely, and perhaps a +little too much occupied with the comeliness of the benches of +the sanctuary to notice that it is the sanctuary of sorrow that +he is gazing at.</p> +<p>I see a far more intimate and immediate connection between the +true life of Christ and the true life of the artist; and I take a +keen pleasure in the reflection that long before sorrow had made +my days her own and bound me to her wheel I had written in <i>The +Soul of Man</i> that he who would lead a Christ-like life must be +entirely and absolutely himself, and had taken as my types not +merely the shepherd on the hillside and the prisoner in his cell, +but also the painter to whom the world is a pageant and the poet +for whom the world is a song. I remember saying once to +André Gide, as we sat together in some Paris +<i>café</i>, that while meta-physics had but little real +interest for me, and morality absolutely none, there was nothing +that either Plato or Christ had said that could not be +transferred immediately into the sphere of Art and there find its +complete fulfilment.</p> +<p>Nor is it merely that we can discern in Christ that close +union of personality with perfection which forms the real +distinction between the classical and romantic movement in life, +but the very basis of his nature was the same as that of the +nature of the artist—an intense and flamelike +imagination. He realised in the entire sphere of human +relations that imaginative sympathy which in the sphere of Art is +the sole secret of creation. He understood the leprosy of +the leper, the darkness of the blind, the fierce misery of those +who live for pleasure, the strange poverty of the rich. +Some one wrote to me in trouble, ‘When you are not on your +pedestal you are not interesting.’ How remote was the +writer from what Matthew Arnold calls ‘the Secret of +Jesus.’ Either would have taught him that whatever +happens to another happens to oneself, and if you want an +inscription to read at dawn and at night-time, and for pleasure +or for pain, write up on the walls of your house in letters for +the sun to gild and the moon to silver, ‘Whatever happens +to oneself happens to another.’</p> +<p>Christ’s place indeed is with the poets. His whole +conception of Humanity sprang right out of the imagination and +can only be realised by it. What God was to the pantheist, +man was to Him. He was the first to conceive the divided +races as a unity. Before his time there had been gods and +men, and, feeling through the mysticism of sympathy that in +himself each had been made incarnate, he calls himself the Son of +the one or the Son of the other, according to his mood. +More than any one else in history he wakes in us that temper of +wonder to which romance always appeals. There is still +something to me almost incredible in the idea of a young Galilean +peasant imagining that he could bear on his own shoulders the +burden of the entire world; all that had already been done and +suffered, and all that was yet to be done and suffered: the sins +of Nero, of Caesar Borgia, of Alexander VI., and of him who was +Emperor of Rome and Priest of the Sun: the sufferings of those +whose names are legion and whose dwelling is among the tombs: +oppressed nationalities, factory children, thieves, people in +prison, outcasts, those who are dumb under oppression and whose +silence is heard only of God; and not merely imagining this but +actually achieving it, so that at the present moment all who come +in contact with his personality, even though they may neither bow +to his altar nor kneel before his priest, in some way find that +the ugliness of their sin is taken away and the beauty of their +sorrow revealed to them.</p> +<p>I had said of Christ that he ranks with the poets. That +is true. Shelley and Sophocles are of his company. +But his entire life also is the most wonderful of poems. +For ‘pity and terror’ there is nothing in the entire +cycle of Greek tragedy to touch it. The absolute purity of +the protagonist raises the entire scheme to a height of romantic +art from which the sufferings of Thebes and Pelops’ line +are by their very horror excluded, and shows how wrong Aristotle +was when he said in his treatise on the drama that it would be +impossible to bear the spectacle of one blameless in pain. +Nor in Æschylus nor Dante, those stern masters of +tenderness, in Shakespeare, the most purely human of all the +great artists, in the whole of Celtic myth and legend, where the +loveliness of the world is shown through a mist of tears, and the +life of a man is no more than the life of a flower, is there +anything that, for sheer simplicity of pathos wedded and made one +with sublimity of tragic effect, can be said to equal or even +approach the last act of Christ’s passion. The little +supper with his companions, one of whom has already sold him for +a price; the anguish in the quiet moon-lit garden; the false +friend coming close to him so as to betray him with a kiss; the +friend who still believed in him, and on whom as on a rock he had +hoped to build a house of refuge for Man, denying him as the bird +cried to the dawn; his own utter loneliness, his submission, his +acceptance of everything; and along with it all such scenes as +the high priest of orthodoxy rending his raiment in wrath, and +the magistrate of civil justice calling for water in the vain +hope of cleansing himself of that stain of innocent blood that +makes him the scarlet figure of history; the coronation ceremony +of sorrow, one of the most wonderful things in the whole of +recorded time; the crucifixion of the Innocent One before the +eyes of his mother and of the disciple whom he loved; the +soldiers gambling and throwing dice for his clothes; the terrible +death by which he gave the world its most eternal symbol; and his +final burial in the tomb of the rich man, his body swathed in +Egyptian linen with costly spices and perfumes as though he had +been a king’s son. When one contemplates all this +from the point of view of art alone one cannot but be grateful +that the supreme office of the Church should be the playing of +the tragedy without the shedding of blood: the mystical +presentation, by means of dialogue and costume and gesture even, +of the Passion of her Lord; and it is always a source of pleasure +and awe to me to remember that the ultimate survival of the Greek +chorus, lost elsewhere to art, is to be found in the servitor +answering the priest at Mass.</p> +<p>Yet the whole life of Christ—so entirely may sorrow and +beauty be made one in their meaning and manifestation—is +really an idyll, though it ends with the veil of the temple being +rent, and the darkness coming over the face of the earth, and the +stone rolled to the door of the sepulchre. One always +thinks of him as a young bridegroom with his companions, as +indeed he somewhere describes himself; as a shepherd straying +through a valley with his sheep in search of green meadow or cool +stream; as a singer trying to build out of the music the walls of +the City of God; or as a lover for whose love the whole world was +too small. His miracles seem to me to be as exquisite as +the coming of spring, and quite as natural. I see no +difficulty at all in believing that such was the charm of his +personality that his mere presence could bring peace to souls in +anguish, and that those who touched his garments or his hands +forgot their pain; or that as he passed by on the highway of life +people who had seen nothing of life’s mystery, saw it +clearly, and others who had been deaf to every voice but that of +pleasure heard for the first time the voice of love and found it +as ‘musical as Apollo’s lute’; or that evil +passions fled at his approach, and men whose dull unimaginative +lives had been but a mode of death rose as it were from the grave +when he called them; or that when he taught on the hillside the +multitude forgot their hunger and thirst and the cares of this +world, and that to his friends who listened to him as he sat at +meat the coarse food seemed delicate, and the water had the taste +of good wine, and the whole house became full of the odour and +sweetness of nard.</p> +<p>Renan in his <i>Vie de Jesus</i>—that gracious fifth +gospel, the gospel according to St. Thomas, one might call +it—says somewhere that Christ’s great achievement was +that he made himself as much loved after his death as he had been +during his lifetime. And certainly, if his place is among +the poets, he is the leader of all the lovers. He saw that +love was the first secret of the world for which the wise men had +been looking, and that it was only through love that one could +approach either the heart of the leper or the feet of God.</p> +<p>And above all, Christ is the most supreme of +individualists. Humility, like the artistic, acceptance of +all experiences, is merely a mode of manifestation. It is +man’s soul that Christ is always looking for. He +calls it ‘God’s Kingdom,’ and finds it in every +one. He compares it to little things, to a tiny seed, to a +handful of leaven, to a pearl. That is because one realises +one’s soul only by getting rid of all alien passions, all +acquired culture, and all external possessions, be they good or +evil.</p> +<p>I bore up against everything with some stubbornness of will +and much rebellion of nature, till I had absolutely nothing left +in the world but one thing. I had lost my name, my +position, my happiness, my freedom, my wealth. I was a +prisoner and a pauper. But I still had my children +left. Suddenly they were taken away from me by the +law. It was a blow so appalling that I did not know what to +do, so I flung myself on my knees, and bowed my head, and wept, +and said, ‘The body of a child is as the body of the Lord: +I am not worthy of either.’ That moment seemed to +save me. I saw then that the only thing for me was to +accept everything. Since then—curious as it will no +doubt sound—I have been happier. It was of course my +soul in its ultimate essence that I had reached. In many +ways I had been its enemy, but I found it waiting for me as a +friend. When one comes in contact with the soul it makes +one simple as a child, as Christ said one should be.</p> +<p>It is tragic how few people ever ‘possess their +souls’ before they die. ‘Nothing is more rare +in any man,’ says Emerson, ‘than an act of his +own.’ It is quite true. Most people are other +people. Their thoughts are some one else’s opinions, +their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation. Christ +was not merely the supreme individualist, but he was the first +individualist in history. People have tried to make him out +an ordinary philanthropist, or ranked him as an altruist with the +scientific and sentimental. But he was really neither one +nor the other. Pity he has, of course, for the poor, for +those who are shut up in prisons, for the lowly, for the +wretched; but he has far more pity for the rich, for the hard +hedonists, for those who waste their freedom in becoming slaves +to things, for those who wear soft raiment and live in +kings’ houses. Riches and pleasure seemed to him to +be really greater tragedies than poverty or sorrow. And as +for altruism, who knew better than he that it is vocation not +volition that determines us, and that one cannot gather grapes of +thorns or figs from thistles?</p> +<p>To live for others as a definite self-conscious aim was not +his creed. It was not the basis of his creed. When he +says, ‘Forgive your enemies,’ it is not for the sake +of the enemy, but for one’s own sake that he says so, and +because love is more beautiful than hate. In his own +entreaty to the young man, ‘Sell all that thou hast and +give to the poor,’ it is not of the state of the poor that +he is thinking but of the soul of the young man, the soul that +wealth was marring. In his view of life he is one with the +artist who knows that by the inevitable law of self-perfection, +the poet must sing, and the sculptor think in bronze, and the +painter make the world a mirror for his moods, as surely and as +certainly as the hawthorn must blossom in spring, and the corn +turn to gold at harvest-time, and the moon in her ordered +wanderings change from shield to sickle, and from sickle to +shield.</p> +<p>But while Christ did not say to men, ‘Live for +others,’ he pointed out that there was no difference at all +between the lives of others and one’s own life. By +this means he gave to man an extended, a Titan personality. +Since his coming the history of each separate individual is, or +can be made, the history of the world. Of course, culture +has intensified the personality of man. Art has made us +myriad-minded. Those who have the artistic temperament go +into exile with Dante and learn how salt is the bread of others, +and how steep their stairs; they catch for a moment the serenity +and calm of Goethe, and yet know but too well that Baudelaire +cried to God—</p> +<blockquote><p>‘O Seigneur, donnez moi la force et le +courage<br /> +De contempler mon corps et mon coeur sans +dégoût.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Out of Shakespeare’s sonnets they draw, to their own +hurt it may be, the secret of his love and make it their own; +they look with new eyes on modern life, because they have +listened to one of Chopin’s nocturnes, or handled Greek +things, or read the story of the passion of some dead man for +some dead woman whose hair was like threads of fine gold, and +whose mouth was as a pomegranate. But the sympathy of the +artistic temperament is necessarily with what has found +expression. In words or in colours, in music or in marble, +behind the painted masks of an Æschylean play, or through +some Sicilian shepherds’ pierced and jointed reeds, the man +and his message must have been revealed.</p> +<p>To the artist, expression is the only mode under which he can +conceive life at all. To him what is dumb is dead. +But to Christ it was not so. With a width and wonder of +imagination that fills one almost with awe, he took the entire +world of the inarticulate, the voiceless world of pain, as his +kingdom, and made of himself its eternal mouthpiece. Those +of whom I have spoken, who are dumb under oppression, and +‘whose silence is heard only of God,’ he chose as his +brothers. He sought to become eyes to the blind, ears to +the deaf, and a cry in the lips of those whose tongues had been +tied. His desire was to be to the myriads who had found no +utterance a very trumpet through which they might call to +heaven. And feeling, with the artistic nature of one to +whom suffering and sorrow were modes through which he could +realise his conception of the beautiful, that an idea is of no +value till it becomes incarnate and is made an image, he made of +himself the image of the Man of Sorrows, and as such has +fascinated and dominated art as no Greek god ever succeeded in +doing.</p> +<p>For the Greek gods, in spite of the white and red of their +fair fleet limbs, were not really what they appeared to be. +The curved brow of Apollo was like the sun’s disc crescent +over a hill at dawn, and his feet were as the wings of the +morning, but he himself had been cruel to Marsyas and had made +Niobe childless. In the steel shields of Athena’s +eyes there had been no pity for Arachne; the pomp and peacocks of +Hera were all that was really noble about her; and the Father of +the Gods himself had been too fond of the daughters of men. +The two most deeply suggestive figures of Greek Mythology were, +for religion, Demeter, an Earth Goddess, not one of the +Olympians, and for art, Dionysus, the son of a mortal woman to +whom the moment of his birth had proved also the moment of her +death.</p> +<p>But Life itself from its lowliest and most humble sphere +produced one far more marvellous than the mother of Proserpina or +the son of Semele. Out of the Carpenter’s shop at +Nazareth had come a personality infinitely greater than any made +by myth and legend, and one, strangely enough, destined to reveal +to the world the mystical meaning of wine and the real beauties +of the lilies of the field as none, either on Cithaeron or at +Enna, had ever done.</p> +<p>The song of Isaiah, ‘He is despised and rejected of men, +a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief: and we hid as it were +our faces from him,’ had seemed to him to prefigure +himself, and in him the prophecy was fulfilled. We must not +be afraid of such a phrase. Every single work of art is the +fulfilment of a prophecy: for every work of art is the conversion +of an idea into an image. Every single human being should +be the fulfilment of a prophecy: for every human being should be +the realisation of some ideal, either in the mind of God or in +the mind of man. Christ found the type and fixed it, and +the dream of a Virgilian poet, either at Jerusalem or at Babylon, +became in the long progress of the centuries incarnate in him for +whom the world was waiting.</p> +<p>To me one of the things in history the most to be regretted is +that the Christ’s own renaissance, which has produced the +Cathedral at Chartres, the Arthurian cycle of legends, the life +of St. Francis of Assisi, the art of Giotto, and Dante’s +<i>Divine Comedy</i>, was not allowed to develop on its own +lines, but was interrupted and spoiled by the dreary classical +Renaissance that gave us Petrarch, and Raphael’s frescoes, +and Palladian architecture, and formal French tragedy, and St. +Paul’s Cathedral, and Pope’s poetry, and everything +that is made from without and by dead rules, and does not spring +from within through some spirit informing it. But wherever +there is a romantic movement in art there somehow, and under some +form, is Christ, or the soul of Christ. He is in <i>Romeo +and Juliet</i>, in the <i>Winter’s Tale</i>, in +Provençal poetry, in the <i>Ancient Mariner</i>, in <i>La +Belle Dame sans merci</i>, and in Chatterton’s <i>Ballad of +Charity</i>.</p> +<p>We owe to him the most diverse things and people. +Hugo’s <i>Les Misérables</i>, Baudelaire’s +<i>Fleurs du Mal</i>, the note of pity in Russian novels, +Verlaine and Verlaine’s poems, the stained glass and +tapestries and the quattro-cento work of Burne-Jones and Morris, +belong to him no less than the tower of Giotto, Lancelot and +Guinevere, Tannhäuser, the troubled romantic marbles of +Michael Angelo, pointed architecture, and the love of children +and flowers—for both of which, indeed, in classical art +there was but little place, hardly enough for them to grow or +play in, but which, from the twelfth century down to our own day, +have been continually making their appearances in art, under +various modes and at various times, coming fitfully and wilfully, +as children, as flowers, are apt to do: spring always seeming to +one as if the flowers had been in hiding, and only came out into +the sun because they were afraid that grown up people would grow +tired of looking for them and give up the search; and the life of +a child being no more than an April day on which there is both +rain and sun for the narcissus.</p> +<p>It is the imaginative quality of Christ’s own nature +that makes him this palpitating centre of romance. The +strange figures of poetic drama and ballad are made by the +imagination of others, but out of his own imagination entirely +did Jesus of Nazareth create himself. The cry of Isaiah had +really no more to do with his coming than the song of the +nightingale has to do with the rising of the moon—no more, +though perhaps no less. He was the denial as well as the +affirmation of prophecy. For every expectation that he +fulfilled there was another that he destroyed. ‘In +all beauty,’ says Bacon, ‘there is some strangeness +of proportion,’ and of those who are born of the +spirit—of those, that is to say, who like himself are +dynamic forces—Christ says that they are like the wind that +‘bloweth where it listeth, and no man can tell whence it +cometh and whither it goeth.’ That is why he is so +fascinating to artists. He has all the colour elements of +life: mystery, strangeness, pathos, suggestion, ecstasy, +love. He appeals to the temper of wonder, and creates that +mood in which alone he can be understood.</p> +<p>And to me it is a joy to remember that if he is ‘of +imagination all compact,’ the world itself is of the same +substance. I said in <i>Dorian Gray</i> that the great sins +of the world take place in the brain: but it is in the brain that +everything takes place. We know now that we do not see with +the eyes or hear with the ears. They are really channels +for the transmission, adequate or inadequate, of sense +impressions. It is in the brain that the poppy is red, that +the apple is odorous, that the skylark sings.</p> +<p>Of late I have been studying with diligence the four prose +poems about Christ. At Christmas I managed to get hold of a +Greek Testament, and every morning, after I had cleaned my cell +and polished my tins, I read a little of the Gospels, a dozen +verses taken by chance anywhere. It is a delightful way of +opening the day. Every one, even in a turbulent, +ill-disciplined life, should do the same. Endless +repetition, in and out of season, has spoiled for us the +freshness, the naïveté, the simple romantic charm of +the Gospels. We hear them read far too often and far too +badly, and all repetition is anti-spiritual. When one +returns to the Greek; it is like going into a garden of lilies +out of some, narrow and dark house.</p> +<p>And to me, the pleasure is doubled by the reflection that it +is extremely probable that we have the actual terms, the +<i>ipsissima verba</i>, used by Christ. It was always +supposed that Christ talked in Aramaic. Even Renan thought +so. But now we know that the Galilean peasants, like the +Irish peasants of our own day, were bilingual, and that Greek was +the ordinary language of intercourse all over Palestine, as +indeed all over the Eastern world. I never liked the idea +that we knew of Christ’s own words only through a +translation of a translation. It is a delight to me to +think that as far as his conversation was concerned, Charmides +might have listened to him, and Socrates reasoned with him, and +Plato understood him: that he really said εyω +ειμι ο +ποιμην ο +καλος, that when he thought of +the lilies of the field and how they neither toil nor spin, his +absolute expression was +καταyαθετε +τα κρίνα +του αγρου +τως +αυξανει ου +κοπιυ +ουδε +νηθει, and that his last word when he +cried out ‘my life has been completed, has reached its +fulfilment, has been perfected,’ was exactly as St. John +tells us it was: +τετέλεσται—no +more.</p> +<p>While in reading the Gospels—particularly that of St. +John himself, or whatever early Gnostic took his name and +mantle—I see the continual assertion of the imagination as +the basis of all spiritual and material life, I see also that to +Christ imagination was simply a form of love, and that to him +love was lord in the fullest meaning of the phrase. Some +six weeks ago I was allowed by the doctor to have white bread to +eat instead of the coarse black or brown bread of ordinary prison +fare. It is a great delicacy. It will sound strange +that dry bread could possibly be a delicacy to any one. To +me it is so much so that at the close of each meal I carefully +eat whatever crumbs may be left on my tin plate, or have fallen +on the rough towel that one uses as a cloth so as not to soil +one’s table; and I do so not from hunger—I get now +quite sufficient food—but simply in order that nothing +should be wasted of what is given to me. So one should look +on love.</p> +<p>Christ, like all fascinating personalities, had the power of +not merely saying beautiful things himself, but of making other +people say beautiful things to him; and I love the story St. Mark +tells us about the Greek woman, who, when as a trial of her faith +he said to her that he could not give her the bread of the +children of Israel, answered him that the little +dogs—(κυναρια, +‘little dogs’ it should be rendered)—who are +under the table eat of the crumbs that the children let +fall. Most people live for love and admiration. But +it is by love and admiration that we should live. If any +love is shown us we should recognise that we are quite unworthy +of it. Nobody is worthy to be loved. The fact that +God loves man shows us that in the divine order of ideal things +it is written that eternal love is to be given to what is +eternally unworthy. Or if that phrase seems to be a bitter +one to bear, let us say that every one is worthy of love, except +him who thinks that he is. Love is a sacrament that should +be taken kneeling, and <i>Domine, non sum dignus</i> should be on +the lips and in the hearts of those who receive it.</p> +<p>If ever I write again, in the sense of producing artistic +work, there are just two subjects on which and through which I +desire to express myself: one is ‘Christ as the precursor +of the romantic movement in life’: the other is ‘The +artistic life considered in its relation to conduct.’ +The first is, of course, intensely fascinating, for I see in +Christ not merely the essentials of the supreme romantic type, +but all the accidents, the wilfulnesses even, of the romantic +temperament also. He was the first person who ever said to +people that they should live ‘flower-like +lives.’ He fixed the phrase. He took children +as the type of what people should try to become. He held +them up as examples to their elders, which I myself have always +thought the chief use of children, if what is perfect should have +a use. Dante describes the soul of a man as coming from the +hand of God ‘weeping and laughing like a little +child,’ and Christ also saw that the soul of each one +should be <i>a guisa di fanciulla che piangendo e ridendo +pargoleggia</i>. He felt that life was changeful, fluid, +active, and that to allow it to be stereotyped into any form was +death. He saw that people should not be too serious over +material, common interests: that to be unpractical was to be a +great thing: that one should not bother too much over +affairs. The birds didn’t, why should man? He +is charming when he says, ‘Take no thought for the morrow; +is not the soul more than meat? is not the body more than +raiment?’ A Greek might have used the latter +phrase. It is full of Greek feeling. But only Christ +could have said both, and so summed up life perfectly for us.</p> +<p>His morality is all sympathy, just what morality should +be. If the only thing that he ever said had been, +‘Her sins are forgiven her because she loved much,’ +it would have been worth while dying to have said it. His +justice is all poetical justice, exactly what justice should +be. The beggar goes to heaven because he has been +unhappy. I cannot conceive a better reason for his being +sent there. The people who work for an hour in the vineyard +in the cool of the evening receive just as much reward as those +who have toiled there all day long in the hot sun. Why +shouldn’t they? Probably no one deserved +anything. Or perhaps they were a different kind of +people. Christ had no patience with the dull lifeless +mechanical systems that treat people as if they were things, and +so treat everybody alike: for him there were no laws: there were +exceptions merely, as if anybody, or anything, for that matter, +was like aught else in the world!</p> +<p>That which is the very keynote of romantic art was to him the +proper basis of natural life. He saw no other basis. +And when they brought him one, taken in the very act of sin and +showed him her sentence written in the law, and asked him what +was to be done, he wrote with his finger on the ground as though +he did not hear them, and finally, when they pressed him again, +looked up and said, ‘Let him of you who has never sinned be +the first to throw the stone at her.’ It was worth +while living to have said that.</p> +<p>Like all poetical natures he loved ignorant people. He +knew that in the soul of one who is ignorant there is always room +for a great idea. But he could not stand stupid people, +especially those who are made stupid by education: people who are +full of opinions not one of which they even understand, a +peculiarly modern type, summed up by Christ when he describes it +as the type of one who has the key of knowledge, cannot use it +himself, and does not allow other people to use it, though it may +be made to open the gate of God’s Kingdom. His chief +war was against the Philistines. That is the war every +child of light has to wage. Philistinism was the note of +the age and community in which he lived. In their heavy +inaccessibility to ideas, their dull respectability, their +tedious orthodoxy, their worship of vulgar success, their entire +preoccupation with the gross materialistic side of life, and +their ridiculous estimate of themselves and their importance, the +Jews of Jerusalem in Christ’s day were the exact +counterpart of the British Philistine of our own. Christ +mocked at the ‘whited sepulchre’ of respectability, +and fixed that phrase for ever. He treated worldly success +as a thing absolutely to be despised. He saw nothing in it +at all. He looked on wealth as an encumbrance to a +man. He would not hear of life being sacrificed to any +system of thought or morals. He pointed out that forms and +ceremonies were made for man, not man for forms and +ceremonies. He took sabbatarianism as a type of the things +that should be set at nought. The cold philanthropies, the +ostentatious public charities, the tedious formalisms so dear to +the middle-class mind, he exposed with utter and relentless +scorn. To us, what is termed orthodoxy is merely a facile +unintelligent acquiescence; but to them, and in their hands, it +was a terrible and paralysing tyranny. Christ swept it +aside. He showed that the spirit alone was of value. +He took a keen pleasure in pointing out to them that though they +were always reading the law and the prophets, they had not really +the smallest idea of what either of them meant. In +opposition to their tithing of each separate day into the fixed +routine of prescribed duties, as they tithe mint and rue, he +preached the enormous importance of living completely for the +moment.</p> +<p>Those whom he saved from their sins are saved simply for +beautiful moments in their lives. Mary Magdalen, when she +sees Christ, breaks the rich vase of alabaster that one of her +seven lovers had given her, and spills the odorous spices over +his tired dusty feet, and for that one moment’s sake sits +for ever with Ruth and Beatrice in the tresses of the snow-white +rose of Paradise. All that Christ says to us by the way of +a little warning is that every moment should be beautiful, that +the soul should always be ready for the coming of the bridegroom, +always waiting for the voice of the lover, Philistinism being +simply that side of man’s nature that is not illumined by +the imagination. He sees all the lovely influences of life +as modes of light: the imagination itself is the world of +light. The world is made by it, and yet the world cannot +understand it: that is because the imagination is simply a +manifestation of love, and it is love and the capacity for it +that distinguishes one human being from another.</p> +<p>But it is when he deals with a sinner that Christ is most +romantic, in the sense of most real. The world had always +loved the saint as being the nearest possible approach to the +perfection of God. Christ, through some divine instinct in +him, seems to have always loved the sinner as being the nearest +possible approach to the perfection of man. His primary +desire was not to reform people, any more than his primary desire +was to a relieve suffering. To turn an interesting thief +into a tedious honest man was not his aim. He would have +thought little of the Prisoners’ Aid Society and other +modern movements of the kind. The conversion of a publican +into a Pharisee would not have seemed to him a great +achievement. But in a manner not yet understood of the +world he regarded sin and suffering as being in themselves +beautiful holy things and modes of perfection.</p> +<p>It seems a very dangerous idea. It is—all great +ideas are dangerous. That it was Christ’s creed +admits of no doubt. That it is the true creed I don’t +doubt myself.</p> +<p>Of course the sinner must repent. But why? Simply +because otherwise he would be unable to realise what he had +done. The moment of repentance is the moment of +initiation. More than that: it is the means by which one +alters one’s past. The Greeks thought that +impossible. They often say in their Gnomic aphorisms, +‘Even the Gods cannot alter the past.’ Christ +showed that the commonest sinner could do it, that it was the one +thing he could do. Christ, had he been asked, would have +said—I feel quite certain about it—that the moment +the prodigal son fell on his knees and wept, he made his having +wasted his substance with harlots, his swine-herding and +hungering for the husks they ate, beautiful and holy moments in +his life. It is difficult for most people to grasp the +idea. I dare say one has to go to prison to understand +it. If so, it may be worth while going to prison.</p> +<p>There is something so unique about Christ. Of course +just as there are false dawns before the dawn itself, and winter +days so full of sudden sunlight that they will cheat the wise +crocus into squandering its gold before its time, and make some +foolish bird call to its mate to build on barren boughs, so there +were Christians before Christ. For that we should be +grateful. The unfortunate thing is that there have been +none since. I make one exception, St. Francis of +Assisi. But then God had given him at his birth the soul of +a poet, as he himself when quite young had in mystical marriage +taken poverty as his bride: and with the soul of a poet and the +body of a beggar he found the way to perfection not +difficult. He understood Christ, and so he became like +him. We do not require the Liber Conformitatum to teach us +that the life of St. Francis was the true <i>Imitatio +Christi</i>, a poem compared to which the book of that name is +merely prose.</p> +<p>Indeed, that is the charm about Christ, when all is said: he +is just like a work of art. He does not really teach one +anything, but by being brought into his presence one becomes +something. And everybody is predestined to his +presence. Once at least in his life each man walks with +Christ to Emmaus.</p> +<p>As regards the other subject, the Relation of the Artistic +Life to Conduct, it will no doubt seem strange to you that I +should select it. People point to Reading Gaol and say, +‘That is where the artistic life leads a man.’ +Well, it might lead to worse places. The more mechanical +people to whom life is a shrewd speculation depending on a +careful calculation of ways and means, always know where they are +going, and go there. They start with the ideal desire of +being the parish beadle, and in whatever sphere they are placed +they succeed in being the parish beadle and no more. A man +whose desire is to be something separate from himself, to be a +member of Parliament, or a successful grocer, or a prominent +solicitor, or a judge, or something equally tedious, invariably +succeeds in being what he wants to be. That is his +punishment. Those who want a mask have to wear it.</p> +<p>But with the dynamic forces of life, and those in whom those +dynamic forces become incarnate, it is different. People +whose desire is solely for self-realisation never know where they +are going. They can’t know. In one sense of the +word it is of course necessary, as the Greek oracle said, to know +oneself: that is the first achievement of knowledge. But to +recognise that the soul of a man is unknowable, is the ultimate +achievement of wisdom. The final mystery is oneself. +When one has weighed the sun in the balance, and measured the +steps of the moon, and mapped out the seven heavens star by star, +there still remains oneself. Who can calculate the orbit of +his own soul? When the son went out to look for his +father’s asses, he did not know that a man of God was +waiting for him with the very chrism of coronation, and that his +own soul was already the soul of a king.</p> +<p>I hope to live long enough and to produce work of such a +character that I shall be able at the end of my days to say, +‘Yes! this is just where the artistic life leads a +man!’ Two of the most perfect lives I have come +across in my own experience are the lives of Verlaine and of +Prince Kropotkin: both of them men who have passed years in +prison: the first, the one Christian poet since Dante; the other, +a man with a soul of that beautiful white Christ which seems +coming out of Russia. And for the last seven or eight +months, in spite of a succession of great troubles reaching me +from the outside world almost without intermission, I have been +placed in direct contact with a new spirit working in this prison +through man and things, that has helped me beyond any possibility +of expression in words: so that while for the first year of my +imprisonment I did nothing else, and can remember doing nothing +else, but wring my hands in impotent despair, and say, +‘What an ending, what an appalling ending!’ now I try +to say to myself, and sometimes when I am not torturing myself do +really and sincerely say, ‘What a beginning, what a +wonderful beginning!’ It may really be so. It +may become so. If it does I shall owe much to this new +personality that has altered every man’s life in this +place.</p> +<p>You may realise it when I say that had I been released last +May, as I tried to be, I would have left this place loathing it +and every official in it with a bitterness of hatred that would +have poisoned my life. I have had a year longer of +imprisonment, but humanity has been in the prison along with us +all, and now when I go out I shall always remember great +kindnesses that I have received here from almost everybody, and +on the day of my release I shall give many thanks to many people, +and ask to be remembered by them in turn.</p> +<p>The prison style is absolutely and entirely wrong. I +would give anything to be able to alter it when I go out. I +intend to try. But there is nothing in the world so wrong +but that the spirit of humanity, which is the spirit of love, the +spirit of the Christ who is not in churches, may make it, if not +right, at least possible to be borne without too much bitterness +of heart.</p> +<p>I know also that much is waiting for me outside that is very +delightful, from what St. Francis of Assisi calls ‘my +brother the wind, and my sister the rain,’ lovely things +both of them, down to the shop-windows and sunsets of great +cities. If I made a list of all that still remains to me, I +don’t know where I should stop: for, indeed, God made the +world just as much for me as for any one else. Perhaps I +may go out with something that I had not got before. I need +not tell you that to me reformations in morals are as meaningless +and vulgar as Reformations in theology. But while to +propose to be a better man is a piece of unscientific cant, to +have become a deeper man is the privilege of those who have +suffered. And such I think I have become.</p> +<p>If after I am free a friend of mine gave a feast, and did not +invite me to it, I should not mind a bit. I can be +perfectly happy by myself. With freedom, flowers, books, +and the moon, who could not be perfectly happy? Besides, +feasts are not for me any more. I have given too many to +care about them. That side of life is over for me, very +fortunately, I dare say. But if after I am free a friend of +mine had a sorrow and refused to allow me to share it, I should +feel it most bitterly. If he shut the doors of the house of +mourning against me, I would come back again and again and beg to +be admitted, so that I might share in what I was entitled to +share in. If he thought me unworthy, unfit to weep with +him, I should feel it as the most poignant humiliation, as the +most terrible mode in which disgrace could be inflicted on +me. But that could not be. I have a right to share in +sorrow, and he who can look at the loveliness of the world and +share its sorrow, and realise something of the wonder of both, is +in immediate contact with divine things, and has got as near to +God’s secret as any one can get.</p> +<p>Perhaps there may come into my art also, no less than into my +life, a still deeper note, one of greater unity of passion, and +directness of impulse. Not width but intensity is the true +aim of modern art. We are no longer in art concerned with +the type. It is with the exception that we have to +do. I cannot put my sufferings into any form they took, I +need hardly say. Art only begins where Imitation ends, but +something must come into my work, of fuller memory of words +perhaps, of richer cadences, of more curious effects, of simpler +architectural order, of some aesthetic quality at any rate.</p> +<p>When Marsyas was ‘torn from the scabbard of his +limbs’—<i>della vagina della membre sue</i>, to use +one of Dante’s most terrible Tacitean phrases—he had +no more song, the Greek said. Apollo had been victor. +The lyre had vanquished the reed. But perhaps the Greeks +were mistaken. I hear in much modern Art the cry of +Marsyas. It is bitter in Baudelaire, sweet and plaintive in +Lamartine, mystic in Verlaine. It is in the deferred +resolutions of Chopin’s music. It is in the +discontent that haunts Burne-Jones’s women. Even +Matthew Arnold, whose song of Callicles tells of ‘the +triumph of the sweet persuasive lyre,’ and the +‘famous final victory,’ in such a clear note of +lyrical beauty, has not a little of it; in the troubled undertone +of doubt and distress that haunts his verses, neither Goethe nor +Wordsworth could help him, though he followed each in turn, and +when he seeks to mourn for <i>Thyrsis</i> or to sing of the +<i>Scholar Gipsy</i>, it is the reed that he has to take for the +rendering of his strain. But whether or not the Phrygian +Faun was silent, I cannot be. Expression is as necessary to +me as leaf and blossoms are to the black branches of the trees +that show themselves above the prison walls and are so restless +in the wind. Between my art and the world there is now a +wide gulf, but between art and myself there is none. I hope +at least that there is none.</p> +<p>To each of us different fates are meted out. My lot has +been one of public infamy, of long imprisonment, of misery, of +ruin, of disgrace, but I am not worthy of it—not yet, at +any rate. I remember that I used to say that I thought I +could bear a real tragedy if it came to me with purple pall and a +mask of noble sorrow, but that the dreadful thing about modernity +was that it put tragedy into the raiment of comedy, so that the +great realities seemed commonplace or grotesque or lacking in +style. It is quite true about modernity. It has +probably always been true about actual life. It is said +that all martyrdoms seemed mean to the looker on. The +nineteenth century is no exception to the rule.</p> +<p>Everything about my tragedy has been hideous, mean, repellent, +lacking in style; our very dress makes us grotesque. We are +the zanies of sorrow. We are clowns whose hearts are +broken. We are specially designed to appeal to the sense of +humour. On November 13th, 1895, I was brought down here +from London. From two o’clock till half-past two on +that day I had to stand on the centre platform of Clapham +Junction in convict dress, and handcuffed, for the world to look +at. I had been taken out of the hospital ward without a +moment’s notice being given to me. Of all possible +objects I was the most grotesque. When people saw me they +laughed. Each train as it came up swelled the +audience. Nothing could exceed their amusement. That +was, of course, before they knew who I was. As soon as they +had been informed they laughed still more. For half an hour +I stood there in the grey November rain surrounded by a jeering +mob.</p> +<p>For a year after that was done to me I wept every day at the +same hour and for the same space of time. That is not such +a tragic thing as possibly it sounds to you. To those who +are in prison tears are a part of every day’s +experience. A day in prison on which one does not weep is a +day on which one’s heart is hard, not a day on which +one’s heart is happy.</p> +<p>Well, now I am really beginning to feel more regret for the +people who laughed than for myself. Of course when they saw +me I was not on my pedestal, I was in the pillory. But it +is a very unimaginative nature that only cares for people on +their pedestals. A pedestal may be a very unreal +thing. A pillory is a terrific reality. They should +have known also how to interpret sorrow better. I have said +that behind sorrow there is always sorrow. It were wiser +still to say that behind sorrow there is always a soul. And +to mock at a soul in pain is a dreadful thing. In the +strangely simple economy of the world people only get what they +give, and to those who have not enough imagination to penetrate +the mere outward of things, and feel pity, what pity can be given +save that of scorn?</p> +<p>I write this account of the mode of my being transferred here +simply that it should be realised how hard it has been for me to +get anything out of my punishment but bitterness and +despair. I have, however, to do it, and now and then I have +moments of submission and acceptance. All the spring may be +hidden in the single bud, and the low ground nest of the lark may +hold the joy that is to herald the feet of many rose-red +dawns. So perhaps whatever beauty of life still remains to +me is contained in some moment of surrender, abasement, and +humiliation. I can, at any rate, merely proceed on the +lines of my own development, and, accepting all that has happened +to me, make myself worthy of it.</p> +<p>People used to say of me that I was too individualistic. +I must be far more of an individualist than ever I was. I +must get far more out of myself than ever I got, and ask far less +of the world than ever I asked. Indeed, my ruin came not +from too great individualism of life, but from too little. +The one disgraceful, unpardonable, and to all time contemptible +action of my life was to allow myself to appeal to society for +help and protection. To have made such an appeal would have +been from the individualist point of view bad enough, but what +excuse can there ever be put forward for having made it? Of +course once I had put into motion the forces of society, society +turned on me and said, ‘Have you been living all this time +in defiance of my laws, and do you now appeal to those laws for +protection? You shall have those laws exercised to the +full. You shall abide by what you have appealed +to.’ The result is I am in gaol. Certainly no +man ever fell so ignobly, and by such ignoble instruments, as I +did.</p> +<p>The Philistine element in life is not the failure to +understand art. Charming people, such as fishermen, +shepherds, ploughboys, peasants and the like, know nothing about +art, and are the very salt of the earth. He is the +Philistine who upholds and aids the heavy, cumbrous, blind, +mechanical forces of society, and who does not recognise dynamic +force when he meets it either in a man or a movement.</p> +<p>People thought it dreadful of me to have entertained at dinner +the evil things of life, and to have found pleasure in their +company. But then, from the point of view through which I, +as an artist in life, approach them they were delightfully +suggestive and stimulating. The danger was half the +excitement. . . . My business as an artist was with Ariel. +I set myself to wrestle with Caliban. . . .</p> +<p>A great friend of mine—a friend of ten years’ +standing—came to see me some time ago, and told me that he +did not believe a single word of what was said against me, and +wished me to know that he considered me quite innocent, and the +victim of a hideous plot. I burst into tears at what he +said, and told him that while there was much amongst the definite +charges that was quite untrue and transferred to me by revolting +malice, still that my life had been full of perverse pleasures, +and that unless he accepted that as a fact about me and realised +it to the full I could not possibly be friends with him any more, +or ever be in his company. It was a terrible shock to him, +but we are friends, and I have not got his friendship on false +pretences.</p> +<p>Emotional forces, as I say somewhere in <i>Intentions</i>, are +as limited in extent and duration as the forces of physical +energy. The little cup that is made to hold so much can +hold so much and no more, though all the purple vats of Burgundy +be filled with wine to the brim, and the treaders stand knee-deep +in the gathered grapes of the stony vineyards of Spain. +There is no error more common than that of thinking that those +who are the causes or occasions of great tragedies share in the +feelings suitable to the tragic mood: no error more fatal than +expecting it of them. The martyr in his ‘shirt of +flame’ may be looking on the face of God, but to him who is +piling the faggots or loosening the logs for the blast the whole +scene is no more than the slaying of an ox is to the butcher, or +the felling of a tree to the charcoal burner in the forest, or +the fall of a flower to one who is mowing down the grass with a +scythe. Great passions are for the great of soul, and great +events can be seen only by those who are on a level with +them.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>I know of nothing in all drama more incomparable from the +point of view of art, nothing more suggestive in its subtlety of +observation, than Shakespeare’s drawing of Rosencrantz and +Guildenstern. They are Hamlet’s college +friends. They have been his companions. They bring +with them memories of pleasant days together. At the moment +when they come across him in the play he is staggering under the +weight of a burden intolerable to one of his temperament. +The dead have come armed out of the grave to impose on him a +mission at once too great and too mean for him. He is a +dreamer, and he is called upon to act. He has the nature of +the poet, and he is asked to grapple with the common complexity +of cause and effect, with life in its practical realisation, of +which he knows nothing, not with life in its ideal essence, of +which he knows so much. He has no conception of what to do, +and his folly is to feign folly. Brutus used madness as a +cloak to conceal the sword of his purpose, the dagger of his +will, but the Hamlet madness is a mere mask for the hiding of +weakness. In the making of fancies and jests he sees a +chance of delay. He keeps playing with action as an artist +plays with a theory. He makes himself the spy of his proper +actions, and listening to his own words knows them to be but +‘words, words, words.’ Instead of trying to be +the hero of his own history, he seeks to be the spectator of his +own tragedy. He disbelieves in everything, including +himself, and yet his doubt helps him not, as it comes not from +scepticism but from a divided will.</p> +<p>Of all this Guildenstern and Rosencrantz realise +nothing. They bow and smirk and smile, and what the one +says the other echoes with sickliest intonation. When, at +last, by means of the play within the play, and the puppets in +their dalliance, Hamlet ‘catches the conscience’ of +the King, and drives the wretched man in terror from his throne, +Guildenstern and Rosencrantz see no more in his conduct than a +rather painful breach of Court etiquette. That is as far as +they can attain to in ‘the contemplation of the spectacle +of life with appropriate emotions.’ They are close to +his very secret and know nothing of it. Nor would there be +any use in telling them. They are the little cups that can +hold so much and no more. Towards the close it is suggested +that, caught in a cunning spring set for another, they have met, +or may meet, with a violent and sudden death. But a tragic +ending of this kind, though touched by Hamlet’s humour with +something of the surprise and justice of comedy, is really not +for such as they. They never die. Horatio, who in +order to ‘report Hamlet and his cause aright to the +unsatisfied,’</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Absents him from felicity a while,<br /> +And in this harsh world draws his breath in pain,’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>dies, but Guildenstern and Rosencrantz are as immortal as +Angelo and Tartuffe, and should rank with them. They are +what modern life has contributed to the antique ideal of +friendship. He who writes a new <i>De Amicitia</i> must +find a niche for them, and praise them in Tusculan prose. +They are types fixed for all time. To censure them would +show ‘a lack of appreciation.’ They are merely +out of their sphere: that is all. In sublimity of soul +there is no contagion. High thoughts and high emotions are +by their very existence isolated.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +<p>I am to be released, if all goes well with me, towards the end +of May, and hope to go at once to some little sea-side village +abroad with R--- and M---.</p> +<p>The sea, as Euripides says in one of his plays about +Iphigeneia, washes away the stains and wounds of the world.</p> +<p>I hope to be at least a month with my friends, and to gain +peace and balance, and a less troubled heart, and a sweeter +mood. I have a strange longing for the great simple +primeval things, such as the sea, to me no less of a mother than +the Earth. It seems to me that we all look at Nature too +much, and live with her too little. I discern great sanity +in the Greek attitude. They never chattered about sunsets, +or discussed whether the shadows on the grass were really mauve +or not. But they saw that the sea was for the swimmer, and +the sand for the feet of the runner. They loved the trees +for the shadow that they cast, and the forest for its silence at +noon. The vineyard-dresser wreathed his hair with ivy that +he might keep off the rays of the sun as he stooped over the +young shoots, and for the artist and the athlete, the two types +that Greece gave us, they plaited with garlands the leaves of the +bitter laurel and of the wild parsley, which else had been of no +service to men.</p> +<p>We call ours a utilitarian age, and we do not know the uses of +any single thing. We have forgotten that water can cleanse, +and fire purify, and that the Earth is mother to us all. As +a consequence our art is of the moon and plays with shadows, +while Greek art is of the sun and deals directly with +things. I feel sure that in elemental forces there is +purification, and I want to go back to them and live in their +presence.</p> +<p>Of course to one so modern as I am, ‘Enfant de mon +siècle,’ merely to look at the world will be always +lovely. I tremble with pleasure when I think that on the +very day of my leaving prison both the laburnum and the lilac +will be blooming in the gardens, and that I shall see the wind +stir into restless beauty the swaying gold of the one, and make +the other toss the pale purple of its plumes, so that all the air +shall be Arabia for me. Linnaeus fell on his knees and wept +for joy when he saw for the first time the long heath of some +English upland made yellow with the tawny aromatic brooms of the +common furze; and I know that for me, to whom flowers are part of +desire, there are tears waiting in the petals of some rose. +It has always been so with me from my boyhood. There is not +a single colour hidden away in the chalice of a flower, or the +curve of a shell, to which, by some subtle sympathy with the very +soul of things, my nature does not answer. Like Gautier, I +have always been one of those ‘pour qui le monde visible +existe.’</p> +<p>Still, I am conscious now that behind all this beauty, +satisfying though it may be, there is some spirit hidden of which +the painted forms and shapes are but modes of manifestation, and +it is with this spirit that I desire to become in harmony. +I have grown tired of the articulate utterances of men and +things. The Mystical in Art, the Mystical in Life, the +Mystical in Nature this is what I am looking for. It is +absolutely necessary for me to find it somewhere.</p> +<p>All trials are trials for one’s life, just as all +sentences are sentences of death; and three times have I been +tried. The first time I left the box to be arrested, the +second time to be led back to the house of detention, the third +time to pass into a prison for two years. Society, as we +have constituted it, will have no place for me, has none to +offer; but Nature, whose sweet rains fall on unjust and just +alike, will have clefts in the rocks where I may hide, and secret +valleys in whose silence I may weep undisturbed. She will +hang the night with stars so that I may walk abroad in the +darkness without stumbling, and send the wind over my footprints +so that none may track me to my hurt: she will cleanse me in +great waters, and with bitter herbs make me whole.</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DE PROFUNDIS***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 921-h.htm or 921-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/9/2/921 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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