The Modern Essay (1925)
As Mr. Rhys truly says, it is unnecessary to go profoundly into the
history and origin of the essay—whether it derives from Socrates or
Siranney the Persian—since, like all living things, its present is more
important than its past. Moreover, the family is widely spread; and
while some of its representatives have risen in the world and wear their
coronets with the best, others pick up a precarious living in the gutter
near Fleet Street. The form, too, admits variety. The essay can be short
or long, serious or trifling, about God and Spinoza, or about turtles
and Cheapside. But as we turn over the pages of these five little
volumes,[13] containing essays written between 1870 and 1920, certain
principles appear to control the chaos, and we detect in the short
period under review something like the progress of history.
Of all forms of literature, however, the essay is the one which least
calls for the use of long words. The principle which controls it is
simply that it should give pleasure; the desire which impels us when we
take it from the shelf is simply to receive pleasure. Everything in an
essay must be subdued to that end. It should lay us under a spell with
its first word, and we should only wake, refreshed, with its last. In
the interval we may pass through the most various experiences of
amusement, surprise, interest, indignation; we may soar to the heights
of fantasy with Lamb or plunge to the depths of wisdom with Bacon, but
we must never be roused. The essay must lap us about and draw its
curtain across the world.
So great a feat is seldom accomplished, though the fault may well be as
much on the reader’s side as on the writer’s. Habit and lethargy have
dulled his palate. A novel has a story, a poem rhyme; but what art can
the essayist use in these short lengths of prose to sting us wide awake
and fix us in a trance which is not sleep but rather an intensification
of life—a basking, with every faculty alert, in the sun of pleasure? He
must know—that is the first essential—how to write. His learning may
be as profound as Mark Pattison’s, but in an essay it must be so fused
by the magic of writing that not a fact juts out, not a dogma tears the
surface of the texture. Macaulay in one way, Froude in another, did this
superbly over and over again. They have blown more knowledge into us in
the course of one essay than the innumerable chapters of a hundred
text-books. But when Mark Pattison has to tell us, in the space of
thirty-five little pages, about Montaigne, we feel that he had not
previously assimilated M. Grün. M. Grün was a gentleman who once wrote
a bad book. M. Grün and his book should have been embalmed for our
perpetual delight in amber. But the process is fatiguing; it requires
more time and perhaps more temper than Pattison had at his command. He
served M. Grün up raw, and he remains a crude berry among the cook
meats, upon which our teeth must grate for ever. Something of the sort
applies to Matthew Arnold and a certain translator of Spinoza. Literal
truth-telling and finding fault with a culprit for his good are out of
place in an essay, where everything should be for our good and rather
for eternity than for the March number of the _Fortnightly Review_. But
if the voice of the scold should never be heard in this narrow plot,
there is another voice which is as a plague of locusts—the voice of a
man stumbling drowsily among loose words, clutching aimlessly at vague
ideas, the voice, for example, of Mr. Hutton in the following passage:
Add to this that his married life was very brief, only seven years and a
half, being unexpectedly cut short, and that his passionate reverence
for his wife’s memory and genius—in his own words, “a religion”—was
one which, as he must have been perfectly sensible, he could not make to
appear otherwise than extravagant, not to say an hallucination, in the
eyes of the rest of mankind, and yet that he was possessed by an
irresistible yearning to attempt to embody it in all the tender and
enthusiastic hyperbole of which it is so pathetic to find a man who
gained his fame by his “dry-light” a master, and it is impossible not to
feel that the human incidents in Mr. Mill’s career are very sad.
A book could take that blow, but it sinks an essay. A biography in two
volumes is indeed the proper depositary; for there, where the licence is
so much wider, and hints and glimpses of outside things make part of the
feast (we refer to the old type of Victorian volume), these yawns and
stretches hardly matter, and have indeed some positive value of their
own. But that value, which is contributed by the reader, perhaps
illicitly, in his desire to get as much into the book from all possible
sources as he can, must be ruled out here.
There is no room for the impurities of literature in an essay. Somehow
or other, by dint of labour or bounty of nature, or both combined, the
essay must be pure—pure like water or pure like wine, but pure from
dullness, deadness, and deposits of extraneous matter. Of all writers in
the first volume, Walter Pater best achieves this arduous task, because
before setting out to write his essay (“Notes on Leonardo da Vinci”) he
has somehow contrived to get his material fused. He is a learned man,
but it is not knowledge of Leonardo that remains with us, but a vision,
such as we get in a good novel where everything contributes to bring the
writer’s conception as a whole before us. Only here, in the essay, where
the bounds are so strict and facts have to be used in their nakedness,
the true writer like Walter Pater makes these limitations yield their
own quality. Truth will give it authority; from its narrow limits he
will get shape and intensity; and then there is no more fitting place
for some of those ornaments which the old writers loved and we, by
calling them ornaments, presumably despise. Nowadays nobody would have
the courage to embark on the once famous description of Leonardo’s lady
who has
learned the secrets of the grave; and has been a diver in deep seas and
keeps their fallen day about her; and trafficked for strange webs with
Eastern merchants; and, as Leda, was the mother of Helen of Troy, and,
as Saint Anne, the mother of Mary . . .
The passage is too thumb-marked to slip naturally into the context. But
when we come unexpectedly upon “the smiling of women and the motion of
great waters”, or upon “full of the refinement of the dead, in sad,
earth-coloured raiment, set with pale stones”, we suddenly remember that
we have ears and we have eyes, and that the English language fills a
long array of stout volumes with innumerable words, many of which are of
more than one syllable. The only living Englishman who ever looks into
these volumes is, of course, a gentleman of Polish extraction. But
doubtless our abstention saves us much gush, much rhetoric, much
high-stepping and cloud-prancing, and for the sake of the prevailing
sobriety and hard-headedness we should be willing to barter the
splendour of Sir Thomas Browne and the vigour of Swift.
Yet, if the essay admits more properly than biography or fiction of
sudden boldness and metaphor, and can be polished till every atom of its
surface shines, there are dangers in that too. We are soon in sight of
ornament. Soon the current, which is the life-blood of literature, runs
slow; and instead of sparkling and flashing or moving with a quieter
impulse which has a deeper excitement, words coagulate together in
frozen sprays which, like the grapes on a Christmas-tree, glitter for a
single night, but are dusty and garish the day after. The temptation to
decorate is great where the theme may be of the slightest. What is there
to interest another in the fact that one has enjoyed a walking tour, or
has amused oneself by rambling down Cheapside and looking at the turtles
in Mr. Sweeting’s shop window? Stevenson and Samuel Butler chose very
different methods of exciting our interest in these domestic themes.
Stevenson, of course, trimmed and polished and set out his matter in the
traditional eighteenth-century form. It is admirably done, but we cannot
help feeling anxious, as the essay proceeds, lest the material may give
out under the craftsman’s fingers. The ingot is so small, the
manipulation so incessant. And perhaps that is why the peroration—
To sit still and contemplate—to remember the faces of women without
desire, to be pleased by the great deeds of men without envy, to be
everything and everywhere in sympathy and yet content to remain where
and what you are—
has the sort of insubstantiality which suggests that by the time he got
to the end he had left himself nothing solid to work with. Butler
adopted the very opposite method. Think your own thoughts, he seems to
say, and speak them as plainly as you can. These turtles in the shop
window which appear to leak out of their shells through heads and feet
suggest a fatal faithfulness to a fixed idea. And so, striding
unconcernedly from one idea to the next, we traverse a large stretch of
ground; observe that a wound in the solicitor is a very serious thing;
that Mary Queen of Scots wears surgical boots and is subject to fits
near the Horse Shoe in Tottenham Court Road; take it for granted that no
one really cares about Æschylus; and so, with many amusing anecdotes
and some profound reflections, reach the peroration, which is that, as
he had been told not to see more in Cheapside than he could get into
twelve pages of the _Universal Review_, he had better stop. And yet
obviously Butler is at least as careful of our pleasure as Stevenson;
and to write like oneself and call it not writing is a much harder
exercise in style than to write like Addison and call it writing well.
But, however much they differ individually, the Victorian essayists yet
had something in common. They wrote at greater length than is now usual,
and they wrote for a public which had not only time to sit down to its
magazine seriously, but a high, if peculiarly Victorian, standard of
culture by which to judge it. It was worth while to speak out upon
serious matters in an essay; and there was nothing absurd in writing as
well as one possibly could when, in a month or two, the same public
which had welcomed the essay in a magazine would carefully read it once
more in a book. But a change came from a small audience of cultivated
people to a larger audience of people who were not quite so cultivated.
The change was not altogether for the worse. In volume III. we find Mr.
Birrell and Mr. Beerbohm. It might even be said that there was a
reversion to the classic type, and that the essay by losing its size and
something of its sonority was approaching more nearly the essay of
Addison and Lamb. At any rate, there is a great gulf between Mr. Birrell
on Carlyle and the essay which one may suppose that Carlyle would have
written upon Mr. Birrell. There is little similarity between _A Cloud of
Pinafores_, by Max Beerbohm, and _A Cynic’s Apology_, by Leslie Stephen.
But the essay is alive; there is no reason to despair. As the conditions
change so the essayist, most sensitive of all plants to public opinion,
adapts himself, and if he is good makes the best of the change, and if
he is bad the worst. Mr. Birrell is certainly good; and so we find that,
though he has dropped a considerable amount of weight, his attack is
much more direct and his movement more supple. But what did Mr. Beerbohm
give to the essay and what did he take from it? That is a much more
complicated question, for here we have an essayist who has concentrated
on the work and is without doubt the prince of his profession.
What Mr. Beerbohm gave was, of course, himself. This presence, which has
haunted the essay fitfully from the time of Montaigne, had been in exile
since the death of Charles Lamb. Matthew Arnold was never to his readers
Matt, nor Walter Pater affectionately abbreviated in a thousand homes to
Wat. They gave us much, but that they did not give. Thus, some time in
the nineties, it must have surprised readers accustomed to exhortation,
information, and denunciation to find themselves familiarly addressed by
a voice which seemed to belong to a man no larger than themselves. He
was affected by private joys and sorrows, and had no gospel to preach
and no learning to impart. He was himself, simply and directly, and
himself he has remained. Once again we have an essayist capable of using
the essayist’s most proper but most dangerous and delicate tool. He has
brought personality into literature, not unconsciously and impurely, but
so consciously and purely that we do not know whether there is any
relation between Max the essayist and Mr. Beerbohm the man. We only know
that the spirit of personality permeates every word that he writes. The
triumph is the triumph of style. For it is only by knowing how to write
that you can make use in literature of your self; that self which, while
it is essential to literature, is also its most dangerous antagonist.
Never to be yourself and yet always—that is the problem. Some of the
essayists in Mr. Rhys’ collection, to be frank, have not altogether
succeeded in solving it. We are nauseated by the sight of trivial
personalities decomposing in the eternity of print. As talk, no doubt,
it was charming, and certainly the writer is a good fellow to meet over
a bottle of beer. But literature is stern; it is no use being charming,
virtuous, or even learned and brilliant into the bargain, unless, she
seems to reiterate, you fulfil her first condition—to know how to
write.
This art is possessed to perfection by Mr. Beerbohm. But he has not
searched the dictionary for polysyllables. He has not moulded firm
periods or seduced our ears with intricate cadences and strange
melodies. Some of his companions—Henley and Stevenson, for example—are
momentarily more impressive. But _A Cloud of Pinafores_ had in it that
indescribable inequality, stir, and final expressiveness which belong to
life and to life alone. You have not finished with it because you have
read it, any more than friendship is ended because it is time to part.
Life wells up and alters and adds. Even things in a book-case change if
they are alive; we find ourselves wanting to meet them again; we find
them altered. So we look back upon essay after essay by Mr. Beerbohm,
knowing that, come September or May, we shall sit down with them and
talk. Yet it is true that the essayist is the most sensitive of all
writers to public opinion. The drawing-room is the place where a great
deal of reading is done nowadays, and the essays of Mr. Beerbohm lie,
with an exquisite appreciation of all that the position exacts, upon the
drawing-room table. There is no gin about; no strong tobacco; no puns,
drunkenness, or insanity. Ladies and gentlemen talk together, and some
things, of course, are not said.
But if it would be foolish to attempt to confine Mr. Beerbohm to one
room, it would be still more foolish, unhappily, to make him, the
artist, the man who gives us only his best, the representative of our
age. There are no essays by Mr. Beerbohm in the fourth or fifth volumes
of the present collection. His age seems already a little distant, and
the drawing-room table, as it recedes, begins to look rather like an
altar where, once upon a time, people deposited offerings—fruit from
their own orchards, gifts carved with their own hands. Now once more the
conditions have changed. The public needs essays as much as ever, and
perhaps even more. The demand for the light middle not exceeding fifteen
hundred words, or in special cases seventeen hundred and fifty, much
exceeds the supply. Where Lamb wrote one essay and Max perhaps writes
two, Mr. Belloc at a rough computation produces three hundred and
sixty-five. They are very short, it is true. Yet with what dexterity the
practised essayist will utilise his space—beginning as close to the top
of the sheet as possible, judging precisely how far to go, when to turn,
and how, without sacrificing a hair’s-breadth of paper, to wheel about
and alight accurately upon the last word his editor allows! As a feat of
skill it is well worth watching. But the personality upon which Mr.
Belloc, like Mr. Beerbohm, depends suffers in the process. It comes to
us not with the natural richness of the speaking voice, but strained and
thin and full of mannerisms and affectations, like the voice of a man
shouting through a megaphone to a crowd on a windy day. “Little friends,
my readers,” he says in the essay called “An Unknown Country”, and he
goes on to tell us how—
There was a shepherd the other day at Findon Fair who had come from the
east by Lewes with sheep, and who had in his eyes that reminiscence of
horizons which makes the eyes of shepherds and of mountaineers different
from the eyes of other men. . . . I went with him to hear what he had to
say, for shepherds talk quite differently from other men.
Happily this shepherd had little to say, even under the stimulus of the
inevitable mug of beer, about the Unknown Country, for the only remark
that he did make proves him either a minor poet, unfit for the care of
sheep, or Mr. Belloc himself masquerading with a fountain pen. That is
the penalty which the habitual essayist must now be prepared to face. He
must masquerade. He cannot afford the time either to be himself or to be
other people. He must skim the surface of thought and dilute the
strength of personality. He must give us a worn weekly halfpenny instead
of a solid sovereign once a year.
But it is not Mr. Belloc only who has suffered from the prevailing
conditions. The essays which bring the collection to the year 1920 may
not be the best of their authors’ work, but, if we except writers like
Mr. Conrad and Mr. Hudson, who have strayed into essay writing
accidentally, and concentrate upon those who write essays habitually, we
shall find them a good deal affected by the change in their
circumstances. To write weekly, to write daily, to write shortly, to
write for busy people catching trains in the morning or for tired people
coming home in the evening, is a heart-breaking task for men who know
good writing from bad. They do it, but instinctively draw out of harm’s
way anything precious that might be damaged by contact with the public,
or anything sharp that might irritate its skin. And so, if one reads Mr.
Lucas, Mr. Lynd, or Mr. Squire in the bulk, one feels that a common
greyness silvers everything. They are as far removed from the
extravagant beauty of Walter Pater as they are from the intemperate
candour of Leslie Stephen. Beauty and courage are dangerous spirits to
battle in a column and a half; and thought, like a brown paper parcel in
a waistcoat pocket, has a way of spoiling the symmetry of an article. It
is a kind, tired, apathetic world for which they write, and the marvel
is that they never cease to attempt, at least, to write well.
But there is no need to pity Mr. Clutton Brock for this change in the
essayist’s conditions. He has clearly made the best of his circumstances
and not the worst. One hesitates even to say that he has had to make any
conscious effort in the matter, so naturally has he effected the
transition from the private essayist to the public, from the
drawing-room to the Albert Hall. Paradoxically enough, the shrinkage in
size has brought about a corresponding expansion of individuality. We
have no longer the “I” of Max and of Lamb, but the “we” of public bodies
and other sublime personages. It is “we” who go to hear the _Magic
Flute_; “we” who ought to profit by it; “we”, in some mysterious way,
who, in our corporate capacity, once upon a time actually wrote it. For
music and literature and art must submit to the same generalisation or
they will not carry to the farthest recesses of the Albert Hall. That
the voice of Mr. Clutton Brock, so sincere and so disinterested, carries
such a distance and reaches so many without pandering to the weakness of
the mass or its passions must be a matter of legitimate satisfaction to
us all. But while “we” are gratified, “I”, that unruly partner in the
human fellowship, is reduced to despair. “I” must always think things
for himself, and feel things for himself. To share them in a diluted
form with the majority of well-educated and well-intentioned men and
women is for him sheer agony; and while the rest of us listen intently
and profit profoundly, “I” slips off to the woods and the fields and
rejoices in a single blade of grass or a solitary potato.
In the fifth volume of modern essays, it seems, we have got some way
from pleasure and the art of writing. But in justice to the essayists of
1920 we must be sure that we are not praising the famous because they
have been praised already and the dead because we shall never meet them
wearing spats in Piccadilly. We must know what we mean when we say that
they can write and give us pleasure. We must compare them; we must bring
out the quality. We must point to this and say it is good because it is
exact, truthful, and imaginative:
Nay, retire men cannot when they would; neither will they, when it were
Reason; but are impatient of Privateness, even in age and sickness,
which require the shadow: like old Townsmen: that will still be sitting
at their street door, though thereby they offer Age to Scorn . . .
and to this, and say it is bad because it is loose, plausible, and
commonplace:
With courteous and precise cynicism on his lips, he thought of quiet
virginal chambers, of waters singing under the moon, of terraces where
taintless music sobbed into the open night, of pure maternal mistresses
with protecting arms and vigilant eyes, of fields slumbering in the
sunlight, of leagues of ocean heaving under warm tremulous heavens, of
hot ports, gorgeous and perfumed. . . .
It goes on, but already we are bemused with sound and neither feel nor
hear. The comparison makes us suspect that the art of writing has for
backbone some fierce attachment to an idea. It is on the back of an
idea, something believed in with conviction or seen with precision and
thus compelling words to its shape, that the diverse company which
included Lamb and Bacon, and Mr. Beerbohm and Hudson, and Vernon Lee and
Mr. Conrad, and Leslie Stephen and Butler and Walter Pater reaches the
farther shore. Very various talents have helped or hindered the passage
of the idea into words. Some scrape through painfully; others fly with
every wind favouring. But Mr. Belloc and Mr. Lucas and Mr. Lynd and Mr.
Squire are not fiercely attached to anything in itself. They share the
contemporary dilemma—that lack of an obstinate conviction which lifts
ephemeral sounds through the misty sphere of anybody’s language to the
land where there is a perpetual marriage, a perpetual union. Vague as
all definitions are, a good essay must have this permanent quality about
it; it must draw its curtain round us, but it must be a curtain that
shuts us in, not out.
[Footnote 13: _Modern English Essays_, edited by Ernest Rhys,
5 vols. (Dent).]