Kitabı oku: «Rab and His Friends and Other Papers», sayfa 16

RIZPAH

Take one of Turner's sketches in his Liber Studiorum, a book which, for truth and power, and the very highest imaginative vis, must be compared, not with any other book of prints, but with such word-pictures as you find in Dante, in Cowper, in Wordsworth, or in Milton. It is a dark foreground filled with gloom, savage and wild in its structure; a few grim heavy trees deepen the gloom: in the centre, and going out into the illimitable sky, is a brief, irregular bit of the purest radiance, luminous, but far off. There is a strange meaning about the place; it is "not uninformed with phantasy, and looks that threaten the profane." You look more keenly into it. In the centre of the foreground sits a woman, her face hidden, her whole form settled down as by some deep sorrow; she holds up, but with her face averted, a flaming torch; behind, and around her, lie stretched out seven bodies as of men, half-naked, and dimly indicating far-gone decay; at their feet are what seem like crowns. There is a lion seen with extended tail slinking off, and a bittern has just sprung up in the corner from a reedy pool. The waning moon is lying as if fainting in the grey heavens. The harvest sheaves stand near at hand, against the sky. The picture deepens in its gloom. The torch gives more of its fitful light as you steadily gaze. What is all this? These are two sons and five grandsons of Saul, who "fell all seven together, and were put to death in the days of harvest, in the beginning of barley harvest." And she who sits there solitary is "Rizpah, the daughter of Aiah, who took sackcloth, and spread it for her upon the rock, from the beginning of harvest until water dropped upon them out of heaven, and suffered neither the birds of the air to rest on them by day, nor the beasts of the field by night." For five months did this desolate mother watch by the bodies of her sons! She is at her ceaseless work, morn, noon, and night incessantly. How your heart now fills, as well as your eyes! How you realize the idea! What a sacred significance it gives to the place, and receives from it! What thoughts it awakens! Saul and his miserable story, David and his lamentation, the mountains of Gil-boa, the streets of Askelon. The king of beasts slinking off once more, hungry, angry, and afraid – finding her still there. The barley sheaves, indicating by a touch of wonderful genius, that it is nearer the beginning than the end of her time, so that we project our sympathy forward upon the future months. No one but a great artist would have thought of this. And that unfailing, forlorn woman, what love! That only love which He whose name and nature it has honoured by admitting to be nearest, though at an infinite distance from His own. "Can a woman forget? – Yea, she may forget." Here we have a scene in itself impressive, and truthfully rendered, enriched, and sanctified by a subject of the highest dignity, and deepest tenderness, and in perfect harmony with it.

Many may say we bring out much that is not in it. This maybe partly true, and is rather to that extent an enhancement of its worth. But the real truth is, that there is all this in it, if it be but sought for and received in simplicity and reverence. The materials for imagination are there; let the spectator apprehend them in the like spirit, and he will feel all, and more than we have described. Let a man try to bring anything out of some of the many landscapes we see in our Exhibitions, and he may be strong and willing, but it will prove too hard for him; it is true here as everywhere else —ex nihilo nihil Jit – ex parvo, parvum – ex falso, falsum – ex magno, magnum – ex Deo, Optimo, Maximo, maximum, optimum, divinum.

THE GLEN OF THE ENTERKIN

This is a representation by Mr. Harvey of a deep, upland valley; its truthfulness is so absolute, that the geologist could tell from it what formation was under that grass. The store-farmer could say how many sheep it could feed, and what breed those are which are busy nibbling on that sunny slope. The botanist could tell not only that that is a fern, but that it is the Aspidium filix-mas; and the naturalist knows that that water-wagtail on that stone is the Motacilla Yarrelli. To all this, the painter has added his own thoughts and feelings when he saw and when he painted this consummate picture. It is his idea of the place, and, like all realized ideals, it has first crept into his study of imagination, before it comes into the eye and prospect of his soul or of ours. We feel the spirit of the place, its gentleness, its unspeakable seclusion. The one shepherd with his dog far up on the hillside, grey and steadfast as any stone, adding the element of human solitude, which intensifies the rest. It were worth one's while to go alone to that glen to feel its beauty, and to know something of what is meant by the "sleep that is among the lonely hills," and to feel, moreover, how much more beautiful, how much more full of life the picture is than the reality, unless indeed we have the seeing eye, the understanding heart, and then we may make a picture to ourselves.

DAWN – LUTHER IN THE CONVENT LIBRARY AT ERFURT

This is, we think, Mr. Paton's best work. We do not say his greatest, for that may be held to include quantity of genius as well as quality. He has done other things as full of imagination, and more full of fancy; but there is a seriousness and depth, a moral and spiritual meaning and worth about this which he has never before shown, and which fully deserve the word best.

The picture requires no explanation. It is Luther, the young monk of four-and-twenty, in the Library of the Convent of Erfurt. He is at his desk, leaning almost wildly forward, one knee on the seat – its foot has dropped the rude and worn sandal – the other foot on the floor, as it were pressing him forward. He is gazing into the open pages of a huge Vulgate – we see it is the early chapters of the Romans. A bit of broken chain indicates that the Bible was once chained – to be read, but not possessed – it is now free, and his own. His right hand is eagerly, passionately drawing the volume close to him. His face is emaciated to painfulness; you see the traces of a sleepless night – the mind sleepless, and worse, seeking rest, and as yet finding none, but about to find it – and this takes away from what might otherwise be a plus of pain. Next moment he will come upon – or it on him – the light from heaven, shining out from the words, "Therefore being justified by faith we have peace with God and in intimation of this, His dawn, the sweet, pearly light of morning, shining in at the now open lattice, is reflected from the page upon his keen anxious face – faint yet pursuing." If you look steadily into that face, you will see that the bones of the mighty Reformer's face, so well known to us, are all there, and need but good food and sleep, and the open air, and peace of mind, and the joy of victorious faith and work, to fill it up and make it plump, giving it that look of energy in repose, of enough and to spare, of masculine power, which that broad, massive, but soft and kindly visage, wears written all over it; and the slightly upturned head, the clear, open, deep eyes, and that rich chin and neck, "dewlapped like a Thessalian bull."

And we know that all this misery, and examination, and wasting are true. We know that when his friend Alexis was struck down dead by lightning at his side as they walked together, he also was struck down in his mind; and in the words of Principal Tulloch in his admirable sketch, he carried out his resolve in a way curiously and entirely his own – "One evening he invites some of his fellow-students to supper, gives them of his best cheer, music and jest enliven the company, and the entertainment closes with a burst of merriment. The same night there is a solitary knock at the door of the Augustinian Convent, and two volumes alone of all his books in his hand – Plautus and Virgil – Luther passes under its portal." Three long, dreary years he has been there; doing all sorts of servile work – sweeping the floors, begging in the streets with his wallet – "Saccum per nackum" – for food and dainties to his lazy brethren. Sometimes four days without meat or drink – hiding himself for a week with his books in his cell, where, when broken in upon, he is found lying cold and senseless on the floor; and all this bodily wretchedness, struggle, and unrest but a material type of the mental agony within trying to work out his own salvation with all sorts of "fear and trembling." And now the natural dawn has found him still at his book, and is pouring its "innocent brightness" everywhere, and its fresh airs are stirring the white blossoms of the convolvulus outside, and making them flutter and look in like doves – the dew of their youth and of the morning glistering, if looked for. And this time it has found him with his morn beginning too – the clear shining after the rain, the night far past, the day at hand; he has "cast off the works of darkness, and put on the armour of light." The Sun of Righteousness is about to arise upon him. Henceforth you know well what he is to become and do – a child of the light, he walks abroad like one, and at liberty he goes forth upon his work, rejoicing like a strong man to run his race. That great human spirit finds rest and a resting-place – has got that fulcrum on which, with his strong heart and his lever, he is to move a world. That warm, urgent, tender, impetuous human heart is to be satisfied with the fellowship of his kind, and with the love of his Catherine – "his heart-loved housewife and sow-marketress, and whatever more she may be" – and to run over in babble (as who ever else did?) to his "Johnny," his "Philip and his Joe," or overflow with tears as he looks on his "darling Lena" in her coffin, saving, "How strange it is to know so surely that she is at peace and happy, and yet for me to be so sad."

And now that this dominant, central idea – which is the heart and soul, the motive power of the piece – is taken in and moves you, examine the rest – the great Vulgate and St. Augustine De Civitate Dei, and Thomas Aquinas, and the other old fellows, old and strong, lying all about, as if taken up and thrown down in restless search, how wonderfully they are painted! or rather, how wonderfully you never think of them as painted! and yet they are not merely imitated – you don't mistake them for actual books, they are the realized ideas of books. And that sacred, unspeakable scene, dim, yet unmistakable, looking out upon you from the back of his desk – the Agony of the Garden – carved and partly coloured and gilt; look at it – that is religious painting. Our Saviour on his knees "praying more earnestly" – the sleepers lying around – the mystic, heavy, sombre olive-trees, shutting out the light of heaven, and letting the lanterns of those "with swords and staves" gleam among their stems; him who was a thief, crouching, stealing on with his bag and his crew, and the curse heavy upon him – all this is in it, and all subordinate, and yet done to the quick, as if a young Albert Durer or Van Eyck had had his knife in the wood, and his soul at his knife. Then, on the plastered wall behind the young monk is an oval portrait of Alexander the Sixth, the tremendous Borgia, that prodigy of crime and power – his face, what a contrast to the wasted boy's beneath! he is fat and flourishing, rosy and full of blood and of the pride of life, insolent and at his ease; Luther like a young branch all but withered in the leaves of his spring – the Vicar of God spreading like a green bay tree. He is holding up his two first fingers in the Apostolic benediction, with a something between a scowl and a leer – all this rendered, and yet nothing overdone. This portrait hangs on a rude drawing of the Crucifixion, as if by a young and adoring hand, full of feeling and with a touching uncertainty in the lines, as if the hand that traced it was unaccustomed and trembling; it conceals our Saviour's face. As we have said, the lattice has been opened, and the breath of the morning is flowing into the dark, stifling room. The night lamp has gone out, paling its ineffectual fires, and its reek is curling up and down, and away. This, as a piece of handiwork, is wonderful. When you look narrowly into the picture, you see a chrysalis in the gloom, just opening its case, ready when struck by the light and heat to expand and fly. The sunlight throws across towards Borgia the rich blooms of the stained glass, the light made gloriously false in passing through its disturbing medium; while the pure, white light of heaven passes straight down upon the Word of God, and shines up into the face of the young reader.

Such is a mere notion of this excellent picture; it is painted throughout with amazing precision, delicacy, sweetness, and strength, in perfect diapason from first to last, everything subordinate to the one master note. Every one will be surprised, and some may be shocked, at the face, and hands, and look of Luther, but let them remember where he is, and what he has been and is doing and suffering. This amount of pain gives a strange and true relish, if it is taken up and overpowered and transfigured into its opposite by our knowledge that it was to be "but for a moment," and then the "fat-more exceeding" victory and joy.

BEAUTY, ABSOLUTE AND RELATIVE

We are not now going to try our 'prentice hand upon a new theory of Beauty, after so many masters have failed; but we cannot help thinking that the dispute would be at an end if it were but allowed at once, that there are two kinds of beauty, that there is a material and necessary element of beauty, and another which is contingent and relative – a natural and a spiritual delightfulness to and through the eye; and that sometimes we see both together, as in the face and eyes of a beautiful and beloved woman; and moreover, that there is no more reason for denying either the sense or the emotion of beauty, because everybody does not agree about the kind or measure of either of these qualities in all objects, than there is for affirming that there is no such thing as veracity or natural affection, because the Spartans commended lying, and the Cretians practised it, or the New Zealanders the eating of one's grandmother. Why should the eye, the noblest, the amplest, the most informing of all our senses, be deprived of its own special delight? The light is sweet, and it is a pleasant thing for the eye to behold the sun; and why, when the ear has sound for informing, and music for delight – when there is smell and odour, taste and flavour, and even the touch has its sense of pleasant smoothness and softness – why should there not be in the eye a pleasure born and dying with the sights it sees? it is like the infinite loving-kindness of Him who made the trees of the garden pleasant to the eye as well as good for food. We say nothing here of Relative or Associative Beauty, – this has never been doubted either in its essence or its value. It is as much larger in its range, as much nobler in its meaning and uses, as the heavens are higher than the earth, or as the soul transcends the body. This, too, gives back to material beauty more than it received: it was after man was made, that God saw, and, behold, everything was very good.

Our readers may perhaps think we make too much of imagination as an essential element – as the essential element – in Art. With our views of its function and its pervading influence in all the ideal arts, we can give it no other place. A man can no more be a poet or painter in the spiritual and only true sense without imagination, than an animal can be a bird without wings; and as, other things being equal, that bird can be longest on the wing and has the greatest range of flight which has the strongest pinions, so that painter is likely to have the farthest and keenest vision of all that is within the scope of his art, and the surest and most ample faculty of making known to others what he himself has seen, whose imagination is at once the most strong and quick. At the same time, if it be true that the body without the spirit is dead, so it is equally true that the spirit without the body is vain, ineffectual, fruitless. Imagination alone can no more make a painter or a poet than wings can constitute a bird. Each must have a body. Unfortunately, in painting we have more than enough of body without spirit. Correct drawing, wonderful imitative powers, cleverness, adaptiveness, great facility and dexterity of hand, much largeness of quotation, and many material and mechanical qualities, all go to form an amusing, and, it may be, useful spectacle, but not a true picture. We have also, but not so often, the reverse of all this, – the vision without the faculty, the soul without the body, great thoughts without the power to embody them in intelligible forms. He, and he alone, is a great painter, and an heir of time, who combines both. He must have observation, – humble, loving, unerring, unwearied; this is the material out of which a painter, like a poet, feeds his genius, and "makes grow his wings." There must be perception and conception, both vigorous, quick, and true: you must have these two primary qualities, the one first, the other last, in every great painter. Give him good sense and a good memory, it will be all the better for him and for us. As for principles of drawing and perspective, they are not essential. A man who paints according to a principle is sure to paint ill; he may apply his principles after his work is done, if he has a philosophic as well as an ideal turn.

"OH, I'M WAT, WAT."

The father of the Rev. Mr. Steven of Largs, was the son of a farmer, who lived next farm to Mossgiel. When a boy of eight, he found "Robbie," who was a great friend of his, and of all the children, engaged digging a large trench in a field, Gilbert, his brother, with him. The boy pausing on the edge of the trench, and looking down upon Burns, said, "Robbie, what's that ye' re doin'?"

"How kin' a muckle hole, Tammie."

"What for?"

"To bury the Deil in, Tammie!" (one can fancy how those eyes would glow.) "Ay but, Robbie," said the logical Tammie, "hoo' re ye to gel him in?"

"Ay," said Burns, "that's it, hoo are we to get him in!" and went off into shouts of laughter; and every now and then during that summer day shouts would come from that hole, as the idea came over him. If one could only have daguerreotyped his day's fancies!

"What is love, Mary?" said Seventeen to Thirteen, who was busy with her English lessons.

"Love! what do you mean, John?"

"I mean, what's love?"

"Love's just love, I suppose."

(Yes, Mary, you are right to keep the concrete; analysis kills love as well as other things. I once asked a useful-information young lady what her mother was. "Oh, mamma's a biped!" I turned in dismay to her younger sister, and said, "What do you say?" "Oh, my mother's just my mother.")

"But what part of speech is it?"

"It's a substantive or a verb." (Young Horne Tooke didn't ask her if it was an active or passive, an irregular or defective verb; an inceptive, as calesco, I grow warm, or dulcesco, I grow sweet; a frequentative or a desiderative, as nupturio, I desire to marry.)

"I think it is a verb," said John, who was deep in other diversions besides those of Burley; "and I think it must have been originally the Perfect of Live, like thrive, throve, strive, strove."

"Capital, John!" suddenly growled Uncle Oldbuck, who was supposed to be asleep in his arm-chair by the fireside, and who snubbed and supported the entire household. "It was that originally, and it will be our own faults, children, if it is not that at last, as well as, ay, and more than at first. What does Richardson say, John? read him out." John reads —

After this, Uncle sent the cousins to their beds. John's mother was in hers, never to rise from it again. She was a widow, and Mary was her husband's niece. The house quiet, Uncle sat down in his chair, put his feet on the fender, and watched the dying fire; it had a rich central glow, but no flame, and no smoke, it was flashing up fitfully, and bit by bit falling in. He fell asleep watching it, and when he slept, he dreamed.

He was young; he was seventeen, he was prowling about the head of North St. David Street, keeping his eye on a certain door, – we call them common stairs in Scotland. He was waiting for Mr. White's famous English class for girls coming out. Presently out rushed four or five girls, wild and laughing; then came one, bounding like a roe!

 
"Such eyes were in her head,
And so much grace and power!"
 

She was surrounded by the rest, and away they went laughing, she making them always laugh the more. Seventeen followed at a safe distance, studying her small, firm, downright heel. The girls dropped off one by one, and she was away home by herself, swift and reserved. He, impostor as he was, disappeared through Jamaica Street, to reappear and meet her, walking as if on urgent business, and getting a cordial and careless nod. This beautiful girl of thirteen was afterwards the mother of our Mary, and died in giving her birth. She was Uncle Old-buck's first and only sweetheart; and here was he, the only help our young Horne Tooke, and his mother and Mary had. Uncle awoke, the fire dead, and the room cold. He found himself repeating Lady John Scott's lines —

 
"When thou art near me,
Sorrow seems to fly,
And then I think, as well I may,
That on this earth there is no one
More blest than I.
 
 
But when thou leav'st me,
Doubts and fears arise, \
And darkness reigns,
Where all before was light.
The sunshine of my soul
Is in those eyes,
And when they leave me
All the world is night.
But when thou art near me,
Sorrow seems to fly,
And then I feel, as well I may,
That on this earth there dwells not one
So blest as I." ³⁸
 

Then taking down Chambers's Scottish Songs, he read aloud: —

 
"O, I'm wat, wat,
O, I'm wat and weary;
Yet fain wad I rise and rin,
If I thocht I would meet my dearie.
Aye wankin', O!
Wankin' aye, and weary;
Sleep I can get nane
For thinkin' o' my dearie.
 
 
Simmer's a pleasant time,
Flowers o' every colour;
The wafer rins ower the heugh,
And I long for my true lover.
 
 
When I sleep I dream,
When I wauk I'm eerie,
Sleep I can get nane,
For thinkin' o' my dearie.
 
 
Lanely nicht comes on,
A' the lave are sleepin';
I think on my true love,
And blear my een wi' greetin'.
 
 
Feather beds are saft —
Pentit rooms are bonnie;
But ae kiss o' my dear love
Better's far than ony.
 
 
O for Friday nicht!
Friday at the gloamin';
O for Friday nicht —
Friday's lang o' cornin'!"
 

This love-song, which Mr. Chambers gives from recitation, is, thinks Uncle to himself, all but perfect; Burns, who in almost every instance, not only adorned, but transformed and purified whatever of the old he touched, breathing into it his own tenderness and strength, fails here, as may be seen in reading his version: —

 
"Oh, spring's a pleasant time
Flowers o' every colour —
The sweet bird builds her nest,
And I lang for my lover.
Aye wakin', oh!
Wakin' aye and wearie:
Sleep I can get nane,
For thinkin' o' my dearie!
 
 
When I sleep I dream,
When I wauk I'm eerie,
Rest I canna get,
For thinkin' o' my dearie.
Aye wakin', oh!
Wakin' aye and weary,
Come, come, blissful dream,
Bring me to my dearie.
 
 
Darksome nicht comes doun —
A the lave are sleepin';
I think on my kind lad.
And blin' my een wi' greetin'.
Aye wakin', oh!
Wakin' aye and weary;
Hope is sweet, but ne'er
Sae sweet as my dearie!"
 

How weak these italics! No one can doubt which of these is the better. The old song is perfect in the procession, and in the simple beauty of its thoughts and words. A ploughman or shepherd – for I hold that it is a man's song – comes in "wat, wat" after a hard day's work among the furrows or on the hill. The wat ness of wat, wat, is as much wetter than wet as a Scotch mist is more of a mist than an English one; and he is not only wat, wat, but "weary," longing for a dry skin and a warm bed and rest; but no sooner said and felt, than, by the law of contrast, he thinks on "Mysie" or "Ailie," his Genevieve; and then "all thoughts, all passions, all delights" begin to stir him, and "fain wad I rise and rin" (what a swiftness beyond run is "rin"!) Love now makes him a poet; the true imaginative power enters and takes possession of him. By this time his clothes are off, and he is snug in bed; not a wink can he sleep; that "fain" is domineering over him, – and he breaks out into what is as genuine passion and poetry, as anything from Sappho to Tennyson – abrupt, vivid, heedless of syntax. "Simmer's a pleasant time." Would any of our greatest geniuses, being limited to one word, have done better than take "pleasant"? and then the fine vagueness of "time"! "Flowers o' every colour;" he gets a glimpse of "herself a fairer flower," and is off in pursuit. "The water rins ower the heugh" (a steep precipice); flinging itself wildly, passionately over, and so do I long for my true lover. Nothing can be simpler and finer than

 
"When I sleep, I dream;
When I wauk, I'm eerie."
 

"Lanely nicht;" how much richer and more touching than "darksome."

"Feather beds are saft;" "pentit rooms are bonnie;" I would infer from this, that his "dearie," his "true love," was a lass up at "the big house" – a dapper Abigail possibly – at Sir William's at the Castle, and then we have the final paroxysm upon Friday nicht – Friday at the gloamin'! O for Friday nicht! – Friday's lang o' cornin'! – it being very likely Thursday before day-break when this affectionate ululatus ended in repose.

Now, is not this rude ditty, made very likely by some clumsy, big-headed Galloway herd, full of the real stuff of love? He does not go off upon her eye-brows, or even her eyes; he does not sit down, and in a genteel way announce that "love in thine eyes for ever sits," etc. etc., or that her feet look out from under her petticoats like little mice: he is far past that; he is not making love, he is in it. This is one and a chief charm of Burns' love-songs, which are certainly of all love-songs except those wild snatches left to us by her who flung herself from the Leucadian rock, the most in earnest, the tenderest, the "most moving delicate and full of life." Burns makes you feel the reality and the depth, the truth of his passion: it is not her eyelashes, or her nose, or her dimple, or even

 
"A mole cinque-spotted, like the crimson drops
I' the bottom of a cowslip,"
 

that are "winging the fervour of his love;" not even her soul; it is herself. This concentration and earnestness, this perfervor of our Scottish love poetry, seems to me to contrast curiously with the light, trifling, philandering of the English; indeed, as far as I remember, we have almost no love-songs in English, of the same class as this one, or those of Burns. They are mostly either of the genteel, or of the nautical (some of these capital), or of the comic school. Do you know the most perfect, the finest love-song in our or in any language; the love being affectionate more than passionate, love in possession not in pursuit?

 
"Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast
On yonder lea, on yonder lea,
My plaidie to the angry airt,
I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee:
Or did Misfortune's bitter storms
Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,
Thy bield should be my bosom,
To share it a', to share it a'.
 
 
"Or were I in the wildest waste,
Sae black and bare, sae black and bare,
The desert were a paradise,
If thou wert there, if thou wert there;
Or were I monarch o' the globe,
Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign,
The brightest jewel in my crown
Wad be my queen, wad be my queen."
 

The following is Mr. Chambers's account of the origin of this song: – Jessy Lewars had a call one morning from Burns. He offered, if she would play him any tune of which she was fond, and for which she desired new verses, that he would do his best to gratify her wish. She sat down at the piano, and played over and over the air of an old song, beginning with the words —

 
"The robin cam' to the wren's nest,
And keekit in, and keekit in:
'O wae's me on your auld pow!
Wad ye be in, wad ye be in?
Ye'se ne'er get leave to lie without.
And I within, and I within,
As lang's I hae an auld clout,
To row ye in, to row ye in.'"
 

Uncle now took his candle, and slunk off to bed, slipping up noiselessly that he might not disturb the thin sleep of the sufferer, saying in to himself – "I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee "If thou wert there, if thou wert there and though the morning was at the window, he was up by eight, making breakfast for John and Mary.