essays on life, art and science-第4章

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the　familiar　bar　upon　his　forehead。　　I　never　liked　Michael　Angelo；
and　never　shall；　but　I　am　afraid　of　him；　and　was　near　trying　to　hide
when　I　saw　him　coming　towards　me。　　He　had　not　got　his
commissionaire's　uniform　on；　and　I　did　not　know　he　was　one　till　I
met　him　a　month　or　so　later　in　the　Strand。　　When　we　got　to　Blackwall
the　music　struck　up　and　people　began　to　dance。　　I　never　saw　a　man
dance　so　much　in　my　life。　　He　did　not　miss　a　dance　all　the　way　to
Clacton；　nor　all　the　way　back　again；　and　when　not　dancing　he　was
flirting　and　cracking　jokes。　　I　could　hardly　believe　my　eyes　when　I
reflected　that　this　man　had　painted　the　famous　〃Last　Judgment；〃　and
had　made　all　those　statues。

Dante　is；　or　was　a　year　or　two　ago；　a　waiter　at　Brissago　on　the　Lago
Maggiore；　only　he　is　better…tempered…looking；　and　has　a　more
intellectual　expression。　　He　gave　me　his　ideas　upon　beauty：　　〃Tutto
ch'　e　vero　e　bello；〃　he　exclaimed；　with　all　his　old　self…confidence。
I　am　not　afraid　of　Dante。　　I　know　people　by　their　friends；　and　he
went　about　with　Virgil；　so　I　said　with　some　severity；　〃No；　Dante；　il
naso　della　Signora　Robinson　e　vero；　ma　non　e　bello〃；　and　he　admitted
I　was　right。　　Beatrice's　name　is　Towler；　she　is　waitress　at　a　small
inn　in　German　Switzerland。　　I　used　to　sit　at　my　window　and　hear
people　call　〃Towler；　Towler；　Towler；〃　fifty　times　in　a　forenoon。
She　was　the　exact　antithesis　to　Abra；　Abra；　if　I　remember；　used　to
come　before　they　called　her　name；　but　no　matter　how　often　they
called　Towler；　every　one　came　before　she　did。　　I　suppose　they　spelt
her　name　Taula；　but　to　me　it　sounded　Towler；　I　never；　however；　met
any　one　else　with　this　name。　　She　was　a　sweet；　artless　little　hussy；
who　made　me　play　the　piano　to　her；　and　she　said　it　was　lovely。　　Of
course　I　only　played　my　own　compositions；　so　I　believed　her；　and　it
all　went　off　very　nicely。　　I　thought　it　might　save　trouble　if　I　did
not　tell　her　who　she　really　was；　so　I　said　nothing　about　it。

I　met　Socrates　once。　　He　was　my　muleteer　on　an　excursion　which　I
will　not　name；　for　fear　it　should　identify　the　man。　　The　moment　I
saw　my　guide　I　knew　he　was　somebody；　but　for　the　life　of　me　I　could
not　remember　who。　　All　of　a　sudden　it　flashed　across　me　that　he　was
Socrates。　　He　talked　enough　for　six；　but　it　was　all　in　dialetto；　so
I　could　not　understand　him；　nor；　when　I　had　discovered　who　he　was；
did　I　much　try　to　do　so。　　He　was　a　good　creature；　a　trifle　given　to
stealing　fruit　and　vegetables；　but　an　amiable　man　enough。　　He　had
had　a　long　day　with　his　mule　and　me；　and　he　only　asked　me　five
francs。　　I　gave　him　ten；　for　I　pitied　his　poor　old　patched　boots；
and　there　was　a　meekness　about　him　that　touched　me。　　〃And　now；
Socrates；〃　said　I　at　parting；　〃we　go　on　our　several　ways；　you　to
steal　tomatoes；　I　to　filch　ideas　from　other　people；　for　the　rest
which　of　these　two　roads　will　be　the　better　going；　our　father　which
is　in　heaven　knows；　but　we　know　not。〃

I　have　never　seen　Mendelssohn；　but　there　is　a　fresco　of　him　on　the
terrace；　or　open…air　dining…room；　of　an　inn　at　Chiavenna。　　He　is　not
called　Mendelssohn；　but　I　knew　him　by　his　legs。　　He　is　in　the
costume　of　a　dandy　of　some　five…and…forty　years　ago；　is　smoking　a
cigar；　and　appears　to　be　making　an　offer　of　marriage　to　his　cook。
Beethoven　both　my　friend　Mr。　H。　Festing　Jones　and　I　have　had　the
good　fortune　to　meet；　he　is　an　engineer　now；　and　does　not　know　one
note　from　another；　he　has　quite　lost　his　deafness；　is　married；　and
is；　of　course；　a　little　squat　man　with　the　same　refractory　hair　that
he　always　had。　　It　was　very　interesting　to　watch　him；　and　Jones
remarked　that　before　the　end　of　dinner　he　had　become　positively
posthumous。　　One　morning　I　was　told　the　Beethovens　were　going　away；
and　before　long　I　met　their　two　heavy　boxes　being　carried　down　the
stairs。　　The　boxes　were　so　squab　and　like　their　owners；　that　I　half
thought　for　a　moment　that　they　were　inside；　and　should　hardly　have
been　surprised　to　see　them　spring　up　like　a　couple　of　Jacks…in…the…
box。　　〃Sono　indentro？〃　said　I；　with　a　frown　of　wonder；　pointing　to
the　boxes。　　The　porters　knew　what　I　meant；　and　laughed。　　But　there
is　no　end　to　the　list　of　people　whom　I　have　been　able　to　recognise；
and　before　I　had　got　through　it　myself；　I　found　I　had　walked　some
distance；　and　had　involuntarily　paused　in　front　of　a　second…hand
bookstall。

I　do　not　like　books。　　I　believe　I　have　the　smallest　library　of　any
literary　man　in　London；　and　I　have　no　wish　to　increase　it。　　I　keep
my　books　at　the　British　Museum　and　at　Mudie's；　and　it　makes　me　very
angry　if　any　one　gives　me　one　for　my　private　library。　　I　once　heard
two　ladies　disputing　in　a　railway　carriage　as　to　whether　one　of　them
had　or　had　not　been　wasting　money。　　〃I　spent　it　in　books；〃　said　the
accused；　〃and　it's　not　wasting　money　to　buy　books。〃　　〃Indeed；　my
dear；　I　think　it　is；〃　was　the　rejoinder；　and　in　practice　I　agree
with　it。　　Webster's　Dictionary；　Whitaker's　Almanack；　and　Bradshaw's
Railway　Guide　should　be　sufficient　for　any　ordinary　library；　it　will
be　time　enough　to　go　beyond　these　when　the　mass　of　useful　and
entertaining　matter　which　they　provide　has　been　mastered。
Nevertheless；　I　admit　that　sometimes；　if　not　particularly　busy；　I
stop　at　a　second…hand　bookstall　and　turn　over　a　book　or　two　from
mere　force　of　habit。

I　know　not　what　made　me　pick　up　a　copy　of　AEschylusof　course　in　an
English　versionor　rather　I　know　not　what　made　AEschylus　take　up
with　me；　for　he　took　me　rather　than　I　him；　but　no　sooner　had　he　got
me　than　he　began　puzzling　me；　as　he　has　done　any　time　this　forty
years；　to　know　wherein　his　transcendent　merit　can　be　supposed　to
lie。　　To　me　he　is；　like　the　greater　number　of　classics　in　all　ages
and　countries；　a　literary　Struldbrug；　rather　than　a　true　ambrosia…
fed　immortal。　　There　are　true　immortals；　but　they　are　few　and　far
between；　most　classics　are　as　great　impostors　dead　as　they　were　when
living；　and　while　posing　as　gods　are；　five…sevenths　of　them；　only
Struldbrugs。　　It　comforts　me　to　remember　that　Aristophanes　liked
AEschylus　no　better　than　I　do。　　True；　he　praises　him　by　comparison
with　Sophocles　and　Euripides；　but　he　only　does　so　that　he　may　run
down　these　last　more　effectively。　　Aristophanes　is　a　safe　man　to
follow；　nor　do　I　see　why　it　should　not　be　as　correct　to　laugh　with
him　as　to　pull　a　long　face　with　the　Greek　Professors；　but　this　is
neither　here　nor　there；　for　no　one　really　cares　about　AEschylus；　the
more　interesting　question　is　how　he　contrived　to　make　so　many　people
for　so　many　years　pretend　to　care　about　him。

Perhaps　he　married　somebody's　daughter。　　If　a　man　would　get　hold　of
the　public　ear；　he　must　pay；　marry；　or　fight。　　I　have　never
understood　that　AEschylus　was　a　man　of　means；　and　the　fighters　do
not　write　poetry；　so　I　suppose　he　must　have　married　a　theatrical
manager's　daughter；　and　got　his　plays　brought　out　that　way。　　The　ear
of　any　age　or　country　is　like　its　land；　air；　and　water；　it　seems
limitless　but　is　really　limited；　and　is　already　in　the　keeping　of
those　who　naturally　enough　will　have　no　squatting　on　such　valuable
property。　　It　is　written　and　talked　up　to　as　closely　as　the　means　of
subsistence　are　bred　up　to　by　a　teeming　population。　　There　is　not　a
square　inch　of　it　but　is　in　private　hands；　and　he　who　would　freehold
any　part　of　it　must　do　so　by　purchase；　marriage；　or　fighting；　in　the
usual　wayand　fighting　gives　the　longest；　safest　tenure。　　The
public　itself　has　hardly　more　voice　in　the　question　who　shall　have
its　ear；　than　the　land　has　in　choosing　its　owners。　　It　is　farmed　as
those　who　own　it　think　most　profitable　to　themselves；　and　small
blame　to　them；　nevertheless；　it　has　a　residuum　of　mulishness　which
the　land　has　not；　and　does　sometimes　dispossess　its　tenants。　　It　is
in　this　residuum　that　those　who　fight　place　their　hope　and　trust。

Or　perhaps　AEschylus　squared　the　leading　critics　of　his　time。　　When
one　comes　to　think　of　it；　he　must　have　done　so；　for　how　is　it
conceivable　that　such　plays　should　have　had　such　runs　if　he　had　not？
I　met　a　lady　one　year　in　Switzerland　who　had　some　parrots　that
always　travelled　with　her　and　were　the　idols　of　her　life。　　These
parrots　would　not　let　any　one　read　aloud　in　their　presence；　unless
they　heard　their　own　names　introduced　from　time　to　time。　　If　these
were　freely　interpolated　into　the　text　they　would　remain　as　still　as
stones；　for　they　thought　the　reading　was　about　themselves。　　If　it
was　not　about　them　it　could　not　be　allowed。　　The　leaders　of
literature　are　like　these　parrots；　they　do　not　look　at　what　a　man
writes；　nor　if　they　did　would　they　understand　it　much　better　than
the　parrots　do；　but　they　like　the　sound　of　their　own　names；　and　if
these　are　freely　interpolated　in　a　tone　they　take　as　friendly；　they
may　even　give　ear　to　an　outsider。　　Otherwise　they　will　scream　him
off　if　they　can。

I　should　not　advise　any　one　with　ordinary　independence　of　mind　to
attempt　the　public　ear　unless　he　is　confident　that　he　can　out…lung
and　out…last　his　own　generation；　for　if　he　has　any　force；　people
will　and　ought　to　be　on　their　guard　against　him；　inasmuch　as　there
is　no　knowing　where　he　may　not　take　them。　　Besides；　they　have　staked
their　money　on　the　wrong　men　so　often　without　suspecting　it；　that
when　there　comes　one　whom　they　do　suspect　it　would　be　madness　not　to
bet　against　him。　　True；　he　may　die　before　he　has　out…screamed　his
opponents；　but　that　has　nothing　to　do　with　it。　　If　his　scream　was
well　pitched　it　will　sound　clearer　when　he　is　dead。　　We　do　not　know
what　death　is。　　If　we　know　so　little　about　life　which　we　have
experienced；　how　shall　we　know　about　death　which　we　have　notand　in
the　nature　of　things　never　can？　　Every　one；　as　I　said　years　ago　in
〃Alps　and　Sanctuaries；〃　is　an　immortal　to　himself；　for　he　cannot
know　that　he　is　dead　until　he　is　dead；　and　when　dead　how　can　he　know
anything　about　anything？　　All　we　know　is；　that　even　the　humblest
dead　may　live　long　after　all　trace　of　the　body　has　disappeared；　we
see　them　doing　it　in　the　bodies　and　memories　of　those　that　come
after　them；　and　not　a　few　live　so　much　longer　and　more　effectually
than　is　desirable；　that　it　has　been　necessary　to　get　rid　of　them　by
Act　of　Parliament。　　It　is　love　that　alone　gives　life；　and　the　truest
life　is　that　which　we　live　not　in　ourselves　but　vicariously　in
others；　and　with　which　we　have　no　concern。　　Our　concern　is　so　to
order　ourselves　that　we　may　be　of　the　number　of　them　that　enter　into
lifealthough　we　know　it　not。

AEschylus　did　so　order　himself；　but　his　life　is　not　of　that
inspiriting　kind　that　can　be　won　through　fighting　the　good　fight
onlyor　being　believed　to　have　fought　it。　　His　voice　is　the　echo　of
a　drone；　drone…begotten　and　drone…sustained。　　It　is　not　a　tone　that
a　man　must　utter　or　dienay；　even　though　he　die；　and　likely　enough
half　the　allusions　and　hard　passages　in　AEschylus　of　which　we　can
make　neither　head　nor　tail　are　in　reality　only　puffs　of　some　of　the
literary　leaders　of　his　time。

The　lady　above　referred　to　told　me　more　about　her　parrots。　　She　was
like　a　Nasmyth's　hammer　going　slowvery　gentle；　but　irresistible。
She　always　read　the　newspaper　to　them。　　What　was　the　use　of　having　a
newspaper　if　one　did　not　read　it　to　one's　parrots？

〃And　have　you　divine