PREFACE
THE following essays, mainly concerned with famous and familiar names, are less heterogeneous, and it is hoped less hackneyed, than some of the titles may suggest. They are all occupied ultimately with some aspect of a single problem in what I would call the psychology of poetic experience, did not the phrase imply a scientific rigour of method hardly as yet achieved, in this region, by psychological science itself, and in any case beyond the reach of the present writer. How is the gift of imaginative creation affected by the presence in the same mind of one or other of the spiritual energies which have a different, even an alien, perhaps incompatible, aim or goal; or simply by a bias of ingrained ethical habitudes or ideals? What terms does poetry make with philosophy, or religion, or patriotism, or politics, or love, when one of these is urgent, also, in the mind of a poet? I say ‘terms’ advisedly, for nothing is more certain than that the outcome is determined by a process of give and take. Every complex experience involves a certain compromise among its disparate or contending factors; a compromise in great part, indeed, involuntary, resulting from the fact that, even in the leastintegrated personalities, the field of consciousness is a continuous unity, into which no fresh element enters without modifying, and being itself modified by, the rest. In the class of cases with which we are here concerned the modification may be loss or gain, or both together. We think of Dante or Lucretius as great philosophical poets, and many people assume, because there arelongueursin theParadiso, and tough blocks of versified mechanics in theDe Rerum Natura, that these great poets would have produced better poems had they pursued poetry ‘for its own sake.’ What is certain is that, without the passion for truth, without the passionate desire to understand the universe, without, too, the missionary passion to save souls by communicating their own uplifting and fortifying faith, each would have been less occasionally tedious, doubtless, but also would have missed some of those heights in poetry which they in fact achieved. A chorus of critics denounce the ‘didactic poem,’ and clearly the impulse to instruct is more likely to act as slag than as fuel upon the flame of poetic creation. But the prophet is only the schoolmaster writ large, andvatesis one of the oldest names of the poet. Matthew Arnold made fun of the educational theorizing inThe Excursion, but no one better understood the grandeur of Wordsworth the prophet, and he and Goethe are doubtless chiefly accountable for the Arnoldian definition of poetry as ‘criticism of life.’
Analogous problems are touched in the essays on Keats and on d’Annunzio. These two very dissimilar poets, both recently invested with topicalinterest by the hazards of a centenary and of a political adventure, have this in common, that into the life of both came, at a certain moment, an experience of grandeur, which told decisively, though in utterly different ways, upon the scale and contents of their imaginative vision. Keats in 1818 for the first time looked upon ‘grand mountains’ (his own phrase); d’Annunzio, in the early nineties, was captivated by the Nietzschean revelation of the Superman. Upon Keats, the effect, complicated as we know, with other influences, was wholly astringent and bracing; it concurred with the strenuous art of Milton to wean him from the ‘luxury’ of his earlier song and inspire the colossal imaginings ofHyperion. Upon d’Annunzio the effect was less entirely happy. The fiery declamations of the Destroyer (as his Italian disciple called Nietzsche), who aspired to rear an ideally potent and perfect race upon the ruins of present-day humanity, enlarged his intellectual horizons and quickened his patriotic ambition, but also tinged his thinking and his action, whether as a poet or as a publicist, henceforth, with a megalomania hazardous for him in both capacities.
Shakespeare may seem to offer little foothold for this kind of study, or at least to illustrate aspects of it too familiar to be discussed. No one now imagines him a passionless artist, holding up the mirror to a world in which he had no further concern. He was in any case a devoted lover of his country, and patriotism contributed vitally to the making of one, not the least splendid or memorable, division of his drama. National pride has occasionally impaired the poetry of the EnglishHistories, though the vulgar Joan of Arc scenes in 1Henry VIbe no misdeed of his; it has again and again caught the poet up to towering heights. But in some other, perhaps less obvious, ways Shakespeare’s mentality, as we divine it, seems to stand in a like double relation to his poetry; here tributory and creative, there, if not impairing its quality, limiting its scope. With all his apparent spontaneity, and the thousand unblotted lines which astonished his editors and offended Ben, he was hardly pure poet, hardly ‘of imagination all compact’; the man of ‘sovran alchemy’ had his share of the still untransmuted stuff. His poetry, compared with Spenser’s or Shelley’s, is in intimate touch with fact, far richer and deeper than theirs, but also nearer to the temper which is the negation of poetry. His glorious humanity is not without preferences and exclusions; and these are largely of a kind which he shares with the respectable citizen rather than with the finer and rarer spirits. He has not Browning’s taste for eccentric or exceptional types, his interest is not on the dangerous edge of things; and if each of his great creations is in some sense unique, they are rich beyond all others in traits which make them seem our kin. He unmistakably prefers order to turmoil; ‘degree, priority and place’ to the romance and heroics of revolution; observance of custom, other things being the same, to the breach of it; the normal to the irregular. His temperament was thus of a type which has affinities with some great and with some less estimable things: it is allied on the one side to the noble harmonies and symmetries of classical art, on the other to unreflectinghabit and dull routine. It is the aim of the opening essay to trace the effects of what I may then call Shakespeare’s bias fornormalityin a single sphere of his art—his treatment of Love and Marriage. His ideal of love is a state in which passion and sense and intellect are united in happy balance, and we owe to it a series of creations of incomparable loveliness, from Rosalind and Portia to Imogen and Perdita. But it is plain that Shakespeare has sounded only a few notes of the gamut of love poetry. He gives us a few exquisite simple melodies; he rarely hints its complex music, the difficult harmonies extorted from dissonance and conflict. He rather conspicuously avoids, save for special dramatic purposes, irregular, illicit, or criminal passion. It is not merely accident or stage fashion that has prevented our having from Shakespeare more than occasional approximations to a Vittoria Corombona or a Francesca da Rimini, a Gretchen or a Rebekka West.
The fifth essay, finally, asks a question which may appear futile, or academic, but at least arises very naturally for the student in this field. Does the creative activity of poetry, so readily fed and fanned, or obstructed and impaired, by philosophical or religious preoccupation, itself react upon the poet’s beliefs, his outlook upon the world, in any definable way? We may be inclined to reply, with the young Tennyson, that the poet stands apart from beliefs, ‘holding no form of creed, but contemplating all’; or to object, on the contrary, that poets are the most sensitive of men, apt to be rather less than others exempt from subjection to the idols of their place and time. Certainly thereis no ‘poet’s creed.’ But there may be a common bent or bias which poetic creation tends to impress upon creeds and convictions otherwise derived; and a survey of the modifications actually undergone by philosophies and theologies in the crucible of poetry suggests that this bent will be towards the faith which, in one guise or another, exalts the place and function of spirit in the universe, and in the last resort finds in spiritual energy the heart of reality.
I desire to express my acknowledgments to the Council of the British Academy, for permission to reprint the fifth Essay; to the Keats’ Memorial Committee, for permission to reprint the third; to the Council of the Rylands Library, for permission to reprint the second and fourth; and to the proprietors ofEdda(Christiania) for permission to reprint the first. Most of them have been extensively revised and in part re-written for the present volume. I am indebted to my colleagues, Prof. E. Gardner and Signor A. Valgimigli, for kindly reading the fourth essay. Neither is in any way responsible for the opinions expressed. The translations throughout the volume, unless the contrary is stated, are original.