Chapter XTHE ACTED DRAMA

A Letter Box on the Broads. (From an Oil Painting at ‘The Pines.’)

Glanville’s prose story, upon which Arnold’s poem is based, was read first. In this Rhona was much interested. But when I went on to read to her Arnold’s poem, though her eyes flashed now and then at the lovely bits of description—for the country about Oxford is quite remarkably like the country in which she was born—she looked sadly bewildered, and then asked to have it all read again. After a second reading she said in a meditative way: ‘Can’t make out what the lil’s all about—seems all about nothink! Seems to me that the pretty sights what makes a Romany fit to jump out o’ her skin for joy makes this ’ere gorgio want to cry. What a rum lot gorgios is surely!’And then she sprang up and ran off towards the camp with the agility of a greyhound, turning round every few moments, pirouetting and laughing aloud.‘Let’s go to the camp!’ said Dereham. ‘That was all true about the nicotine—was it not?’‘Partly, I think,’ said I, ‘but not being a medical man I must not be too emphatic. If it is true it ought to be a criminal offence for any woman to smoke in excess while she is suckling a child.’‘Say it ought to be a criminal offence for a woman to smoke at all,’ growled Dereham. ‘Fancy kissing a woman’s mouth that smelt of stale tobacco—pheugh!’”

And then she sprang up and ran off towards the camp with the agility of a greyhound, turning round every few moments, pirouetting and laughing aloud.

‘Let’s go to the camp!’ said Dereham. ‘That was all true about the nicotine—was it not?’

‘Partly, I think,’ said I, ‘but not being a medical man I must not be too emphatic. If it is true it ought to be a criminal offence for any woman to smoke in excess while she is suckling a child.’

‘Say it ought to be a criminal offence for a woman to smoke at all,’ growled Dereham. ‘Fancy kissing a woman’s mouth that smelt of stale tobacco—pheugh!’”

After giving these two delightful descriptions of Borrow and his environment, I will now quote Mr. Watts-Dunton’s description of their last meeting:—

‘The last time I ever saw Borrow was shortly before he left London to live in the country. It was, I remember well, on Waterloo Bridge, where I had stopped to gaze at a sunset of singular and striking splendour, whose gorgeous clouds and ruddy mists were reeling and boiling over the West End. Borrow came up and stood leaning over the parapet, entranced by the sight, as well he might be. Like most people born in flat districts, he had a passion for sunsets. Turner could not have painted that one, I think, and certainly my pen could not describe it; for the London smoke was flushed by the sinking sun and had lost its dunness, and, reddening every moment as it rose above the roofs, steeples, and towers, it went curling round the sinking sun in a rosy vapour, leaving, however, just a segment of a golden rim, which gleamed as dazzlingly as in the thinnest and clearest air—a peculiar effect which struck Borrow deeply. I never saw such a sunset before or since, not even on Waterloo Bridge; and from its association with ‘the last of Borrow’ I shall never forget it.’

A TALK ON WATERLOO BRIDGEThe Last Sight of George Borrow

We talked of ‘Children of the Open Air,’Who once on hill and valley lived aloof,Loving the sun, the wind, the sweet reproofOf storms, and all that makes the fair earth fair,Till, on a day, across the mystic barOf moonrise, came the ‘Children of the Roof,’Who find no balm ’neath evening’s rosiest woof,Nor dews of peace beneath the Morning Star.We looked o’er London where men wither and choke,Roofed in, poor souls, renouncing stars and skies,And lore of woods and wild wind-prophecies—Yea, every voice that to their fathers spoke:And sweet it seemed to die ere bricks and smokeLeave never a meadow outside Paradise.

We looked o’er London where men wither and choke,Roofed in, poor souls, renouncing stars and skies,And lore of woods and wild wind-prophecies—Yea, every voice that to their fathers spoke:And sweet it seemed to die ere bricks and smokeLeave never a meadow outside Paradise.

While the noble music of this double valediction in poetry and prose is sounding in our ears, my readers and I, ‘with wandering steps and slow,’ may also fitly take our reluctant leave of George Borrow.

Itwas during the famous evenings in Dr. Marston’s house at Chalk Farm that Mr. Watts-Dunton was for the first time brought into contact with the theatrical world. I do not know that he was ever closely connected with that world, but in the set in which he specially moved at this time he seems to have been almost the only one who was a regular playgoer and first-nighter, for Rossetti’s playgoing days were nearly over, and Mr. Swinburne never was a playgoer. Mr. Watts-Dunton still takes, as may be seen in his sonnet to Ellen Terry, which I shall quote, a deep interest in the acted drama and in the acting profession, although of late years he has not been much seen at the theatres. When, after a while, he and Minto were at work on the ‘Examiner’ Mr. Watts-Dunton occasionally, although I think rarely, wrote a theatrical critique for that paper. The only one I have had an opportunity of reading is upon Miss Neilson—not the Miss Julia Neilson who is so much admired in our day; but the powerful, dark-eyed creole-looking beauty, Lilian Adelaide Neilson, who, after being a mill-hand and a barmaid, became a famous tragedian, and made a great impression in Juliet, and in impassioned poetical parts of that kind. The play in which she appeared on that occasion was a play by Tom Taylor, called ‘AnneBoleyn,’ in which Miss Neilson took the part of the heroine. It was given at the Haymarket in February 1876. I do not remember reading any criticism in which so much admirable writing—acute, brilliant, and learned—was thrown away upon so mediocre a play. Mr. Watts-Dunton’s remarks upon Miss Neilson’s acting were, however, not thrown away, for the subject seems to have been fully worthy of them; and I, who love the acted drama myself, regret that the actress’s early death in 1880, robbed me of the pleasure of seeing her. She was one of the actresses whom Mr. Watts-Dunton used to meet on Sunday evenings at Marston’s, and I have heard him say that her genius was as apparent in her conversation as in her acting. Miss Corkran has recently sketched one of these meetings, and has given us a graphic picture of Mr. Watts-Dunton there, contrasting his personal appearance with that of Mr. Swinburne. They must indeed have been delightful gatherings to a lover of the theatre, for there Miss Neilson, Miss Glyn, Miss Ada Cavendish, and others were to be met—met in the company of Irving, Sothern, Hermann Vezin, and many another famous actor.

That Mr. Watts-Dunton had a peculiar insight into histrionic art was shown by what occurred on his very first appearance at the Marston evenings, whither he was taken by his friend, Dr. Gordon Hake, who used to tell the following story with great humour; and Rossetti also used to repeat it with still greater gusto. I am here again indebted to his son, Mr. Hake—who was also a friend of Dr. Marston, Ada Cavendish, and others—for interesting reminiscences of these Marston evenings which have never been published. Mr. Watts-Dunton at that time was, of course, quite unknown, except in a very small circle of literary men and artists.Three or four dramatic critics, several poets, and two actresses, one of whom was Ada Cavendish, were talking about Irving in ‘The Bells,’ which was a dramatization by a writer named Leopold Lewis of the ‘Juif Polonais’ of Erckmann-Chatrian. They were all enthusiastically extolling Irving’s acting; and this is not surprising, as all will say who have seen him in the part. But while some were praising the play, others were running it down. “What I say,” said one of the admirers, “is that the motif of ‘The Bells,’ the use of the idea of a sort of embodied conscience to tell the audience the story and bring about the catastrophe, is the newest that has appeared in drama or fiction—it is entirely original.”

“Not entirely, I think,” said a voice which, until that evening, was new in the circle. They turned round to listen to what the dark-eyed young stranger, tanned by the sun to a kind of gypsy colour, who looked like William Black, quietly smoking his cigarette, had to say.

“Not entirely new?” said one. “Who was the originator, then, of the idea?”

“I can’t tell you that,” said the interrupting voice, “for it occurs in a very old Persian story, and it was evidently old even then. But Erckmann-Chatrian took it from a much later story-teller. They adapted it from Chamisso.”

“Is that the author of ‘Peter Schlemihl’?” said one.

“Yes,” replied Mr. Watts-Dunton, “but Chamisso was a poet before he was a prose writer, and he wrote a rhymed story in which the witness of a murder was the sunrise, and at dawn the criminal was affected in the same way that Matthias is affected by the sledge bells. The idea that the sensorium, in an otherwise perfectly sane brain, can translate sights and sound into accusationsof a crime is, of course, perfectly true, and in the play it is wonderfully given by Irving.”

“Well,” said Dr. Marston, “that is the best account I have yet heard of the origin of ‘The Bells.’”

Then the voice of one of the disparagers of the play said: “There you are! The very core of Erckmann-Chatrian’s story and Lewis’s play has been stolen and spoilt from another writer. The acting, as I say, is superb—the play is rot.”

“Well, I do not think so,” said Mr. Watts-Dunton. “I think it a new and a striking play.”

“Will you give your reasons, sir?” said Dr. Marston, in that old-fashioned courtly way which was one of his many charms.

“Certainly,” said Mr. Watts-Dunton, “if it will be of any interest. You recollect Coleridge’s remarks upon expectation and surprise in drama. I think it a striking play because I cannot recall any play in which the entire source of interest is that of pure expectation unadulterated by surprise. From the opening dialogue, before ever the burgomaster appears, the audience knows that a murder has been committed, and that the murderer must be the burgomaster, and yet the audience is kept in breathless suspense through pure expectation as to whether or not the crime will be brought home to him, and if brought home to him, how.”

“Well,” said the voice of one of the admirers of the play, “that is the best criticism of ‘The Bells’ I have yet heard.” After this the conversation turned upon Jefferson’s acting of Rip Van Winkle, and many admirable remarks fell from a dozen lips. When there was a pause in these criticisms, Dr. Marston turned to Mr. Watts-Dunton and said, “Have you seen Jefferson in ‘Rip van Winkle,’ sir?”

“Yes, indeed,” was the reply, “many times; and I hope to see it many more times. It is wonderful. I think it lucky that I have been able to see the great exemplar of what may be called the Garrick type of actor, and the great exemplar of what may be called the Edmund Kean type of actor.”

On being asked what he meant by this classification, Mr. Watts-Dunton launched out into one of those wide-sweeping but symmetrical monologues of criticism in which beginning, middle, and end, were as perfectly marked as though the improvization had been a well-considered essay—the subject being the style of acting typified by Garrick and the style of acting typified by Robson. As this same idea runs through Mr. Watts-Dunton’s criticism of Got in ‘Le Roi s’Amuse’ (which I shall quote later), there is no need to dwell upon it here.

“As an instance,” he said, “of Jefferson’s supreme power in this line of acting, one might refer to Act II. of the play, where Rip mounts the Catskill Mountains in the company of the goblins. Rip talks with the goblins one after the other, and there seems to be a dramatic dialogue going on. It is not till the curtain falls that the audience realizes that every word spoken during that act came from the lips of Rip, so entirely have Jefferson’s facial expression and intonation dramatized each goblin.”

Between Mr. Watts-Dunton and our great Shakespearean actress, Ellen Terry, there has been an affectionate friendship running over nearly a quarter of a century. This is not at all surprising to one who knows Miss Terry’s high artistic taste and appreciation of poetry. Among the poems expressing that friendship, none is more pleasing than the sonnet that appeared inthe ‘Magazine of Art’ to which Mr. Bernard Partridge contributed his superb drawing of Miss Terry in the part of Queen Katherine. It is entitled, ‘Queen Katherine: on seeing Miss Ellen Terry as Katherine in King Henry VIII’:—

Seeking a tongue for tongueless shadow-land,Has Katherine’s soul come back with power to quellA sister-soul incarnate, and compelIts bodily voice to speak by Grief’s command?Or is it Katherine’s self returns to standAs erst she stood defying Wolsey’s spell—Returns with those vile wrongs she fain would tellWhich memory bore to Eden’s amaranth strand?Or is it thou, dear friend—this Queen, whose faceThe salt of many tears hath scarred and stung?—Can it be thou, whose genius, ever young,Lighting the body with the spirit’s grace,Is loved by England—loved by all the raceRound all the world enlinked by Shakespeare’s tongue!

Or is it thou, dear friend—this Queen, whose faceThe salt of many tears hath scarred and stung?—Can it be thou, whose genius, ever young,Lighting the body with the spirit’s grace,Is loved by England—loved by all the raceRound all the world enlinked by Shakespeare’s tongue!

With one exception I do not find any dramatic criticisms by Mr. Watts-Dunton in the ‘Athenæum.’ Indeed, I should not expect to find him trenching upon the domain of the greatest dramatic critic of our time, Mr. Joseph Knight. No one speaks with greater admiration of Mr. Knight than his friend of thirty years’ standing, Mr. Watts-Dunton himself; and when an essay on ‘King John’ was required for the series of Shakespeare essays to accompany Mr. Edwin Abbey’s famous illustrations in ‘Harper’s Magazine,’ it was Mr. Knight whom Mr. Watts-Dunton invited to discuss this important play. The exception I allude to is the criticism of Victor Hugo’s ‘Le Roi s’Amuse,’ which appeared in the ‘Athenæum’ of December 2, 1882.

The way in which it came about that Mr. Watts-Duntonundertook for the ‘Athenæum’ so important a piece of dramatic criticism is interesting. In 1882 M. Vacquerie, the editor of ‘Le Rappel,’ a relative of Hugo’s, and a great friend of Mr. Swinburne and Mr. Watts-Dunton, together with other important members of the Hugo cenacle, determined to get up a representation of ‘Le Roi s’Amuse’ on the jubilee of its first representation, since when it had never been acted. Vacquerie sent two fauteuils, one for Mr. Swinburne and one for Mr. Watts-Dunton; and the two poets were present at that memorable representation. Long before the appointed day there was on the Continent, from Paris to St. Petersburg, an unprecedented demand for seats; for it was felt that this was the most interesting dramatic event that had occurred for fifty years.

Consequently the editor of the ‘Athenæum’ for once invited his chief literary contributor to fill the post which the dramatic editor of the paper, Mr. Joseph Knight, generously yielded to him for the occasion, and the following article appeared:—

“Paris, November 23, 1882.“I felt that the revival, at the Theatre Français, of ‘Le Roi s’Amuse,’ on the fiftieth anniversary of its original production, must be one of the most interesting literary events of our time, and so I found it to be. Victor Hugo was there, sitting with his arms folded across his breast, calm but happy, in a stage box. He expressed himself satisfied and even delighted with the acting. The poet’s appearance was fuller of vitality and more Olympian than ever. Between the acts he left the theatre and walked about in the square, leaning on the arm of his illustrious poet friend and family connection, AugusteVacquerie, to whose kindness I was indebted for a seat in the fauteuils d’orchestre, which otherwise I should have found to be quite unattainable, so unprecedented was the demand for places. It is said that a thousand francs were given for a seat. Never before was seen, even in a French theatre, an audience so brilliant and so illustrious. I did not, however, see any English face I knew save that of Mr. Swinburne, who at the end of the third act might have been seen talking to Hugo in his box. Among the most appreciative and enthusiastic of those who assisted at the representation was the French poet, who perhaps in the nineteenth century stands next to Hugo for intellectual massiveness, M. Leconte de Lisle. And I should say that every French poet and indeed every man of eminence was there.Considering the extraordinary nature of the piece, the cast was perhaps as satisfactory as could have been hoped for. Fond as is M. Hugo of spectacular effects, and even of coups de théâtre, no other dramatist gives so little attention as he to the idiosyncrasies of actors. It is easy to imagine that Shakespeare in writing his lines was not always unmindful of an actor like Burbage. But in depicting Triboulet, Hugo must have thought as little about the specialities of Ligier, who took the part on the first night in 1832, as of the future Got, who was to take it on the second night in 1882. And the same may be said of Blanche in relation to the two actresses who successively took that part. This is, I think, exactly the way in which a dramatist should work. The contrary method is not more ruinous to drama as a literary form than to the actor’s art. To write up to an actor’s style destroys all true character-drawing; also it ends by writing up to the actor’s mere manner, who from that moment is, as an artist, doomed. On the whole, theperformance wanted more glow and animal spirits. The François I of M. Mounet-Sully was full of verve, but this actor’s voice is so exceedingly rich and emotional that the king seemed more poetic, and hence more sympathetic to the audience, than was consistent with a character who in a sense is held up as the villain of the piece. The true villain, here, however, as in ‘Torquemada,’ ‘Notre Dame de Paris,’ ‘Les Misérables,’ and, indeed, in all Hugo’s characteristic works, is not an individual at all, but Circumstance. Circumstance placed Francis, a young and pleasure-loving king, over a licentious court. Circumstance gave him a court jester with a temper which, to say the least of it, was peculiar for such times as those. Circumstance, acting through the agency of certain dissolute courtiers, thrust into the king’s very bedroom the girl whom he loved and who belonged to a class from whom he had been taught to expect subservience of every kind. The tragic mischief of the rape follows almost as a necessary consequence. Add to this the fact that Circumstance contrives that the girl Maguelonne, instead of aiding her more conscientious brother in killing the disguised king at the bidding of ‘the client who pays,’ falls unexpectedly in love with him; while Circumstance also contrives that Blanche shall be there ready at the very spot at the very moment where and when she is imperatively wanted as a substituted victim;—and you get the entire motif of ‘Le Roi s’Amuse’—man enmeshed in a web of circumstance, the motif of ‘Notre Dame de Paris,’ the motif of ‘Torquemada,’ and, in a certain deep sense, perhaps the proper motif in romantic drama. For when the vis matrix of classic drama, the supernatural interference of conscious Destiny, was no longer available to the artist, something akin to it—something nobler and more powerful thanthe stage villain—was found to be necessary to save tragedy from sinking into melodrama. And this explains so many of the complexities of Shakespeare.In the dramas of Victor Hugo, however, the romantic temper has advanced quite as far as it ought to advance not only in the use of Circumstance as the final cause of the tragic mischief, but in the use of the grotesque in alliance with the terrible. The greatest masters of the terrible-grotesque till we get to the German romanticists were the English dramatists of the sixteenth and the early portion of the seventeenth century, and of course by far the greatest among these was Shakespeare. For the production of the effect in question there is nothing comparable to the scenes in ‘Lear’ between the king and the fool—scenes which seem very early in his life to have struck Hugo more than anything else in literature. Outside the Elizabethan dramatists, however, there can be no doubt that (leaving out of the discussion the great German masters in this line) Hugo is the greatest worker in the terrible-grotesque that has appeared since Burns. I need only point to Quasimodo and Triboulet and compare them not merely with such attempts in this line as those of writers like Beddoes, but even with the magnificent work of Mr. Browning, who though far more subtle than Hugo is without his sublimity and amazing power over chiaroscuro. Now, the most remarkable feature of the revival of ‘Le Roi s’Amuse,’ and that which made me above all other reasons desirous to see it, was that the character of Triboulet was to be rendered by an actor of rare and splendid genius, but who, educated in the genteel comedy of modern France and also in the social subtleties of Molière, seemed the last man in Paris to give that peculiar expression of the romantic temper which I have called the terrible-grotesque.That M. Got’s success in a part so absolutely unsuited to him should have been as great as it was is, in my judgment, the crowning success of his life. It is as though Thackeray, after completing ‘Philip,’ had set himself to write a romance in the style of ‘Notre Dame de Paris,’ and succeeded in the attempt. Yet the success of M. Got was relative only, I think. The Triboulet was not the Triboulet of the reader’s own imaginings, but an admirable Triboulet of the Comédie Française. Perhaps, however, the truth is that there is not an actor in Europe who could adequately render such a character as Triboulet.This is what I mean: all great actors are divisible into two groups, which are by temperament and endowment the exact opposites of each other. There are those who, like Garrick, producing their effects by means of a self-dominance and a conservation of energy akin to that of Goethe in poetry, are able to render a character, coldly indeed, but with matchless verisimilitude in its every nuance. And there are those who, like Edmund Kean and Robson, ‘live’ in the character so entirely that self-dominance and conservation of energy are not possible, and who, whensoever the situation becomes very intense, work miracles of representation by sheer imaginative abandon, but do so at the expense of that delicacy of light and shade in the entire conception which is the great quest of the actor as an artist. And if it should be found that in order to render Triboulet there is requisite for the more intense crises of the piece the abandon of Kean and Robson, and at the same time, for the carrying on of the play, the calm, self-conscious staying power of Garrick, the conclusion will be obvious that Triboulet is essentially an unactable character. I will illustrate this by an instance. The reader will remember that inthe third act of ‘Le Roi s’Amuse,’ Triboulet’s daughter Blanche, after having been violated by the king at the Louvre, rushes into the antechamber, where stands her father surrounded by the group of sneering courtiers who, unknown both to the king and to Triboulet, have abducted her during the night and set her in the king’s way. When the girl tells her father of the terrible wrong that has been done to her, he passes at once from the mood of sardonic defiance which was natural to him into a state of passion so terrible that a sudden and magical effect is produced: the conventional walls between him, the poor despised court jester, and the courtiers, are suddenly overthrown by the unexpected operation of one of those great human instincts which make the whole world kin:—Triboulet(faisant trois pas, et balayant du geste tous les seigneurs inter dits).Allez-vous-en d’ici!Et, si le roi François par malheur se hasardeA passer près d’ici, (à Monsieur de Vermandois) vous êtes de sa garde,Dites-lui de ne pas entrer,—que je suis là.M. de Pienne. On n’a jamais rien vu de fou comme cela.M. de Gordes(lui faisant signe de se retirer). Aux fous comme aux enfants on cède quelque chose.Veillons pourtant, de peur d’accident.[Ils sortent.Triboulet(s’asseyant sur le fauteuil du roi et relevant sa fille.) Allons, cause.Dis-moi tout. (Il se retourne, et, apercevant Monsieur de Cossé, qui est resté, il se lève à demi en lui montrant la porte). M’avez-vous en tendu, monseigneur?M. De Cossé(tout en se retirant comme subjugué par l’ascendant du bouffon). Ces fous, cela se croit tout permis, en honneur![Il sort.Now in reading ‘Le Roi s’Amuse,’ startling as is the situation, it does not seem exaggerated, for Victor Hugo’s lines are adequate in simple passion to effect the dramatic work, and the reader feels that Triboulet was wrought up to the state of exaltation to which the lines give expression,that nothing could resist him, and that the proud courtiers must in truth have cowered before him in the manner here indicated by the dramatist. In literature the artist does not actualize; he suggests, and leaves the reader’s imagination free. But an actor has to actualize this state of exaltation—he has to bring the physical condition answering to the emotional condition before the eyes of the spectator; and if he fails to display as much of the ‘fine frenzy’ of passion as is requisite to cow and overawe a group of cynical worldlings, the situation becomes forced and unnatural, inasmuch as they are overawed without a sufficient cause. That an actor like Robson could and would have risen to such an occasion no one will doubt who ever saw him (for he was the very incarnation of the romantic temper), but then the exhaustion would have been so great that it would have been impossible for him to go on bearing the entire weight of this long play as M. Got does. The actor requires, as I say, the abandon characteristic of one kind of histrionic art together with the staying power characteristic of another. Now, admirable as is M. Got in this and in all scenes of ‘Le Roi s’Amuse,’ he does not pass into such a condition of exalted passion as makes the retirement of the courtiers seem probable. For artistic perfection there was nothing in the entire representation that surpassed the scenes between Saltabadil and Maguelonne in the hovel on the banks of the Seine. It would be difficult, indeed, to decide which was the more admirable, the Saltabadil of M. Febvre or the Maguelonne of Jeanne Samary.AT THE THÉÂTRE FRANÇAISNovember22, 1882Poet of pity and scourge of sceptred crime—Titan of light, with scarce the gods for peers—What thoughts come to thee through the mist of years,There sitting calm, master of Fate and Time?Homage from every tongue, from every clime,In place of gibes, fills now thy satiate ears.Mine own heart swells, mine eyelids prick with tearsIn very pride of thee, old man sublime!And thou, the mother who bore him, beauteous France,Round whose fair limbs what web of sorrow is spun!—I see thee lift thy tear-stained countenance—Victress by many a victory he hath won;I hear thy voice o’er winds of Fate and ChanceSay to the conquered world: ‘Behold my son!’

“Paris, November 23, 1882.

“I felt that the revival, at the Theatre Français, of ‘Le Roi s’Amuse,’ on the fiftieth anniversary of its original production, must be one of the most interesting literary events of our time, and so I found it to be. Victor Hugo was there, sitting with his arms folded across his breast, calm but happy, in a stage box. He expressed himself satisfied and even delighted with the acting. The poet’s appearance was fuller of vitality and more Olympian than ever. Between the acts he left the theatre and walked about in the square, leaning on the arm of his illustrious poet friend and family connection, AugusteVacquerie, to whose kindness I was indebted for a seat in the fauteuils d’orchestre, which otherwise I should have found to be quite unattainable, so unprecedented was the demand for places. It is said that a thousand francs were given for a seat. Never before was seen, even in a French theatre, an audience so brilliant and so illustrious. I did not, however, see any English face I knew save that of Mr. Swinburne, who at the end of the third act might have been seen talking to Hugo in his box. Among the most appreciative and enthusiastic of those who assisted at the representation was the French poet, who perhaps in the nineteenth century stands next to Hugo for intellectual massiveness, M. Leconte de Lisle. And I should say that every French poet and indeed every man of eminence was there.

Considering the extraordinary nature of the piece, the cast was perhaps as satisfactory as could have been hoped for. Fond as is M. Hugo of spectacular effects, and even of coups de théâtre, no other dramatist gives so little attention as he to the idiosyncrasies of actors. It is easy to imagine that Shakespeare in writing his lines was not always unmindful of an actor like Burbage. But in depicting Triboulet, Hugo must have thought as little about the specialities of Ligier, who took the part on the first night in 1832, as of the future Got, who was to take it on the second night in 1882. And the same may be said of Blanche in relation to the two actresses who successively took that part. This is, I think, exactly the way in which a dramatist should work. The contrary method is not more ruinous to drama as a literary form than to the actor’s art. To write up to an actor’s style destroys all true character-drawing; also it ends by writing up to the actor’s mere manner, who from that moment is, as an artist, doomed. On the whole, theperformance wanted more glow and animal spirits. The François I of M. Mounet-Sully was full of verve, but this actor’s voice is so exceedingly rich and emotional that the king seemed more poetic, and hence more sympathetic to the audience, than was consistent with a character who in a sense is held up as the villain of the piece. The true villain, here, however, as in ‘Torquemada,’ ‘Notre Dame de Paris,’ ‘Les Misérables,’ and, indeed, in all Hugo’s characteristic works, is not an individual at all, but Circumstance. Circumstance placed Francis, a young and pleasure-loving king, over a licentious court. Circumstance gave him a court jester with a temper which, to say the least of it, was peculiar for such times as those. Circumstance, acting through the agency of certain dissolute courtiers, thrust into the king’s very bedroom the girl whom he loved and who belonged to a class from whom he had been taught to expect subservience of every kind. The tragic mischief of the rape follows almost as a necessary consequence. Add to this the fact that Circumstance contrives that the girl Maguelonne, instead of aiding her more conscientious brother in killing the disguised king at the bidding of ‘the client who pays,’ falls unexpectedly in love with him; while Circumstance also contrives that Blanche shall be there ready at the very spot at the very moment where and when she is imperatively wanted as a substituted victim;—and you get the entire motif of ‘Le Roi s’Amuse’—man enmeshed in a web of circumstance, the motif of ‘Notre Dame de Paris,’ the motif of ‘Torquemada,’ and, in a certain deep sense, perhaps the proper motif in romantic drama. For when the vis matrix of classic drama, the supernatural interference of conscious Destiny, was no longer available to the artist, something akin to it—something nobler and more powerful thanthe stage villain—was found to be necessary to save tragedy from sinking into melodrama. And this explains so many of the complexities of Shakespeare.

In the dramas of Victor Hugo, however, the romantic temper has advanced quite as far as it ought to advance not only in the use of Circumstance as the final cause of the tragic mischief, but in the use of the grotesque in alliance with the terrible. The greatest masters of the terrible-grotesque till we get to the German romanticists were the English dramatists of the sixteenth and the early portion of the seventeenth century, and of course by far the greatest among these was Shakespeare. For the production of the effect in question there is nothing comparable to the scenes in ‘Lear’ between the king and the fool—scenes which seem very early in his life to have struck Hugo more than anything else in literature. Outside the Elizabethan dramatists, however, there can be no doubt that (leaving out of the discussion the great German masters in this line) Hugo is the greatest worker in the terrible-grotesque that has appeared since Burns. I need only point to Quasimodo and Triboulet and compare them not merely with such attempts in this line as those of writers like Beddoes, but even with the magnificent work of Mr. Browning, who though far more subtle than Hugo is without his sublimity and amazing power over chiaroscuro. Now, the most remarkable feature of the revival of ‘Le Roi s’Amuse,’ and that which made me above all other reasons desirous to see it, was that the character of Triboulet was to be rendered by an actor of rare and splendid genius, but who, educated in the genteel comedy of modern France and also in the social subtleties of Molière, seemed the last man in Paris to give that peculiar expression of the romantic temper which I have called the terrible-grotesque.

That M. Got’s success in a part so absolutely unsuited to him should have been as great as it was is, in my judgment, the crowning success of his life. It is as though Thackeray, after completing ‘Philip,’ had set himself to write a romance in the style of ‘Notre Dame de Paris,’ and succeeded in the attempt. Yet the success of M. Got was relative only, I think. The Triboulet was not the Triboulet of the reader’s own imaginings, but an admirable Triboulet of the Comédie Française. Perhaps, however, the truth is that there is not an actor in Europe who could adequately render such a character as Triboulet.

This is what I mean: all great actors are divisible into two groups, which are by temperament and endowment the exact opposites of each other. There are those who, like Garrick, producing their effects by means of a self-dominance and a conservation of energy akin to that of Goethe in poetry, are able to render a character, coldly indeed, but with matchless verisimilitude in its every nuance. And there are those who, like Edmund Kean and Robson, ‘live’ in the character so entirely that self-dominance and conservation of energy are not possible, and who, whensoever the situation becomes very intense, work miracles of representation by sheer imaginative abandon, but do so at the expense of that delicacy of light and shade in the entire conception which is the great quest of the actor as an artist. And if it should be found that in order to render Triboulet there is requisite for the more intense crises of the piece the abandon of Kean and Robson, and at the same time, for the carrying on of the play, the calm, self-conscious staying power of Garrick, the conclusion will be obvious that Triboulet is essentially an unactable character. I will illustrate this by an instance. The reader will remember that inthe third act of ‘Le Roi s’Amuse,’ Triboulet’s daughter Blanche, after having been violated by the king at the Louvre, rushes into the antechamber, where stands her father surrounded by the group of sneering courtiers who, unknown both to the king and to Triboulet, have abducted her during the night and set her in the king’s way. When the girl tells her father of the terrible wrong that has been done to her, he passes at once from the mood of sardonic defiance which was natural to him into a state of passion so terrible that a sudden and magical effect is produced: the conventional walls between him, the poor despised court jester, and the courtiers, are suddenly overthrown by the unexpected operation of one of those great human instincts which make the whole world kin:—

Triboulet(faisant trois pas, et balayant du geste tous les seigneurs inter dits).

Allez-vous-en d’ici!Et, si le roi François par malheur se hasardeA passer près d’ici, (à Monsieur de Vermandois) vous êtes de sa garde,Dites-lui de ne pas entrer,—que je suis là.

M. de Pienne. On n’a jamais rien vu de fou comme cela.

M. de Gordes(lui faisant signe de se retirer). Aux fous comme aux enfants on cède quelque chose.

Veillons pourtant, de peur d’accident.

[Ils sortent.

Triboulet(s’asseyant sur le fauteuil du roi et relevant sa fille.) Allons, cause.Dis-moi tout. (Il se retourne, et, apercevant Monsieur de Cossé, qui est resté, il se lève à demi en lui montrant la porte). M’avez-vous en tendu, monseigneur?

M. De Cossé(tout en se retirant comme subjugué par l’ascendant du bouffon). Ces fous, cela se croit tout permis, en honneur!

[Il sort.

Now in reading ‘Le Roi s’Amuse,’ startling as is the situation, it does not seem exaggerated, for Victor Hugo’s lines are adequate in simple passion to effect the dramatic work, and the reader feels that Triboulet was wrought up to the state of exaltation to which the lines give expression,that nothing could resist him, and that the proud courtiers must in truth have cowered before him in the manner here indicated by the dramatist. In literature the artist does not actualize; he suggests, and leaves the reader’s imagination free. But an actor has to actualize this state of exaltation—he has to bring the physical condition answering to the emotional condition before the eyes of the spectator; and if he fails to display as much of the ‘fine frenzy’ of passion as is requisite to cow and overawe a group of cynical worldlings, the situation becomes forced and unnatural, inasmuch as they are overawed without a sufficient cause. That an actor like Robson could and would have risen to such an occasion no one will doubt who ever saw him (for he was the very incarnation of the romantic temper), but then the exhaustion would have been so great that it would have been impossible for him to go on bearing the entire weight of this long play as M. Got does. The actor requires, as I say, the abandon characteristic of one kind of histrionic art together with the staying power characteristic of another. Now, admirable as is M. Got in this and in all scenes of ‘Le Roi s’Amuse,’ he does not pass into such a condition of exalted passion as makes the retirement of the courtiers seem probable. For artistic perfection there was nothing in the entire representation that surpassed the scenes between Saltabadil and Maguelonne in the hovel on the banks of the Seine. It would be difficult, indeed, to decide which was the more admirable, the Saltabadil of M. Febvre or the Maguelonne of Jeanne Samary.

AT THE THÉÂTRE FRANÇAISNovember22, 1882

Poet of pity and scourge of sceptred crime—Titan of light, with scarce the gods for peers—What thoughts come to thee through the mist of years,There sitting calm, master of Fate and Time?Homage from every tongue, from every clime,In place of gibes, fills now thy satiate ears.Mine own heart swells, mine eyelids prick with tearsIn very pride of thee, old man sublime!

And thou, the mother who bore him, beauteous France,Round whose fair limbs what web of sorrow is spun!—I see thee lift thy tear-stained countenance—Victress by many a victory he hath won;I hear thy voice o’er winds of Fate and ChanceSay to the conquered world: ‘Behold my son!’

I may mention here that Mr. Watts-Dunton has always shown the greatest admiration of the actor’s art and the greatest interest in actors and actresses. He has affirmed that ‘the one great art in which women are as essential as men—the one great art in which their place can never be supplied by men—is in the acted drama, which the Greeks held in such high esteem that Æschylus and Sophocles acted as stage managers and show-masters, although the stage mask dispensed with much of the necessity of calling in the aid of women.’

‘Great as is the importance of female poets,’ says Mr. Watts-Dunton, ‘men are so rich in endowment, that literature would be a worthy expression of the human mind if there had been no Sappho and no Emily Brontë—no Mrs. Browning—no Christina Rossetti. Great as is the importance of female novelists, men again are so rich in endowment that literature would be a worthy expression of the human mind if there had been no Georges Sand, no Jane Austen, no Charlotte Brontë, no George Eliot, no Mrs. Gaskell, no Mrs. Craigie. As to painting and music, up to now women have not been notable workers in either of these departments, notwithstandingRosa Bonheur and one or two others. But, to say nothing of France, what in England would have been the acted drama, whether in prose or verse, without Mrs. Siddons, Mrs. Hermann Vezin, Adelaide Neilson, Miss Glyn, in tragedy; without Mrs. Bracegirdle, Kitty Clive, Julia Neilson, Ellen Terry, Irene Vanbrugh and Ada Rehan in comedy?’

People who run down actresses should say at once that the acted drama is not one of the fine arts at all. Mr. Watts-Dunton has often expressed the opinion that there is in England a great waste of histrionic endowment among women, owing to the ignorant prejudice against the stage which even now is prevalent in England. ‘An enormous waste of force,’ says he, ‘there is, of course, in other departments of intellectual activity, but nothing like the waste of latent histrionic powers among Englishwomen.’ And he supplies many examples of this which have come under his own observation, among which I can mention only one.

‘Some years ago,’ he said to me, ‘I was invited to go to see the performance of a French play given by the pupils of a fashionable school in the West End of London. Apart from the admirable French accent of the girls I was struck by the acting of two or three performers who showed some latent dramatic talent. I have always taken an interest in amateur dramatic performances, for a reason that Lady Archibald Campbell in one of her writings has well discussed, namely, that what the amateur actor or actress may lack in knowledge of stage traditions he or she will sometimes more than make up for by the sweet flexibility and abandon of nature. The amateur will often achieve that rarest of all artistic excellencies, whether in poetry, painting, sculpture, music, or histrionics—naïveté: a quality which in poetry is seen in its perfection in the finest of the writings of Coleridge; in acting, it is perhaps seen in its perfection in Duse. Now, on the occasion to which I refer, one of these schoolgirl actresses achieved, as I thought, and as others thought with me, this rare and perfect flower of histrionics; and when I came to know her I found that she joined wide culture and an immense knowledge of Shakespeare, Corneille, Racine, and Molière with an innate gift for rendering them. In any other society than that of England she would have gone on the stage as a matter of course, but the fatal prejudice about social position prevented her from following the vocation that Nature intended for her. Since then I have seen two or three such cases, not so striking as this one, but striking enough to make me angry with Philistinism.’

With this sympathy for histrionic art, it is not at all surprising that Mr. Watts-Dunton took the greatest interest in the open-air plays organized by Lady Archibald Campbell at Coombe. I have seen a brilliant description of these plays by him which ought to have been presented to the public years ago. It forms, I believe, a long chapter of an unpublished novel. Turning over the pages of Davenport Adams’s ‘Dictionary of the Drama,’ which every lover of the theatre must regret he did not live to complete, I come accidentally upon these words: “One of the most recently printed epilogues is that which Theodore Watts-Dunton wrote for an amateur performance of Banville’s ‘Le Baiser’ at Coombe, Surrey, in August, 1889.” And this reminds me that I ought to quote this famous epilogue here; for Professor Strong in his review of ‘The Coming of Love’ in ‘Literature’ speaks of the amazing command over metre and colour and story displayed inthe poem. It is, I believe, the only poem in the English language in which an elaborate story is fully told by poetic suggestion instead of direct statement.

A REMINISCENCE OF THE OPEN-AIR PLAYS.Epilogue for the open-air performance of Banville’s ‘Le Baiser, in which Lady Archibald Campbell took the part of ‘Pierrot’ and Miss Annie Schletter the part of the ‘Fairy.’—Coombe, August 9, 1889.To Pierrot in LoveThe Clown whose kisses turned a Crone to a Fairy-queenWhat dost thou here in Love’s enchanted wood,Pierrot, who once wert safe as clown and thief—Held safe by love of fun and wine and food—From her who follows love of Woman, Grief—Her who of old stalked over Eden-grassBehind Love’s baby-feet—whose shadow threwOn every brook, as on a magic glass,Prophetic shapes of what should come to passWhen tears got mixt with Paradisal dew?Kisses are loved but for the lips that kiss:Thine have restored a princess to her throne,Breaking the spell which barred from fairy blissA fay, and shrank her to a wrinkled crone;But, if thou dream’st that thou from PantomimeShalt clasp an angel of the mystic moon,Clasp her on banks of Love’s own rose and thyme,While woodland warblers ring the nuptial-chime—Bottom to thee were but a week buffoon.When yonder fairy, long ago, was toldThe spell which caught her in malign eclipse,Turning her radiant body foul and old,Would yield to some knight-errant’s virgin lips,And when, through many a weary day and night,She, wondering who the paladin would beWhose kiss should charm her from her grievous plight,Pictured a-many princely heroes bright,Dost thou suppose she ever pictured thee?’Tis true the mischief of the foeman’s charmYielded to thee—to that first kiss of thine.We saw her tremble—lift a rose-wreath arm,Which late, all veined and shrivelled, made her pine;We saw her fingers rise and touch her cheek,As if the morning breeze across the wood,Which lately seemed to strike so chill and bleakThrough all the wasted body, bent and weak,Were light and music now within her blood.’Tis true thy kiss made all her form expand—Made all the skin grow smooth and pure as pearl,Till there she stood, tender, yet tall and grand,A queen of Faery, yet a lovesome girl,Within whose eyes—whose wide, new-litten eyes—New-litten by thy kiss’s re-creation—Expectant joy that yet was wild surpriseMade all her flesh like light of summer skiesWhen dawn lies dreaming of the morn’s carnation.But when thou saw’st the breaking of the spellWithin whose grip of might her soul had pined,Like some sweet butterfly that breaks the cellIn which its purple pinions slept confined,And when thou heard’st the strains of elfin songHer sisters sang from rainbow cars above her—Didst thou suppose that she, though prisoned long,And freed at last by thee from all the wrong,Must for that kiss take Harlequin for lover?Hearken, sweet fool! Though Banville carried theeTo lawns where love and song still share the swardBeyond the golden river few can see,And fewer still, in these grey days, can ford;And though he bade the wings of Passion fanThy face, till every line grows bright and human,Feathered thy spirit’s wing for wider span,And fired thee with the fire that comes to manWhen first he plucks the rose of Nature, Woman;And though our actress gives thee that sweet gazeWhere spirit and matter mingle in liquid blue—That face, where pity through the frolic plays—That form, whose lines of light Love’s pencil drew—That voice whose music seems a new caressWhenever passion makes a new transitionFrom key to key of joy or quaint distress—That sigh, when, now, thy fairy’s lovelinessLeaves thee alone to mourn Love’s vanished vision:Still art thou Pierrot—naught but Pierrot ever;For is not this the very word of Fate:‘No mortal, clown or king, shall e’er disseverHis present glory from his past estate’?Yet be thou wise and dry those foolish tears;The clown’s first kiss was needed, not the clown,By her, who, fired by hopes and chilled by fears,Sought but a kiss like thine for years on years:Be wise, I say, and wander back to town.

A REMINISCENCE OF THE OPEN-AIR PLAYS.

Epilogue for the open-air performance of Banville’s ‘Le Baiser, in which Lady Archibald Campbell took the part of ‘Pierrot’ and Miss Annie Schletter the part of the ‘Fairy.’—Coombe, August 9, 1889.

To Pierrot in Love

The Clown whose kisses turned a Crone to a Fairy-queen

What dost thou here in Love’s enchanted wood,Pierrot, who once wert safe as clown and thief—Held safe by love of fun and wine and food—From her who follows love of Woman, Grief—Her who of old stalked over Eden-grassBehind Love’s baby-feet—whose shadow threwOn every brook, as on a magic glass,Prophetic shapes of what should come to passWhen tears got mixt with Paradisal dew?

Kisses are loved but for the lips that kiss:Thine have restored a princess to her throne,Breaking the spell which barred from fairy blissA fay, and shrank her to a wrinkled crone;But, if thou dream’st that thou from PantomimeShalt clasp an angel of the mystic moon,Clasp her on banks of Love’s own rose and thyme,While woodland warblers ring the nuptial-chime—Bottom to thee were but a week buffoon.

When yonder fairy, long ago, was toldThe spell which caught her in malign eclipse,Turning her radiant body foul and old,Would yield to some knight-errant’s virgin lips,And when, through many a weary day and night,She, wondering who the paladin would beWhose kiss should charm her from her grievous plight,Pictured a-many princely heroes bright,Dost thou suppose she ever pictured thee?

’Tis true the mischief of the foeman’s charmYielded to thee—to that first kiss of thine.We saw her tremble—lift a rose-wreath arm,Which late, all veined and shrivelled, made her pine;We saw her fingers rise and touch her cheek,As if the morning breeze across the wood,Which lately seemed to strike so chill and bleakThrough all the wasted body, bent and weak,Were light and music now within her blood.

’Tis true thy kiss made all her form expand—Made all the skin grow smooth and pure as pearl,Till there she stood, tender, yet tall and grand,A queen of Faery, yet a lovesome girl,Within whose eyes—whose wide, new-litten eyes—New-litten by thy kiss’s re-creation—Expectant joy that yet was wild surpriseMade all her flesh like light of summer skiesWhen dawn lies dreaming of the morn’s carnation.

But when thou saw’st the breaking of the spellWithin whose grip of might her soul had pined,Like some sweet butterfly that breaks the cellIn which its purple pinions slept confined,And when thou heard’st the strains of elfin songHer sisters sang from rainbow cars above her—Didst thou suppose that she, though prisoned long,And freed at last by thee from all the wrong,Must for that kiss take Harlequin for lover?

Hearken, sweet fool! Though Banville carried theeTo lawns where love and song still share the swardBeyond the golden river few can see,And fewer still, in these grey days, can ford;And though he bade the wings of Passion fanThy face, till every line grows bright and human,Feathered thy spirit’s wing for wider span,And fired thee with the fire that comes to manWhen first he plucks the rose of Nature, Woman;

And though our actress gives thee that sweet gazeWhere spirit and matter mingle in liquid blue—That face, where pity through the frolic plays—That form, whose lines of light Love’s pencil drew—That voice whose music seems a new caressWhenever passion makes a new transitionFrom key to key of joy or quaint distress—That sigh, when, now, thy fairy’s lovelinessLeaves thee alone to mourn Love’s vanished vision:

Still art thou Pierrot—naught but Pierrot ever;For is not this the very word of Fate:‘No mortal, clown or king, shall e’er disseverHis present glory from his past estate’?Yet be thou wise and dry those foolish tears;The clown’s first kiss was needed, not the clown,By her, who, fired by hopes and chilled by fears,Sought but a kiss like thine for years on years:Be wise, I say, and wander back to town.

Recurring to the Marston gatherings, I reproduce here, from the same unpublished story to which I have already alluded, the following interesting account of them and of other social reunions of the like kind.

“Many of those who have reached life’s meridian, or passed it, will remember the sudden rise, a quarter of a century ago, of Rossetti, Swinburne, and William Morris—poets who seemed for a time to threaten the ascendency of Tennyson himself. Between this galaxy and the latest generation of poets there rose, culminated, and apparently set, another—the group which it was the foolish fashion to call ‘the pre-Raphaelite poets,’ some of whom yielded, or professed to yield, to the influence of Rossetti, some to that of William Morris, and some to that of Swinburne. Round them all, however, there was the aura of Baudelaire or else of Gautier. These—though, as in all suchcases, nature had really made them very unlike each other—formed themselves into a set, or rather a sect, and tried apparently to become as much like each other as possible, by studying French models, selecting subjects more or less in harmony with the French temper, getting up their books after the fashion that was as much approved then as contemporary fashions in books are approved now, and by various other means. They had certain places of meeting, where they held high converse with themselves. One of these was the hospitable house, in Fitzroy Square, of the beloved and venerable painter, Mr. Madox Brown, whose face, as he sat smiling upon his Eisteddfod, radiating benevolence and encouragement to the unfledged bards he loved, was a picture which must be cherished in many a grateful memory now. Another was the equally hospitable house, in the neighbourhood of Chalk Farm, where reigned the dramatist, Westland Marston, and where his blind poet-boy Philip lived. Here O’Shaughnessy would come with a glow of triumph on his face, which indicated clearly enough what he was carrying in his pocket—something connecting him with the divine Théophile—a letter from the Gallic Olympus perhaps, or a presentation copy sent from the very top of the Gallic Parnassus. It was on one of these occasions that Rossetti satirically advised one of the cenacle to quit so poor a language as that of Shakespeare and write entirely in French, which language Morris immediately defined as ‘nosey Latin.’ It is a pity that some literary veteran does not give his reminiscences of those Marston nights, or rather Marston mornings, for the symposium began at about twelve and went on till nearly six—those famous gatherings of poets, actors, and painters, enlinking the days of Macready, Phelps, Miss Glyn, Robert Browning, Dante Rossetti, and R. H.Horne, with the days of poets, actors, and painters like Mr. Swinburne, Morris, and Mr. Irving. Yet these pre-Raphaelite bards had another joy surpassing even that of the Chalk Farm symposium, that of assisting at those literary and artistic feasts which Rossetti used occasionally to give at Cheyne Walk. Generosity and geniality incarnate was the mysterious poet-painter to those he loved; and if the budding bard yearned for sympathy, as he mostly does, he could get quite as much as he deserved, and more, at 16 Cheyne Walk. To say that any artist could take a deeper interest in the work of a friend than in his own seems bold, yet it could be said of Rossetti. The mean rivalries of the literary character that so often make men experienced in the world shrink away from it, found no place in that great heart. To hear him recite in his musical voice the sonnet or lyric of some unknown bard or bardling—recite it in such a way as to lend the lines the light and music of his own marvellous genius, while the bard or bardling listened with head bowed low, so that the flush on his cheek and the moisture in his eye should not be seen—this was an experience that did indeed make the bardic life ‘worth living.’”

Thou knowest that island, far away and lone,Whose shores are as a harp, where billows breakIn spray of music and the breezes shakeO’er spicy seas a woof of colour and tone,While that sweet music echoes like a moanIn the island’s heart, and sighs around the lake,Where, watching fearfully a watchful snake,A damsel weeps upon her emerald throne.Life’s ocean, breaking round thy senses’ shore,Struck golden song, as from the strand of Day:For us the joy, for thee the fell foe lay—Pain’s blinking snake around the fair isle’s core,Turning to sighs the enchanted sounds that playAround thy lovely island evermore.

Life’s ocean, breaking round thy senses’ shore,Struck golden song, as from the strand of Day:For us the joy, for thee the fell foe lay—Pain’s blinking snake around the fair isle’s core,Turning to sighs the enchanted sounds that playAround thy lovely island evermore.

I am now brought to a portion of my study which may well give me pause—the relations between Mr. Watts-Dunton and Rossetti. The latest remarks upon them are, I think, the best; they are by Mr. A. C. Benson in his monograph on Rossetti in the ‘English Men of Letters’:—

“It would be impossible to exaggerate the value of his friendship for Rossetti. Mr. Watts-Dunton understood him, sympathized with him, and with self-denying and unobtrusive delicacy shielded him, so far as any one can be shielded, from the rough contact of the world.It was for a long time hoped that Mr. Watts-Dunton would give the memoir of his great friend to the world, but there is such a thing as knowing a man too well to be his biographer. It is, however, an open secret that a vivid sketch of Rossetti’s personality has been given to the world in Mr. Watts-Dunton’s well-known romance ‘Aylwin,’ where the artist D’Arcy is drawn from Rossetti. . . . Though singularly independent in judgment, it is clear that, at all events in the later years of his life, Rossetti’s taste was, unconsciously, considerably affected by the critical preferences of Mr. Watts-Dunton. I have heard it said by one[139]who knew them both well that it was often enough for Mr. Watts-Dunton to express a strong opinion for Rossetti to adopt it as his own, even though he might have combated it for the moment. . . .At the end of each part [of ‘Rose Mary’] comes a curious lyrical outburst called the Beryl-songs, the chant of the imprisoned spirits, which are intended to weld the poem together and to supply connections. It is said that Mr. Watts-Dunton, when he first read the poem in proof, said to Rossetti that the drift was too intricate for an ordinary reader. Rossetti took this to heart, and wrote the Beryl-songs to bridge the gaps; Mr. Watts-Dunton, on being shown them, very rightly disapproved, and said humorously that they turned a fine ballad into a bastard opera. Rossetti, who was ill at the time, was so much disconcerted and upset at the criticism, that Mr. Watts-Dunton modified his judgment, and the interludes were printed. But at a later day Rossetti himselfcame round to the opinion that they were inappropriate. They are curiously wrought, rhapsodical, irregular songs, with fantastic rhymes, and were better away. . . .Then he began to settle down into the production of the single-figure pictures, of which Mr. Watts-Dunton wrote that ‘apart from any question of technical shortcomings, one of Rossetti’s strongest claims to the attention of posterity was that of having invented, in the three-quarter length pictures painted from one face, a type of female beauty which was akin to none other, which was entirely new, in short—and which, for wealth of sublime and mysterious suggestion, unaided by complex dramatic design, was unique in the art of the world.”

At the end of each part [of ‘Rose Mary’] comes a curious lyrical outburst called the Beryl-songs, the chant of the imprisoned spirits, which are intended to weld the poem together and to supply connections. It is said that Mr. Watts-Dunton, when he first read the poem in proof, said to Rossetti that the drift was too intricate for an ordinary reader. Rossetti took this to heart, and wrote the Beryl-songs to bridge the gaps; Mr. Watts-Dunton, on being shown them, very rightly disapproved, and said humorously that they turned a fine ballad into a bastard opera. Rossetti, who was ill at the time, was so much disconcerted and upset at the criticism, that Mr. Watts-Dunton modified his judgment, and the interludes were printed. But at a later day Rossetti himselfcame round to the opinion that they were inappropriate. They are curiously wrought, rhapsodical, irregular songs, with fantastic rhymes, and were better away. . . .

Then he began to settle down into the production of the single-figure pictures, of which Mr. Watts-Dunton wrote that ‘apart from any question of technical shortcomings, one of Rossetti’s strongest claims to the attention of posterity was that of having invented, in the three-quarter length pictures painted from one face, a type of female beauty which was akin to none other, which was entirely new, in short—and which, for wealth of sublime and mysterious suggestion, unaided by complex dramatic design, was unique in the art of the world.”

Pandora. Crayon by D. G. Rossetti at ‘The Pines’

It is well known that Rossetti wished his life—if written at all—to be written by Mr. Watts-Dunton, unless his brother should undertake it. It is also well known that the brother himself wished it, but pressure of other matters prevented Mr. Watts-Dunton from undertaking it. I expected difficulties in approaching with regard to the delicate subject of his relations with Rossetti, but I was not prepared to find them so great as they have proved to be. When I wrote to him and asked him whether the portrait of D’Arcy in ‘Aylwin’ was to be accepted as a portrait of Rossetti, and when I asked him to furnish me with some materials and facts to form the basis of this chapter, I received from him the following letter:—

“My dear Mr. Douglas,—I have never myself affirmed that D’Arcy was to be taken as an actual portrait of Rossetti. Even if I thought that a portrait of him could be given in any form of imaginative literature,I have views of my own as to the propriety of giving actual portraits of men with whom a novelist or poet has been brought into contact. It is quite impossible for an imaginative writer to avoid the imperious suggestions of his memory when he is conceiving a character. Thousands of times in a year does one come across critical remarks upon the prototypes of the characters of such great novelists as Scott, Dickens, Thackeray, the Brontës, George Eliot, George Meredith, Thomas Hardy, and the rest. And I believe that every one of these writers would confess that his prominent characters were suggested to him by living individuals or by individuals who figure in history—but suggested only. And as to the ethics of so dealing with friends and acquaintances I have also views of my own. These are easily stated. The closer the imaginative writer gets to the portrait of a friend, or even of an acquaintance, the more careful must he be to set his subject in a genial and even a generous light. It would be a terrible thing if every man who has been a notable figure in life were to be represented as this or that at the sweet will of everybody who has known him. Generous treatment, I say, is demanded of every writer who makes use of the facets of character that have struck him in his intercourse with friend or acquaintance. I will give you an instance of this. When I drew De Castro in ‘Aylwin’ I made use of my knowledge of a certain individual. Now this individual, although a man of quite extraordinary talents, brilliance, and personal charm, bore not a very good name, because he was driven to live upon his wits. He had endowments so great and so various that I cannot conceive any line of life in which he was not fitted to excel—but it was his irreparable misfortune to have been trained to no business and no profession, and to have beenthrown upon the world without means, and without useful family connections. Such a man must either sink beneath the oceanic waves of London life, or he must make a struggle to live upon his wits. This individual made that struggle—he struck out with a vigour that, as far as I know, was without example in London society. He got to know, and to know intimately, men like Ruskin, G. F. Watts, D. G. Rossetti, Mr. W. M. Rossetti, William Morris, Mr. Swinburne, Sir Edward Burne Jones, Cruikshank, and I know not what important people besides. When he was first brought into touch with the painters, he knew nothing whatever of art; in two or three years, as I have heard Rossetti say, he was a splendid ‘connoisseur.’ If he had been brought up as a lawyer he must have risen to the top of the profession. If he had been brought up as an actor he must, as I have heard a dramatist say, have risen to the top. But from his very first appearance in London he was driven to live upon his wits. And here let me say that this man, who was a bitter unfriend of my own, because I was compelled to stand in the way of certain dealings of his, but whom I really could have liked if he had not been obliged to live upon his wits at the expense of certain friends of mine, formed the acquaintance of the great men I have enumerated, not so much from worldly motives, as I believe, as from real admiration. But being driven to live upon his wits, he had not sufficient moral strength to afford a conscience, and the queerest stories were told—some of them true enough—of his dealings with those great men. Whistler’s anecdotes of him at one period set many a table in a roar; and yet so winsome was the man that after a time he became as intimate with Whistler as ever. If he had possessed a private income, and if that income had been carefully settled upon him, I believehe would have been one of the most honest of men; I know he would have been one of the most generous. His conduct to the late Treffry Dunn, from whom he could not have expected the least return except that of gratitude, was proof enough of his generosity. Of course to make use of so strange a character as this was a great temptation to me when I wrote ‘Aylwin.’ But in what has been called my ‘thumb-nail portrait of him,’ I treated the peccadilloes attributed to him in a playful and jocose way. It would have been quite wrong to have painted otherwise than in playful colours a character like this. Like every other man and woman in this world, he left behind him people who believed in him and loved him. It would have been cruel to wound these, and unfair to the man; and yet because I gave only a slight suggestion of his sublime quackery and supreme blarney, a writer who also knew something about him, but of course not a thousandth part of what I knew, said that I had tried my hand at depicting him in ‘Aylwin,’ but with no great success. As a matter of fact, I did not attempt to give a portrait of him: I simply used certain facets of his character to work out my story, and then dismissed him. On the other hand, where the character of a friend or acquaintance is noble, the imagination can work more freely—as in the case of Philip Aylwin, Cyril Aylwin, Wilderspin, Rhona Boswell, Winifred Wynne, Sinfi Lovell. And as to Rossetti, whom I have been charged by certain critics with having idealized in my picture of D’Arcy, all I have to say on that point is this—that if the noble and fascinating qualities which Rossetti showed had been leavened with mean ones I should not, in introducing his character into a story, have considered it right or fair or generous to dwell upon those mean ones. But as a matter offact, during my whole intercourse with him he displayed no such qualities. The D’Arcy that I have painted is not one whit nobler, more magnanimous, wide-minded, and generous, than was D. G. Rossetti. As I have said on several occasions, he could and did take as deep an interest in a friend’s work as in his own. And to benefit a friend was the greatest pleasure he had in life. I loved the man so deeply that I should never have introduced D’Arcy into the novel had it not been in the hope of silencing the misrepresentations of him that began as soon as ever Rossetti was laid in the grave at Birchington, by depicting his character in colours as true as they were sympathetic. It has been the grievous fate of Rossetti to be the victim of an amount of detraction which is simply amazing and inscrutable. I cannot in the least understand why this is so. It is the great sorrow of my life. There is a fatality of detraction about his name which in its unreasonableness would be grotesque were it not heartrending. It would turn my natural optimism about mankind into pessimism were it not that another dear friend of mine—a man of equal nobility of character, and almost of equal genius, has escaped calumny altogether—William Morris. This matter is a painful puzzle to me. The only great man of my time who seems to have shared something of Rossetti’s fate, is Lord Tennyson. There seems to be a general desire to belittle him, to exaggerate such angularities as were his, and to speak of that almost childlike simplicity of character which was an ineffable charm in him as springing from boorishness and almost from loutishness. On the other hand, another great genius, Browning, for whom I had and have the greatest admiration, seems to be as fortunate as Morris in escaping the detractor. But I am wandering from Rossetti. I do notfeel any impulse to write reminiscences of him. Too much has been written about him already—of late a great deal too much. The only thing written about him that has given me comfort—I may say joy, is this—it has been written by a man who knew him before I did, who knew him at the time he lost his wife. Mr. Val Prinsep, R.A., has declared that in Rossetti’s relations with his wife there was nothing whatever upon which his conscience might reasonably trouble him. I do not remember the exact words, but this was the substance of them. Mr. Val Prinsep is a man of the highest standing, and he knew Rossetti intimately, and he has declared in print that Rossetti could have had no qualms of conscience in regard to his relations with his wife. This, I say, is a source of great comfort to me and to all who loved Rossetti. That he was whimsical, fanciful, and at times most troublesome to his friends, no one knows better than I do.No one, I say, is more competent to speak of the whims and the fancies and the troublesomeness of Rossetti than I am; and yet I say that he was one of the noblest-hearted men of his time, and lovable—most lovable.”

No one, I say, is more competent to speak of the whims and the fancies and the troublesomeness of Rossetti than I am; and yet I say that he was one of the noblest-hearted men of his time, and lovable—most lovable.”

It would be worse than idle to enter at this time of day upon the painful subject of the “Buchanan affair.” Indeed, I have often thought it is a great pity that it is not allowed to die out. The only reason why it is still kept alive seems to be that, without discussing it, it is impossible fully to understand Rossetti’s nervous illness, about which so much has been said. I remember seeing in Mr. Watts-Dunton’s essay on Congreve in ‘Chambers’s Encyclopædia’ a definition of envy as the ‘literary leprosy.’ This phrase has often been quoted in referenceto the case of Buchanan, and also in reference to a recent and much more ghastly case between two intimate friends. Now, with all deference to Mr. Watts-Dunton, I cannot accept it as a right and fair definition. It is a fact no doubt that the struggle in the world of art—whether poetry, music, painting, sculpture, or the drama—is unlike that of the mere strivers after wealth and position, inasmuch as to praise one man’s artistic work is in a certain way to set it up against the work of another. Still, one can realize, without referring to Disraeli’s ‘Curiosities of Literature,’ that envy is much too vigorous in the artistic life. Now, whatever may have been the good qualities of Buchanan—and I know he had many good qualities—it seems unfortunately to be true that he was afflicted with this terrible disease of envy. There can be no question that what incited him to write the notorious article in the ‘Contemporary Review’ entitled ‘The Fleshly School of Poetry,’ was simply envy—envy and nothing else. It was during the time that Rossetti was suffering most dreadfully from the mental disturbance which seems really to have originated in this attack and the cognate attacks which appeared in certain other magazines, that the intimacy between Mr. Watts-Dunton and Rossetti was formed and cemented. And it is to this period that Mr. William Rossetti alludes in the following words: “‘Watts is a hero of friendship’ was, according to Mr. Caine, one of my brother’s last utterances, easy enough to be credited.”

That he deserved these words I think none will deny; and that the friendship sprang from the depths of the nature of a man to whom the word ‘friendship’ meant not what it generally means now, a languid sentiment, but what it meant in Shakespeare’s time, a deep passion, is shown by what some deem the finest lines Mr. Watts-Duntonever wrote—I mean those lines which he puts into the mouth of Shakespeare’s Friend in ‘Christmas at the Mermaid,’ lines part of which have been admirably turned into Latin by Mr. E. D. Stone,[147]and published by him in the second volume of that felicitous series of Latin translations,’ Florilegium Latinum’:—

‘MR. W. H.’To sing the nation’s song or do the deedThat crowns with richer light the motherland,Or lend her strength of arm in hour of needWhen fangs of foes shine fierce on every hand,Is joy to him whose joy is working well—Is goal and guerdon too, though never fame.Should find a thrill of music in his name;Yea, goal and guerdon too, though Scorn should aimHer arrows at his soul’s high citadel.But if the fates withhold the joy from meTo do the deed that widens England’s day,Or join that song of Freedom’s jubileeBegun when England started on her way—Withhold from me the hero’s glorious powerTo strike with song or sword for her, the mother,And give that sacred guerdon to another,Him will I hail as my more noble brother—Him will I love for his diviner dower.Enough for me who have our Shakspeare’s loveTo see a poet win the poet’s goal,For Will is he; enough and far aboveAll other prizes to make rich my soul.Ben names my numbers golden. Since they tellA tale of him who in his peerless primeFled us ere yet one shadowy film of timeCould dim the lustre of that brow sublime,Golden my numbers are: Ben praiseth well.

‘MR. W. H.’

To sing the nation’s song or do the deedThat crowns with richer light the motherland,Or lend her strength of arm in hour of needWhen fangs of foes shine fierce on every hand,Is joy to him whose joy is working well—Is goal and guerdon too, though never fame.Should find a thrill of music in his name;Yea, goal and guerdon too, though Scorn should aimHer arrows at his soul’s high citadel.

But if the fates withhold the joy from meTo do the deed that widens England’s day,Or join that song of Freedom’s jubileeBegun when England started on her way—Withhold from me the hero’s glorious powerTo strike with song or sword for her, the mother,And give that sacred guerdon to another,Him will I hail as my more noble brother—Him will I love for his diviner dower.

Enough for me who have our Shakspeare’s loveTo see a poet win the poet’s goal,For Will is he; enough and far aboveAll other prizes to make rich my soul.Ben names my numbers golden. Since they tellA tale of him who in his peerless primeFled us ere yet one shadowy film of timeCould dim the lustre of that brow sublime,Golden my numbers are: Ben praiseth well.

It seems to me to be needful to bear in mind these lines, and the extremely close intimacy between these two poet-friends in order to be able to forgive entirely the unexampled scourging of Buchanan in the following sonnet if, as some writers think, Buchanan was meant:—

THE OCTOPUS OF THE GOLDEN ISLES‘what! will they even strike at me?’Round many an Isle of Song, in seas serene,With many a swimmer strove the poet-boy,Yet strove in love: their strength, I say, was joyTo him, my friend—dear friend of godlike mien!But soon he felt beneath the billowy greenA monster moving—moving to destroy:Limb after limb became the tortured toyOf coils that clung and lips that stung unseen.“And canst thou strike ev’n me?” the swimmer said,As rose above the waves the deadly eyes,Arms flecked with mouths that kissed in hellish wise,Quivering in hate around a hateful head.—I saw him fight old Envy’s sorceries:I saw him sink: the man I loved is dead!

THE OCTOPUS OF THE GOLDEN ISLES‘what! will they even strike at me?’

Round many an Isle of Song, in seas serene,With many a swimmer strove the poet-boy,Yet strove in love: their strength, I say, was joyTo him, my friend—dear friend of godlike mien!But soon he felt beneath the billowy greenA monster moving—moving to destroy:Limb after limb became the tortured toyOf coils that clung and lips that stung unseen.

“And canst thou strike ev’n me?” the swimmer said,As rose above the waves the deadly eyes,Arms flecked with mouths that kissed in hellish wise,Quivering in hate around a hateful head.—I saw him fight old Envy’s sorceries:I saw him sink: the man I loved is dead!

Here we get something quite new in satire—something in which poetry, fancy, hatred, and contempt, are mingled. The sonnet appeared first in the ‘Athenæum,’ and afterwards in ‘The Coming of Love.’ If Buchanan or any special individual was meant, I doubt whether any man has a moral right to speak about another man in such terms as these.

All the friends of Rossetti have remarked upon the extraordinary influence exercised upon him by Mr. Watts-Dunton. Lady Mount Temple, a great friend of the painter-poet, used to tell how when she was in his studio and found him in a state of great dejection, as was so frequently the case, she would notice that Rossetti’s face would suddenly brighten up on hearing a light footfall in the hall—the footfall of his friend, who had entered with his latch-key—and how from that moment Rossetti would be another man. Rossetti’s own relatives have recorded the same influence. I have often thought that the most touching thing in Mr. W. M. Rossetti’s beautiful monograph of his brother is the following extract from his aged mother’s diary at Birchington-on-Sea, when the poet is dying:—

‘March 28, Tuesday. Mr. Watts came down; Gabriel rallied marvellously.This is the last cheerful item which it is allowed me to record concerning my brother; I am glad that it stands associated with the name of Theodore Watts.’

‘March 28, Tuesday. Mr. Watts came down; Gabriel rallied marvellously.

This is the last cheerful item which it is allowed me to record concerning my brother; I am glad that it stands associated with the name of Theodore Watts.’

Here is another excerpt from the brother’s diary:—

‘Gabriel had, just before Shields entered the drawing-room for me, given two violent cries, and had a convulsive fit, very sharp and distorting the face, followed by collapse. All this passed without my personal cognizance. He died 9.31 p.m.; the others—Watts, mother, Christina, and nurse, in room; Caine and Shields in and out; Watts at Gabriel’s right side, partly supporting him.’

That Mr. Watts-Dunton’s influence over Rossetti extended even to his art as a poet is shown by Mr. Benson’s words already quoted. I must also quote the testimony of Mr. Hall Caine, who says, in his ‘Recollections’:—

“Rossetti, throughout the period of my acquaintance with him, seemed to me always peculiarly and, if I may be permitted to say so without offence, strangely liable to Mr. Watts’ influence in his critical estimates; and the case instanced was perhaps the only one in which I knew him to resist Mr. Watts’s opinion upon a matter of poetical criticism, which he considered to be almost final, as his letters to me, printed in Chapter VIII of this volume, will show. I had a striking instance of this, and of the real modesty of the man whom I had heard and still hear spoken of as the most arrogant man of genius of his day, on one of the first occasions of my seeing him. He read out to me an additional stanza to the beautiful poem ‘Cloud Confines.’ As he read it, I thought it very fine, and he evidently was very fond of it himself. But he surprised me by saying that he should not print it. On my asking him why, he said:‘Watts, though he admits its beauty, thinks the poem would be better without it.’‘Well, but you like it yourself,’ said I.‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘but in a question of gain or loss to a poem I feel that Watts must be right.’And the poem appeared in ‘Ballads and Sonnets’ without the stanza in question.”

‘Watts, though he admits its beauty, thinks the poem would be better without it.’

‘Well, but you like it yourself,’ said I.

‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘but in a question of gain or loss to a poem I feel that Watts must be right.’

And the poem appeared in ‘Ballads and Sonnets’ without the stanza in question.”

Here is another beautiful passage from Mr. Hall Caine’s ‘Recollections’—a passage which speaks as much for the writer as for the object of his enthusiasm:—

“As to Mr. Theodore Watts, whose brotherly devotion to him and beneficial influence over him from that time forward are so well known, this must be considered by those who witnessed it to be almost without precedent or parallel even in the beautiful story of literary friendships, and it does as much honour to the one as to the other. No light matter it must have been to lay aside one’s own long-cherished life-work and literary ambitions to be Rossetti’s closest friend and brother, at a moment like the present, when he imagined the world to be conspiring against him; but through these evil days, and long after them, down to his death, the friend that clung closer than a brother was with him, as he himself said, to protect, to soothe, to comfort, to divert, to interest and inspire him—asking, meantime, no better reward than the knowledge that a noble mind and nature was by such sacrifice lifted out of sorrow. Among the world’s great men the greatest are sometimes those whose names are least on our lips, and this is because selfish aims have been so subordinate in their lives to the welfare of others as to leave no time for the personal achievements that win personal distinction; but when the worldcomes to the knowledge of the price that has been paid for the devotion that enables others to enjoy their renown, shall it not reward with a double meed of gratitude the fine spirits to whom ambition has been as nothing against fidelity of friendship. Among the latest words I heard from Rossetti was this: ‘Watts is a hero of friendship’; and indeed, he has displayed his capacity for participation in the noblest part of comradeship, that part, namely, which is far above the mere traffic that too often goes by the name, and wherein self-love always counts upon being the gainer. If in the end it should appear that he has in his own person done less than might have been hoped for from one possessed of his splendid gifts, let it not be overlooked that he has influenced in a quite incalculable degree, and influenced for good, several of the foremost among those who in their turn have influenced the age. As Rossetti’s faithful friend and gifted medical adviser, Mr. John Marshall, has often declared, there were periods when Rossetti’s very life may be said to have hung upon Mr. Watts’ power to cheer and soothe.”

This anecdote is also told by Mr. Caine:—

“Immediately upon the publication of his first volume, and incited thereto by the early success of it, he had written the poem ‘Rose Mary,’ as well as two lyrics published at the time in ‘The Fortnightly Review’; but he suffered so seriously from the subsequent assaults of criticism, that he seemed definitely to lay aside all hope of producing further poetry, and, indeed, to become possessed of the delusion that he had for ever lost all power of doing so. It is an interesting fact, well known in his own literary circle, that his taking up poetry afresh was the result of a fortuitous occurrence. After one ofhis most serious illnesses, and in the hope of drawing off his attention from himself, and from the gloomy forebodings which in an invalid’s mind usually gather about his own too absorbing personality, a friend prevailed upon him, with infinite solicitation, to try his hand afresh at a sonnet. The outcome was an effort so feeble as to be all but unrecognizable as the work of the author of the sonnets of ‘The House of Life,’ but, with more shrewdness and friendliness (on this occasion) than frankness, the critic lavished measureless praise upon it and urged the poet to renewed exertion. One by one, at longer or shorter intervals, sonnets were written, and this exercise did more towards his recovery than any other medicine, with the result besides that Rossetti eventually regained all his old dexterity and mastery of hand. The artifice had succeeded beyond every expectation formed of it, serving, indeed, the twofold end of improving the invalid’s health by preventing his brooding over unhealthy matters, and increasing the number of his accomplished works. Encouraged by such results, the friend went on to induce Rossetti to write a ballad, and this purpose he finally achieved by challenging the poet’s ability to compose in the simple, direct, and emphatic style, which is the style of the ballad proper, as distinguished from the elaborate, ornate, and condensed diction which he had hitherto worked in. Put upon his mettle, the outcome of this second artifice practised upon him was that he wrote ‘The White Ship’ and afterwards ‘The King’s Tragedy.’Thus was Rossetti already immersed in this revived occupation of poetic composition, and had recovered a healthy tone of body, before he became conscious of what was being done with him. It is a further amusing fact that one day he requested to be shown the firstsonnet which, in view of the praise lavished upon it by the friend on whose judgment he reposed, had encouraged him to renewed effort. The sonnet was bad: the critic knew it was bad, and had from the first hour of its production kept it carefully out of sight, and was now more than ever unwilling to show it. Eventually, however, by reason of ceaseless importunity, he returned it to its author, who, upon reading it, cried: ‘You fraud! You said this sonnet was good, and it’s the worst I ever wrote!’ ‘The worst ever written would perhaps be a truer criticism,’ was the reply, as the studio resounded with a hearty laugh, and the poem was committed to the flames. It would appear that to this occurrence we probably owe a large portion of the contents of the volume of 1881.”

Thus was Rossetti already immersed in this revived occupation of poetic composition, and had recovered a healthy tone of body, before he became conscious of what was being done with him. It is a further amusing fact that one day he requested to be shown the firstsonnet which, in view of the praise lavished upon it by the friend on whose judgment he reposed, had encouraged him to renewed effort. The sonnet was bad: the critic knew it was bad, and had from the first hour of its production kept it carefully out of sight, and was now more than ever unwilling to show it. Eventually, however, by reason of ceaseless importunity, he returned it to its author, who, upon reading it, cried: ‘You fraud! You said this sonnet was good, and it’s the worst I ever wrote!’ ‘The worst ever written would perhaps be a truer criticism,’ was the reply, as the studio resounded with a hearty laugh, and the poem was committed to the flames. It would appear that to this occurrence we probably owe a large portion of the contents of the volume of 1881.”

Mr. William Rossetti is ever eager to testify to the beneficent effect of Mr. Watts-Dunton’s intimacy upon his brother; and quite lately Madox Brown’s grandson, Mr. Ford Madox Hueffer, who, from his connection with the Rossetti family, speaks with great authority, wrote: ‘In 1873 came Mr. Theodore Watts, without whose practical friendship and advice, and without whose literary aids and sustenance, life would have been from thenceforth an impracticable affair for Rossetti.’ Mr. Hueffer speaks of the great change that came over Rossetti’s work when he wrote ‘The King’s Tragedy’ and ‘The White Ship’:—

“It should be pointed out that ‘The White Ship’ was one of Rossetti’s last works, and that in it he was aiming at simplicity of narration, under the advice of Mr. Theodore Watts. In this he was undoubtedly on the right track, and the ‘rhymed chronicles’ might havedisappeared had Rossetti lived long enough to revise the poem as sedulously as he did his earlier work, and to revise it with the knowledge of narrative-technique that the greater part of the poem shows was coming to be his.”

It was impossible for a man of genius to live so secluded a life as Rossetti lived at Cheyne Walk and at Kelmscott for several years, without wild, unauthenticated stories getting about concerning him. Among other things Rossetti, whose courtesy and charm of manner were, I believe, proverbial, was now charged with a rudeness, or rather boorishness like that which with equal injustice, apparently, is now being attributed to Tennyson. Stories got into print about his rude bearing towards people, sometimes towards ladies of the most exalted position. And these apocryphal and disparaging legends would no doubt have been still more numerous and still more offensive, had it not been for the influence of his watchful and powerful friend. Here is an interesting letter which Rossetti addressed to the ‘World,’ and which shows the close relations between him and Mr. Watts-Dunton:—

“16Cheyne Walk,Chelsea, S.W.December 28, 1878.My attention has been directed to the following paragraph which has appeared in the newspapers: ‘A very disagreeable story is told about a neighbour of Mr. Whistler’s, whose works are not exhibited to the vulgar herd; the Princess Louise in her zeal therefore, graciously sought them at the artist’s studio, but was rebuffed by a ‘Not at home’ and an intimation that he was not at the beck and call of princesses. I trust it is not true,’ continues the writer of the paragraph, ‘that so medievally minded a gentleman is really a strangerto that generous loyalty to rank and sex, that dignified obedience,’ etc.The story is certainly disagreeable enough; but if I am pointed out as the ‘near neighbour of Mr. Whistler’s’ who rebuffed, in this rude fashion, the Princess Louise, I can only say that it is a canard devoid of the smallest nucleus of truth. Her Royal Highness has never called upon me, and I know of only two occasions when she has expressed a wish to do so. Some years ago Mr. Theodore Martin spoke to me upon the subject, but I was at that time engaged upon an important work, and the delays thence arising caused the matter to slip through. And I heard no more upon the subject till last summer, when Mr. Theodore Watts told me that the Princess, in conversation, had mentioned my name to him, and that he had then assured her that I should feel ‘honoured and charmed to see her,’ and suggested her making an appointment. Her Royal Highness knew that Mr. Watts, as one of my most intimate friends, would not have thus expressed himself without feeling fully warranted in so doing; and had she called she would not, I trust, have found me wanting in that ‘generous loyalty’ which is due, not more to her exalted position, than to her well-known charm of character and artistic gifts. It is true that I do not run after great people on account of their mere social position, but I am, I hope, never rude to them; and the man who could rebuff the Princess Louise must be a curmudgeon indeed.D. G. ROSSETTI.”

“16Cheyne Walk,Chelsea, S.W.December 28, 1878.

My attention has been directed to the following paragraph which has appeared in the newspapers: ‘A very disagreeable story is told about a neighbour of Mr. Whistler’s, whose works are not exhibited to the vulgar herd; the Princess Louise in her zeal therefore, graciously sought them at the artist’s studio, but was rebuffed by a ‘Not at home’ and an intimation that he was not at the beck and call of princesses. I trust it is not true,’ continues the writer of the paragraph, ‘that so medievally minded a gentleman is really a strangerto that generous loyalty to rank and sex, that dignified obedience,’ etc.

The story is certainly disagreeable enough; but if I am pointed out as the ‘near neighbour of Mr. Whistler’s’ who rebuffed, in this rude fashion, the Princess Louise, I can only say that it is a canard devoid of the smallest nucleus of truth. Her Royal Highness has never called upon me, and I know of only two occasions when she has expressed a wish to do so. Some years ago Mr. Theodore Martin spoke to me upon the subject, but I was at that time engaged upon an important work, and the delays thence arising caused the matter to slip through. And I heard no more upon the subject till last summer, when Mr. Theodore Watts told me that the Princess, in conversation, had mentioned my name to him, and that he had then assured her that I should feel ‘honoured and charmed to see her,’ and suggested her making an appointment. Her Royal Highness knew that Mr. Watts, as one of my most intimate friends, would not have thus expressed himself without feeling fully warranted in so doing; and had she called she would not, I trust, have found me wanting in that ‘generous loyalty’ which is due, not more to her exalted position, than to her well-known charm of character and artistic gifts. It is true that I do not run after great people on account of their mere social position, but I am, I hope, never rude to them; and the man who could rebuff the Princess Louise must be a curmudgeon indeed.

D. G. ROSSETTI.”

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