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Design I.—Job and his wife and family, like true Israelites, are at prayer under a spreading fig-tree. The shepherd sons have for the time left their flocks at rest and hanged their musical instruments on the tree. At first sight the picture presents a scene of idyllic peace. But there are ominous signs. The sun is setting, night is fast coming, and the fig-tree suggests the immemorial symbol of Israel’s wrestling during the dark night.
Design II.—An illustration of the prologue of the Book. It is a marvellous representation of what an initiate only—a Moses, a Blake—could have imagined of the cosmos, with its heavenly portion peopled with the angelic sons of God in the middle, the earth and its inhabitants below, and above and beyond all God in His Heaven.
Satan, a magnificent figure, comes with the Sons of God to present himself before God. In his fiery aura are two shadowy figures making with him a trinity of evil.
Design III.—The crash of Job’s family. He has built his house, and prospered regardless of those who made it possible for him to build it; and in the sudden turn of events it has become a mere ruin.
Design IV.—Job and his wife are under the fig-tree, the man bearing with noble and unbroken fortitude the arrival of bad news.
Design V.—Once more the cosmos. Satan is rushing headlong towards earth to wreak his full power on Job in the midst of his charities, yet forbidden to touch the one thing that Job would so gladly surrender, his life. Heaven cannot remain impassive at suffering on earth. Its sun is darkened and the Almighty on His Throne is grieved at His heart.
Design VI.—Satan’s last malice on Job. He is reduced to sheer nakedness and wretchedness. Nothing of his former life that gave him comfort remains to him. He is “wrecked on God.” “The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away, Blessed be the name of the Lord.” With such faith and resignation his sun has not quite set.
Design VII.—The friends arrive. Once more Blake felt at home from his personal experience. He had never had beyond Catherine and Robert a perfect spiritual friend. He had never lacked corporeal ones. The remembrance of them gave zest and spirit to the portrayal of Eliphaz the Temanite, Bildad the Shuhite, and Zophar the Naamathite.
Design VIII.—Job’s corporeal friends have done their worst. They and his wife have quenched his last hope. His sun has gone down. Naked and covered with boils from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot, he lifts up both hands and curses the day that saw his birth.
Design IX.—The vision of Eliphaz, and his terror, for which Blake recalled his own terror on the threshold.
Design X.—The corporeal friends stripped of their wordy disguise. They are spiritual enemies that point the finger of scorn at the just, upright man. There is a glimmer of light on the horizon, for Job can still say, “Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him.”
Design XI.—A worse stage of misery. Hitherto Job had held fast his faith in God. Now he no longer sees God as He is. In the terrors of his dreams and visions he cannot discern between God and Satan. Satan stretches over him with a face reminiscent of God’s. As Job turns away his head in horror, it becomes impossible for him to detect the cloven hoof; and so he touchesthat horror of great darkness, worse than all physical suffering, where not only man but God has turned His face, and in Its place loom the commandments of stone, which recall the darkness and thunders of Sinai.
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Design XII.—The horror of darkness has passed. The stars are shining, and the youthful Elihu essays to utter the wisdom that the old men have lacked. Blake could recall the ministry of his young friends, who had come so recently into his life, and by their love had caused the stars to appear. Elihu does not utter perfect wisdom, for that cannot be reached from human experience.
Design XIII.—The source of perfect wisdom. “The Lord answered Job out of the Whirlwind.” Job sees Him as He is in His true lineaments, and listens as the Almighty speaks. Blake, too, reads breathlessly the marvellous description of creation till his spirit flames up, and the creative fire gives birth to his next most glorious design.
Design XIV.—The creation and the immense joy of it. There is the creation of the whole cosmos, when the morning Stars sang together, and all the Sons of God shouted for joy. Never was such joy again till the beginning of the New Creation, when the Son of God was born in Bethlehem, as Luke, artist and saint, narrates with such artless simplicity and beauty. The Scriptures assure us of a time when that joy shall be eternal. Meanwhile it is the artists who in true creation have a foretaste of the joy. It is Blake who has presented it in its most spiritual and universal aspect.
Design XV.—A grotesque. I presume that Blake, like Leonardo da Vinci, discovered something grotesque as he explored the universe.
Design XVI.—The universe once more. It is the consummation of the judgment. Satan and his shadowy companions who dwell in man have taken definite form and substance. The man who has walked the way of excess has brought all his latent evil out, and has given it substance, so that he can arise in his strength and cast it out for ever.
Design XVII.—Job’s beatific vision. He is blessed and his house, now only his wife, but through her and God’s blessing he may be fruitful and multiply, and build his house in the divine order. His sun has risen and will no more set.
Design XVIII.—Job stands before an altar of burnt-offering. Like Jacob he has prevailed, and God accepts him and his prayers for his friends.
Design XIX.—Job and his wife once more under the fig-tree, whose fruit has ripened. He is the recipient of friendly gifts and offerings from his neighbours.
Design XX.—Job, with memories engraven on the chambers of his imagery, stretching forth his hands over his new family of beautiful daughters.
Design XXI.—A return to the first scene. But the sun is rising, and Job and his family, taking their instruments of art, are worshipping God in the beauty of holiness.
Blake completed his engravings for Job in March 1825, and they were published March 1826.
They might well have been the crowning work of his life, and followed by hisNunc dimittis, but there was boundless mental energy in the old man, though his body was failing.
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FROM THE DANTE SERIES.
It was in 1825 that Blake met Crabb Robinson at the house of Mr Aders, where Mrs Aders, daughter of Raphael Smith, was in the habit of entertaining many interesting people.
Crabb Robinson was a most excellent man—well accoutred, steady on his legs, with well-set head, without superstition, and just enough prejudice to starch his mind.
He knew Blake at the time that he was learning Italian for the sake of Dante that he might execute Dante designs for Linnell. From Robinson’s reminiscences, we do just get a glimpse of Blake struggling with Dante, and delighting to mystify his respectable friend. Unfortunately, the reported references in their conversations to Dante are few, though enough perhaps to indicate Blake’s attitude. He was not one of Dante’s elect. But with closer study he was beginning to fall under his spell, and we may safely surmise that if Dante had come into Blake’s life in his youth, instead of Swedenborg, Blake would have become the greatest catholic mystic artist of the age.
Little more remains to be told.
Blake in great pain of body—stomach trouble and shivering fits—was driven to his bed. When he knew the end was near, he said to his wife: “I have no grief but in leaving you, Catherine. We have lived happy, we have lived long, we have been ever together, but we shall be divided soon. Why should I fear death? Nor do I fear it. I have endeavoured to live as Christ commanded, and I have sought to worship God truly in my own home, when I was not seen of men.”
While the wife ministered to him he exclaimed suddenly, “You have ever been an angel to me, I will draw you.” And he did. In answer to her, he expressed a wish to be buried at Bunhill Fields by the Church of England.
At midday on August 12th, 1827, he burst into strong joyous song, and then corrected his previous word about parting by assuring Catherine that he would always be there to take care of her. Then he remained quite quiet till his spirit passed away.
Life is a voyage of discovery or rediscovery. Those, like Blake, born in a Christian land make the same voyage. The Christian tradition is handed on to us in our tender infancy, and most people take what their immediate teachers tell them, and live on that dry stock for the rest of their days. But the sinner and the genius, like Blake, early throw their inheritance overboard, and driven by native energy go in adventurous quest of new lands. The first half of Blake’s life was spent thus. He would rebel at all costs, he would above all protest against what he hated—the religion of repression.
For many years Christianity and repression were for him synonymous terms. His craving was for expression. Parents, teachers, priests, kings, governments, were enemies to spontaneous self-expression. Then they must go. His youthful exuberance admitted of no half-measures. Like Ezekiel and Christ, he poured out his invective against hireling shepherds: unlike them, he ceased for a time to believe in good shepherds. One and all they were out to repress men’s instincts and passions, until, driven in, the pent-up passion poisoned their whole nature, or in the weaker sort was rendered passive. Blake proclaimed his doctrine with vehemence, but no one regarded him.
Pursuing this course for many years, he perceived some wonderful things. Art is expression; and he made an application of all the glories of art to human character. Teach men toexpress themselves, and then instead of their being as dull and similar as a flock of sheep governed by the herd instinct, they would grow into a beautiful variety. Man would create himself as an artist creates his works. The same law governed both. Repression when successful induced a nerveless, sapless type. Man became an overwhipped dog. Expression produced a strong, beautiful character above all petty and tiresome rules of conduct. The conduct of such is carelessly right.
It was by Blake’s frank proclamation of theegothat he anticipated so much of what the modern apostles of the superman have made us all familiar with. From Ibsen’sDoll’s Houseto Nietzsche’sThus spake Zarathustra, confidence in theegohas been proclaimed as the means to liberty, beauty, and sovereignty; and this has been accompanied by revivals on a large scale of those ancient mystery religions that turn on the culture of the divineego.
This was a road of excess which Blake pursued as far as an individual might. In the nineteenth century the law of theego, the struggle for life, the survival of the fittest, brute force, were regarded as all one, and transferred from the individual to the State, till in a few years the world was plunged into war.
Blake’s voyage of rediscovery began during the Reign of Terror. The new teachers, like Swedenborg and Godwin, Tom Paine and Mary Wollstonecraft, failed to satisfy his own craving for expression. The Reign of Terror appalled him when it showed him his principle at work in the proletariat. Then it was that turning again to the Evangelists he made the wonderful discovery, which later apostles of theegohave not made, that Jesus Christ was the perfect example and embodiment of his vision. He had pictured to himself a man, impelled by a creativepassion, whose character in every part should be manifestly the outcome of fiery energy. And there was the Man in the Subject of the Gospels. But he saw that Jesus Christ could not be labelled or classed. There was egoistic self-expression in Him, and there was self-renunciation. Somehow He had altogether escaped the modern dilemma of self-expression or self-sacrifice. Both were magnificently present in Him and united, because His self-expression was resting on His self-surrender to God. Give up God, and man swings perpetually between duty to neighbour and duty to self. Believe in and surrender to God, and each falls into its proper place. This was not the only synthesis in the character of Jesus. He was a union of all possible contraries. Gentleness and fierceness; non-resistance and aggressive force; non-resentment and fiery invective; forgiveness and severe justice, haughty pride and lowliness; self-confidence and utter dependence upon God, all were in Jesus. Henceforth Blake could keep his vision of Jesus and his vision of art, for they were one.
The next stage in rediscovery was to find out what the great body of dogmatic truth had affirmed about Jesus down the Christian centuries. Here he made little progress. He probably felt, as we all do at times, that the simplicity of the gospel was lost in the maze of dogmatic subtleties. The negative aspect of dogma, that it rules out all that would infringe on that simplicity, never occurred to him. His mind was governed and distracted by Hindoo pantheism, and catholic anthropomorphism filtered and diluted through Swedenborg. Even after he had repudiated Swedenborg the distraction remained. His new understanding of Christ taught him that he must accept the ultimate antinomy of good and evil, and that therefore Christ’s heaven and hell must remain; but the pantheism never abated its watery flood,and the emphatic catholic teaching of transcendence and immanence gained no sufficient hold to deliver his mind.
The truth is that Blake was not a great thinker, still less a system-builder. He ought to have found the best Christian system while young and kept to it. Then he could have lived his life of vision within coherent bounds. Clear, sharp dogma, like outline in art, would have given rest to his mind, substance to his visions, and saved him from the waste of pouring out a torrent of incoherent sayings containing scraps of gnosticism, theosophy, rosicrucianism, and almost every heresy under the sun.
The master-mind in his youth who could have given him a sound system was Dr Johnson, and he would not listen to him. How should the arch-rebel pay any attention to the arch-conservator? Dr Johnson said many foolish things about things of no great importance: he was wise in great matters. An ounce of folly, like a dead fly in the ointment, suffices to put off the fastidious rebel, who will seize hold of any excuse. Eventually Blake subscribed to the same creed as Dr Johnson. That surely is a marvellous unanimity for such diverse minds.
The master-mind in his age who could have given him a better system than his own, and to whom he was beginning to listen, was Dante. His catholicism may have been of a medieval pattern, but it was very little infected with the time-spirit; it is even now finer than Swedenborg’s fabrication, and modern compared with the gnosticism that bulked so largely in Blake’s mind.
Blake makes no disciples, and no school can claim him, but he speaks to all who have any mental equipment. His vision of Christ, if we can make it our own and fill out its defects, willput us beyond the modern worship of the superman, and take us out of that sectarianism which gains ascendancy for a little while because of its lightness and fragmentariness.
The confusion in Blake’s mental life affects his art. He declared consistently in times of clear vision that outline, form, and foundation are the essence of spiritual things. This is beyond anything to be found in Sir Joshua’sDiscourses, and anticipates Benedetto Croce when he says that art is an ultimate, that “form is constant and is spiritual activity,” while “matter is changeable,” yet he accomplished many designs that Reynolds could have taught him to correct.
His later poems suffer still more. The energy in them is terrific, and they are filled with flashes of inspiration; but their atmosphere is murky, and never clears for more than fifty lines at a time. They are storehouses, but the one who would get anything out of them must bring his taper with him.
The early short poems, on the contrary, shine with their own light.The TigerandThe Emmetare written before his mind has time to plunge into the penumbra of his disorderly system.
Blake was still young in spirit when he died. One feels with him, as with Tolstoi, that he had far from come to the end of his tether. He was one of the few to whose years another threescore might have been added with advantage. Where would he have arrived? I think when we remember that for more than twenty years before his death he was on the voyage of rediscovery, we may hazard the guess that he would have reached the catholic form of Christianity, having thrown overboard his private symbolism on the way; and that then he would have produced great, long poems of crystalline clearness, which would have placed him by the side of the master-poets of the ages.
Yet it is idle work guessing at what might have been. We blame a man’s times, or birth, or church, or what not for his failures, when we should look for some fundamental lack in his own equipment. That Blake was not quite one of our conquerors, then, we will not attribute to the eighteenth century or to Swedenborg’s predominant influence in his early life, but simply to the fact that he lacked the strong, virile reason that could keep pace with the on-rush of his visions. He was all Los: Urizen, whom he repudiated with such scorn, alone could have balanced his nature and led him to the supreme achievement.