shelley-第2章

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This　was；　as　is　well　known；　patent　in　his　life。　　It　is　as　really；

though　perhaps　less　obviously；　manifest　in　his　poetry；　the　sincere

effluence　of　his　life。　　And　it　may　not；　therefore；　be　amiss　to

consider　whether　it　was　conditioned　by　anything　beyond　his

congenital　nature。　　For　our　part；　we　believe　it　to　have　been　equally

largely　the　outcome　of　his　early　and　long　isolation。　　Men　given　to

retirement　and　abstract　study　are　notoriously　liable　to　contract　a

certain　degree　of　childlikeness：　　and　if　this　be　the　case　when　we

segregate　a　man；　how　much　more　when　we　segregate　a　child！　　It　is

when　they　are　taken　into　the　solution　of　school…life　that　children；

by　the　reciprocal　interchange　of　influence　with　their　fellows；

undergo　the　series　of　reactions　which　converts　them　from　children

into　boys　and　from　boys　into　men。　　The　intermediate　stage　must　be

traversed　to　reach　the　final　one。



Now　Shelley　never　could　have　been　a　man；　for　he　never　was　a　boy。

And　the　reason　lay　in　the　persecution　which　overclouded　his　school…

days。　　Of　that　persecution's　effect　upon　him；　he　has　left　us；　in　The

Revolt　of　Islam；　a　picture　which　to　many　or　most　people　very

probably　seems　a　poetical　exaggeration；　partly　because　Shelley

appears　to　have　escaped　physical　brutality；　partly　because　adults

are　inclined　to　smile　tenderly　at　childish　sorrows　which　are　not

caused　by　physical　suffering。　　That　he　escaped　for　the　most　part

bodily　violence　is　nothing　to　the　purpose。　　It　is　the　petty

malignant　annoyance　recurring　hour　by　hour；　day　by　day；　month　by

month；　until　its　accumulation　becomes　an　agony；　it　is　this　which　is

the　most　terrible　weapon　that　boys　have　against　their　fellow　boy；

who　is　powerless　to　shun　it　because；　unlike　the　man；　he　has

virtually　no　privacy。　　His　is　the　torture　which　the　ancients　used；

when　they　anointed　their　victim　with　honey　and　exposed　him　naked　to

the　restless　fever　of　the　flies。　　He　is　a　little　St。　Sebastian；

sinking　under　the　incessant　flight　of　shafts　which　skilfully　avoid

the　vital　parts。



We　do　not；　therefore；　suspect　Shelley　of　exaggeration：　　he　was；　no

doubt；　in　terrible　misery。　　Those　who　think　otherwise　must　forget

their　own　past。　　Most　people；　we　suppose；　MUST　forget　what　they　were

like　when　they　were　children：　　otherwise　they　would　know　that　the

griefs　of　their　childhood　were　passionate　abandonment；　DECHIRANTS

（to　use　a　characteristically　favourite　phrase　of　modern　French

literature）　as　the　griefs　of　their　maturity。　　Children's　griefs　are

little；　certainly；　but　so　is　the　child；　so　is　its　endurance；　so　is

its　field　of　vision；　while　its　nervous　impressionability　is　keener

than　ours。　　Grief　is　a　matter　of　relativity；　the　sorrow　should　be

estimated　by　its　proportion　to　the　sorrower；　a　gash　is　as　painful　to

one　as　an　amputation　to　another。　　Pour　a　puddle　into　a　thimble；　or

an　Atlantic　into　Etna；　both　thimble　and　mountain　overflow。　　Adult

fools；　would　not　the　angels　smile　at　our　griefs；　were　not　angels　too

wise　to　smile　at　them？



So　beset；　the　child　fled　into　the　tower　of　his　own　soul；　and　raised

the　drawbridge。　　He　threw　out　a　reserve；　encysted　in　which　he　grew

to　maturity　unaffected　by　the　intercourses　that　modify　the　maturity

of　others　into　the　thing　we　call　a　man。　　The　encysted　child

developed　until　it　reached　years　of　virility；　until　those　later

Oxford　days　in　which　Hogg　encountered　it；　then；　bursting　at　once

from　its　cyst　and　the　university；　it　swam　into　a　world　not

illegitimately　perplexed　by　such　a　whim　of　the　gods。　　It　was；　of

course；　only　the　completeness　and　duration　of　this　seclusion

lasting　from　the　gate　of　boyhood　to　the　threshold　of　youthwhich

was　peculiar　to　Shelley。　　Most　poets；　probably；　like　most　saints；

are　prepared　for　their　mission　by　an　initial　segregation；　as　the

seed　is　buried　to　germinate：　　before　they　can　utter　the　oracle　of

poetry；　they　must　first　be　divided　from　the　body　of　men。　　It　is　the

severed　head　that　makes　the　seraph。



Shelley's　life　frequently　exhibits　in　him　the　magnified　child。　　It

is　seen　in　his　fondness　for　apparently　futile　amusements；　such　as

the　sailing　of　paper　boats。　　This　was；　in　the　truest　sense　of　the

word；　child…like；　not；　as　it　is　frequently　called　and　considered；

childish。　　That　is　to　say；　it　was　not　a　mindless　triviality；　but　the

genuine　child's　power　of　investing　little　things　with　imaginative

interest；　the　same　power；　though　differently　devoted；　which　produced

much　of　his　poetry。　　Very　possibly　in　the　paper　boat　he　saw　the

magic　bark　of　Laon　and　Cythna；　or





That　thinnest　boat

In　which　the　mother　of　the　months　is　borne

By　ebbing　night　into　her　western　cave。





In　fact；　if　you　mark　how　favourite　an　idea；　under　varying　forms；　is

this　in　his　verse；　you　will　perceive　that　all　the　charmed　boats

which　glide　down　the　stream　of　his　poetry　are　but　glorified

resurrections　of　the　little　paper　argosies　which　trembled　down　the

Isis。



And　the　child　appeared　no　less　often　in　Shelley　the　philosopher　than

in　Shelley　the　idler。　　It　is　seen　in　his　repellent　no　less　than　in

his　amiable　weaknesses；　in　the　unteachable　folly　of　a　love　that　made

its　goal　its　starting…point；　and　firmly　expected　spiritual　rest　from

each　new　divinity；　though　it　had　found　none　from　the　divinities

antecedent。　　For　we　are　clear　that　this　was　no　mere　straying　of

sensual　appetite；　but　a　straying；　strange　and　deplorable；　of　the

spirit；　that　（contrary　to　what　Mr。　Coventry　Patmore　has　said）　he

left　a　woman　not　because　he　was　tired　of　her　arms；　but　because　he

was　tired　of　her　soul。　　When　he　found　Mary　Shelley　wanting；　he　seems

to　have　fallen　into　the　mistake　of　Wordsworth；　who　complained　in　a

charming　piece　of　unreasonableness　that　his　wife's　love；　which　had

been　a　fountain；　was　now　only　a　well：





Such　change；　and　at　the　very　door

Of　my　fond　heart；　hath　made　me　poor。





Wordsworth　probably　learned；　what　Shelley　was　incapable　of　learning；

that　love　can　never　permanently　be　a　fountain。　　A　living　poet；　in　an

article　｛6｝　which　you　almost　fear　to　breathe　upon　lest　you　should

flutter　some　of　the　frail　pastel…like　bloom；　has　said　the　thing：

〃Love　itself　has　tidal　moments；　lapses　and　flows　due　to　the　metrical

rule　of　the　interior　heart。〃　　Elementary　reason　should　proclaim　this

true。　　Love　is　an　affection；　its　display　an　emotion：　　love　is　the

air；　its　display　is　the　wind。　　An　affection　may　be　constant；　an

emotion　can　no　more　be　constant　than　the　wind　can　constantly　blow。

All；　therefore；　that　a　man　can　reasonably　ask　of　his　wife　is　that

her　love　should　be　indeed　a　well。　　A　well；　but　a　Bethesda…well；　into

which　from　time　to　time　the　angel　of　tenderness　descends　to　trouble

the　waters　for　the　healing　of　the　beloved。　　Such　a　love　Shelley's

second　wife　appears　unquestionably　to　have　given　him。　　Nay；　she　was

content　that　he　should　veer　while　she　remained　true；　she　companioned

him　intellectually；　shared　his　views；　entered　into　his　aspirations；

and　yetyet；　even　at　the　date　of　Epipsychidion　the　foolish　child；

her　husband；　assigned　her　the　part　of　moon　to　Emilia　Viviani's　sun；

and　lamented　that　he　was　barred　from　final；　certain；　irreversible

happiness　by　a　cold　and　callous　society。　　Yet　few　poets　were　so

mated　before；　and　no　poet　was　so　mated　afterwards；　until　Browning

stooped　and　picked　up　a　fair…coined　soul　that　lay　rusting　in　a　pool

of　tears。



In　truth；　his　very　unhappiness　and　discontent　with　life；　in　so　far

as　it　was　not　the　inevitable　penalty　of　the　ethical　anarch；　can　only

be　ascribed　to　this　same　childlike　irrationalitythough　in　such　a

form　it　is　irrationality　hardly　peculiar　to　Shelley。　　Pity；　if　you

will；　his　spiritual　ruins　and　the　neglected　early　training　which　was

largely　their　cause；　but　the　pity　due　to　his　outward　circumstances

has　been　strangely　exaggerated。　　The　obloquy　from　which　he　suffered

he　deliberately　and　wantonly　courted。　　For　the　rest；　his　lot　was　one

that　many　a　young　poet　might　envy。　　He　had　faithful　friends；　a

faithful　wife；　an　income　small　but　assured。　　Poverty　never　dictated

to　his　pen；　the　designs　on　his　bright　imagination　were　never　etched

by　the　sharp　fumes　of　necessity。



If；　as　has　chanced　to　othersas　chanced；　for　example；　to　Mangan

outcast　from　home；　health　and　hope；　with　a　charred　past　and　a

bleared　future；　an　anchorite　without　detachment　and　self…cloistered

without　self…sufficingness；　deposed　from　a　world　which　he　had　not

abdicated；　pierced　with　thorns　which　formed　no　crown；　a　poet

hopeless　of　the　bays　and　a　martyr　hopeless　of　the　palm；　a　land

cursed　against　the　dews　of　love；　an　exile　banned　and　proscribed　even

from　the　innocent　arms　of　childhoodhe　were　burning　helpless　at　the

stake　of　his　unquenchable　heart；　then　he　might　have　been

inconsolable；　then　might　he　have　cast　the　gorge　at　life；　then　have

cowered　in　the　darkening　chamber　of　his　being；　tapestried　with

mouldering　hopes；　and　hearkened　to　the　winds　that　swept　across　the

illimitable　wastes　of　death。　　But　no　such　hapless　lot　was　Shelley's

as　that　of　his　own　contemporariesKeats；　half　chewed　in　the　jaws　of

London　and　spit　dying　on　to　Italy；　de　Quincey；　who；　if　he　escaped；

escaped　rent　and　maimed　from　those　cruel　jaws；　Coleridge；　whom　they

dully　mumbled　for　the　major　portion　of　his　life。　　Shelley　had

competence；　poetry；　love；　yet　he　wailed　that　he　could　lie　down　like

a　tired　child　and　weep　away　his　life　of　care。　　Is　it　ever　so　with

you；　sad　brother；　is　it　ever　so　with　me？　and　is　there　no　drinking　of

pearls　except　they　be　dissolved　in　biting　tears？　　〃Which　of　us　has

his　desire；　or　having　it　is　satisfied？〃



It　is　true　that　he　shared　the　fate　of　nearly　all　the　great　poets

contemporary　with　him；　in　being　unappreciated。　　Like　them；　he

suffered　from　critics　who　were　for　ever　shearing　the　wild　tresses　of

poetry　between　rusty　rules；　who　could　never　see　a　literary　bough

project　beyond　the　trim　level　of　its　day　but　they　must　lop　it　with　a

crooked　criticism；　who　kept　indomitably　planting　in　the　defile　of

fame　the　〃established　canons〃　that　had　been　spiked　by　poet　after

poet。　　But　we　decline　to　believe　that　a　singer　of　Shelley's　calibre

could　be　seriously　grieved　by　want　of　vogue。　　Not　that　we　suppose

him　to　have　found　consolation　in　that　senseless　superstition；　〃the

applause　of　posterity。〃　　Posterity！　posterity　which　goes　to　Rome；

weeps　large…sized　tears；　carves　beautiful　inscriptions　over　the　tomb

of　Keats；　and　the　worm　must　wriggle　her　curtsey　to　it　all；　since　the

dead　boy；　wherever　he　be；　has　quite　other　gear　to　tend。　　Never　a

bone　less　dry　for　all　the　tears！



A　poet　must　to　some　extent　be　a　chameleon　and　feed　on　air。　　But　it

need　not　be　the　musty　breath　of　the　multitude。　　He　can　find　his

needful　support　in　the　judgement　of　those　whose　judgement　he　knows

valuable；　and　such　support　Shelley　had：





La　gloire

Ne　compte　pas　toujours　les　voix；

Elle　les　pese　quelquefois。





Yet　if　this　might　be　needful　to　him　as　support；　neither