«Это я!» — поспешно сказал призрак. — «Я Джон».
«Как же ты стал Джорджем?» — потребовал я.
«Моим вторым именем было Джордж», — ответил находчивый призрак.
«Это странно!» — сказал я. — «Я никогда этого не знал».
«Ты не можешь ожидать, что будешь знать все», — назидательно заметил призрак.
«Нет, не могу», — согласился я. — «И, что более того, я никогда не знал никакого Томкинса вообще, Джона или Джорджа, живого или мертвого! Ты мошенник, мой друг!»
Последовала путаница, и меня немедленно исключили как «неверующего», который нарушал «влияния». И с того дела «духи» меня сторонятся.
Преследовало ли меня воспоминание об эпизоде с Томкинсом, или это был эффект отличного обеда, наслажденного с «Лабби» непосредственно перед этим, я не знаю, но несомненно то, что в один незабываемый вечер я увидел призрака — настоящего призрака, который вошел в мою спальню без разрешения и обратился ко мне без помощи «медиума». Он был призраком среднего роста и телосложения, и я заметил, что он держал одну ногу очень тщательно скрытой под своими длинными, облачными драпировками, которые были расположены вокруг него на манер классического грека. На его голове, которая была покрыта кудрями, достойными украсить чело Аполлона, он носил венок из лавров, чьи листья были очерчены светом, и они отбрасывали блестящий круг сверхъестественного сияния вокруг него. В одной руке он сжимал свиток, и когда он повернул свое лицо ко мне, он поманил этим свитком, медленно и величественно, в стиле отца Гамлета на крепостных валах Эльсинора. Я задрожал, но не имел сил пошевелиться. Снова он поманил, и его глаза сверкнули огнем.
«Милорд...!» — заикнулся я, съеживаясь под его негодующим взглядом и горячо надеясь, что я не являюсь объектом его явного гнева.
«Не называй меня лордом!» — сказал глубокий голос, который, казалось, дрожал от презрения. — «Говори, ничтожный смертный! Знаешь ли ты меня?»
Знать его! Я думаю, что знал. Не было никакой ошибки. Это был Байрон во всей красе — Байрон, более тщательно байронический по виду, чем любой портрет когда-либо делал его. Невольно я подумал о нынешнем лорде Вентворте и его временами дряблых намеках на своего «деда», и улыбнулся сравнению между предком и потомком. Мой призрачный посетитель обладал чувством юмора и, читая мои мысли, тоже улыбнулся.
«Я вижу, у тебя есть остроумие», — был он достаточно любезен, чтобы заметить в более мирных тонах. — «Слушай меня, поэтому, и отметь каждое мое слово! В этом веке столько глупостей — столько литературных негодяев, столько проклятых мошенников-рифмоплетов — о, не пугайся! каждый ругается в Аиде — что я написал несколько строк и переделал другие, чтобы соответствовать требованиям современной школы Шарлатанов. Никогда Искусство не стояло так высоко в Англии, но Бог знает, оно не должно падать до нуля, как это быстро происходит. Слушай! И не двигайся, пока я говорю; мои строки выжгут себя на твоем мозгу, пока ты не запишешь и не напечатаешь их для мира, чтобы прочесть; тогда, и только тогда, выполнив мое повеление, ты снова будешь свободен!»
Я покорно склонил голову и умолял благородного Призрака продолжить, после чего он развернул свой свиток и прочел с бесконечным удовольствием следующее:
«Английские писаки и мелкие рецензенты».
"Still must I hear? Shall Swinburne mouth and scream
His wordy couplets in a drunken dream,
And I not sing, lest haply small reviews
Should dub me 'dead' and forthwith damn my muse?
No! My proud spirit shall not suffer wrong;
'Booms' are my theme—let satire be my song.
"Through Nature's new-found gift, Magnetic skill,
My soul obeys an influential Will,
And I from Hades rise to life again
To wield once more mine own especial pen,
Which none have rivalled in these sickly days
Of tawdry epics and translated plays,
When knavish cliques o'er honest Art prevail,
And weigh out judgment by the 'Savile' scale.
The petty vices of the time demand
Another scourging from my fearless hand;
Still are there flocks of geese for me to chase,
Still false pretenders to the 'poet's' place.
Who dare to pile detraction on my name,
Let such beware, for scribblers are my game!
Speed Pegasus! Ye modern pensters small,
Watts, Brydges, Morris, Arnold, have at you all!
Remember well how once upon a time
I poured along the town a flood of rhyme
So strong and scathing that the little fry
Of rhymesters like yourselves were doomed to die!
Moved by that triumph past, I still pursue
The self-same road, despite the New Review
And Quarterly, and other journals silly,
That take dull articles by Mr. Lilly.
"Most men serve out their time to every trade
Save book-reviewers—these are ready-made.
Crib jokes from Yankee journals, got by rote,
With just enough of memory to misquote;
Ignore all beauty; find or forge a fault;
Revive old puns and call them 'attic salt';
Then to the 'Speaker' or to Henley go
(The 'pay' for book-reviews is always low);
Fear not to lie—'twill seem a ready hit;
Shrink not from blasphemy—'twill pass for wit;
Care not for feeling; launch a scurrilous jest,
And be a critic with the very best!
"Will any own such judgment? No, as soon
Trust wavering shadows 'neath th' inconstant moon,
Hope that a 'promised' critique will be done
By bland O'Connor of the Sunday Sun,
Believe that Hodge's claims will ne'er increase,
Believe in Gladstone's schemes for Ireland's peace,
Or any other thing that's false, before
You trust reviewers, who themselves are sore.
Never let thought or fancy be misled
By Lang's cold heart or Alfred Austin's head;
While such are censors, 'twould be sin to spare;
While such are critics, why should I forbear?
And yet so near these modern writers run
'Tis doubtful whom to seek and whom to shun,
Nor know we when to spare or where to strike,
The bards and critics are so much alike!
"To bygone times my lingering thoughts are cast;
Good taste and reason with those times are past!
Look round and turn each trifling printed page;
Survey the precious works that please the age;
This truth at least let satire's self allow,
No dearth of pens can be complained of now.
The loaded press beneath its labour groans,
And printers' devils shake their weary bones,
While Arnold's epics cram the creaking shelves,
And Kipling's ballads shine in hot-pressed twelves
'New' schools of twaddle in their turn arise,
Where jingling rhymsters grapple for the prize,
And for a time these psuedo-bards prevail;
Each public 'library' assists their sale,
And, hurling lawful genius from its throne,
Takes up some puny idol of its own,
And judges Poesy as just a cross
'Twixt Ashby Sterry, Lang, and Edmund Gosse.
"Behold! in various throngs the scribbling crew,
For notice eager, pass in long review;
Each spurs his jaded Pegasus apace:
Rhyme and romance maintain an equal race.
The Grand Old Paradox of Hawarden
Seizes in haste his too prolific pen,
And, heedless how the reading world is bored,
Thrusts to the front a Mrs. Humphry Ward,
With 'Robert Elsmere' frightened out of faith,
And 'David Grieve' a-prosing us to death;
Next trumpets Caine's 'integrity of aim,'
And gives to 'Mademoiselle Ixe' a name.
O Gladstone, Gladstone! 'Boom' it not so strong
Boomers may 'boom' too often and too long!
If thou wilt write on impulse, prithee spare!
More vapid authors were too much to bear;
But if, in spite of all thy friends can say,
Thou still wilt boomwards boom thy frantic way,
And in long articles to stupid papers
Thou still wilt cut thy literary capers,
Unhappy Art thy fresh intent may rue;
God save us, Gladstone, from thy next 'review'!
"Lo, the mild teacher of the Buddhist school,
The follower of the tamest blank-verse rule,
The simple Arnold, with his 'Asia's Light,'
Who wins attention by translation-right;
And both by precept and example shows
That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose,
Convinced himself, by demonstration plain,
There never will be such a book again,
And never such a 'marvellous proper' man
To charm the hearts of ladies in Japan!
"Who out at Putney on the common strays,
Unsocial in his converse and his ways?
'Tis Swinburne, the Catullus of his day,
As sweet but as immoral in his lay.
Grieved to condemn, the Muse must still be just,
Nor spare melodious advocates of lust.
Pure is the flame which o'er her altar burns;
From grosser incense with disgust she turns.
Mend, Swinburne, mend thy morals and thy taste;
Be warm, but pure; be amorous, but chaste;
Thy borrowed fancies to Villon restore,
And use old Scripture similes no more!
"Behold! ye cliques; one moment spare the text!
Hall Caine's last work, and worst—until his next!
Whether he drafts his 'sagas' into plays,
Or damns his brother authors with faint praise,
His elephantine style is still the same,
Forever turgid, and forever tame.
Boom for the 'Scapegoat'! it has been re-writ
To suit the measure of the critics' wit;
'Bondsman' and 'Deemster' tweak each other's toes,
And as a spurious 'genius' Caine doth pose,
Taking himself and all his books on trust,
And getting photographed with Shakespeare's bust!
"Another book of verses? Who again
Inflicts rhymed doggerel on the sons of men?
'Tis Orient Kipling, the reviewers' boast,
The darling of the Anglo-Indian coast,
Who, on cheap praise and cheaper conquest bent,
Imports slang 'notions' from the soldier's tent,
And crams his lines with 'Tommy Atkins' here
And 'Tommy Atkins' diction everywhere—
'Barrack-Room Ballads!' come, who'll buy! who'll buy!
The precious bargain's low! 'i faith, not I!
For Rudyard's verse, despite his 'boom,' is flat,
Though critics bloat him with 'log-rollers'' fat—
O Rudyard Kipling! Phoebus! What a name
To fill the speaking-trump of future fame!
O Rudyard Kipling, for a moment think
What 'chancey' profits spring from pen and ink!
Thy name already tires the public ear,
One shilling for thy 'Tales' seems monstrous dear;
For though they make a decent show of print
The book as book of worth has 'nothing in 't'.
O Rudyard Kipling! cease to scribble rhymes,
And stick to Arthur Walter of the Times;
As 'Special Correspondent' or 'Our Own,'
But for God's sake leave Poesy alone;
Scratch not the surface of the mystic East
With flippant pen dipped in reporter's yeast,
For India's riddle is a riddle still
In spite of any 'Plain Tale from a Hill,'
The silent griefs of conquered tribes and nations
Are not explained in military flirtations,
Or 'ditties departmental,' trite of style,
(Any 'jongleur' could scrawl them by the mile;)
As 'Light that Failed,' thy race is nearly run,
Thy goose is cooked; thy stuffing's over-done!
"Lo, great 'Thucydides' of Samoa's isle
Relieves his inspiration and his bile,
And o'er the rolling ocean wide and deep
Sends the chef-d'œuvres that make his readers sleep.
The 'Wrecker' comes and ponderously heaves
O'er weary brains its soothing weight of leaves,
And those who never knew that joy before
Yield to the peaceful pleasure of the snore,
And drowse in chairs at clubs in open day,
Just as they drowsed o'er 'classic' 'Ballantrae.'
Hail to 'Thucydides'! and hail the pen
That writes him up above all other men;
For sleep's a blessing, and whate'er may hap
His works ensure a harmless, perfect nap.
"Lo, with what pomp the daily prints proclaim
The rival candidates for Attic fame;
In grim array though Haggard's Zulus rise,
Yet 'Q' and dull Grant Allen share the prize;
Then come the little train of 'Pseudonyms'—
A set of female faddists full of whims—
Who pour their vapid follies o'er the town,
Excusing Vice and sneering Virtue down;
Next see good Bentley's list of writers small:
I wonder where the deuce he finds them all?
Some 'novel new' he issues every week,
A fiction of the kind that housemaids seek—
Mild tales of goose-love, which he thinks may please,
Sure only geese would purchase books like these!
Broughton's half-vulgar, half-lascivious stories,
And Mrs. Henry Wood's posthumous glories;
Here Madam Trollope whirls her small 'Wild Wheel,'
There Mistress Henniker unwinds her reel,
And silly 'fictionists' of no repute
Spring up like weeds to wither at the root.
Excellent Bentley! stay thy lavish hand,
Continuous trash were more than we could stand;
Give us good authors who deserve their name,
And save thy once distinguished firm from shame;
Give prominence to Genius—publish less,
Or rivals new thy 'house' will dispossess,
In spite of folks who think the works of Shelley
Inferior to romances by Corelli.
"Grant Allen hath a 'heaven-sent' tale to tell,
But much he fears its utterance would not 'sell'
Wherefore, to be quite certain of his cash,
He writes (regardless of his 'inspiration') trash;
Practical Allen! Noble, manly heart!
Wise huckster of small nothings in the mart,—
To what a pitch of prudence dost thou reach
To feel the 'god,' yet give thy thoughts no speech,
All for the sake of vulgar pounds and pence!
God bless thee, Allen, for thy common sense!
"Health to 'lang' Andrew! Heaven preserve his life
To flourish on the sacred shores of Fife!
Prosper good Andrew! leanest of the train
Whom Scotland feeds upon her fiery grain;
Whatever blessings wait a 'brindled' Scot
In double portion swell thy glorious lot!
As long as Albion's silly sons submit
To Scottish censorship on English wit,
So long shall last thy unmolested rule,
And authors, under thee, shall go to school;
Behold the 'Savile' band shall aid thy plan
And own thee chieftain of the critic clan.
Kipling shall 'butter' thee, and thou sometimes
Wilt praise in gratitude his doggerel rhymes,
And Haggard, too, thy eulogies shall seek,
And for his book another 'boom' bespeak;
And various magazines their aid will lend
To damn thy foe or deify thy friend.
Such wondrous honours deck thy proud career,
Rhymester and lecturer and pamphleteer,
Known be thy name, unbounded be thy sway,
And may all editors increase thy 'pay'—
Yet mark one caution ere thy next review
Falls heavy on a female who is 'blue.'
Grub-street doth whisper that a 'ladye faire'
Intends to snatch thee by the brindled hair
And stab thee through thy tough reviewer's skin
With nothing more important than a pin—
A case of 'table turned' and 'biter bit';
Heaven save thee, Andrew, from a woman's wit!
"What marvel now doth Afric's zone disclose?
A solemn book of rank blasphemous prose,
Writ by a Mistress Schreiner, who elects
A Universal Nothing as her text;
Whereat the Athenæum, doddering soul!
Whimpers about the 'beauty of the whole,'
And shrieks, in columns of hysteric praise,
How such a work all nations should amaze:
'Nothing has ever been or e'er will be
Like Dreams'—produced by the blasphemous She;
So writes the Athenæum to the few
Who still pay threepence for a bad review,
And watch the hatching of the little plots
Conceived and carried out by Mr. Watts.
Charles Dilke! Come forth from Mrs. Grundy's ban,
And show thyself to be the 'leading' man,
With one strong effort snap thy social fetter
And get thy prosy journal managed better!
"Great Oscar! Glorious Oscar! Oscar Wilde!
Fat and smooth-faced as any sucking child!
Bland in self-worship, crowned with self-plucked bays,
Sole object of thine own unceasing praise,
None can in 'brag' thy spreading fame surpass,
And thou dost shine supreme in native brass.
Thou hast o'erwhelmed and conquered dead Molière
With all the mots of Lady Windermere;
Thou hast swept other novelists away
With the lascivious life of 'Dorian Gray.'
Thine enemies must fly before thy face,
Thou bulky glory of the Irish race!
Desert us not, O Wilde, desert us not,
Because the Censor's 'snub' 'Salome' got,
Still let thy presence cheer this foggy isle,
Still let us bask in thy 'æsthetic' smile,
Still let thy dwelling in our centre be;
England would lose all splendour, losing thee!
Spare us, great Oscar, from this dire mischance!
We'll perish ere we yield thee up to France!
"Wise Hardy! Thou dost gauge the modern taste:
Hence on man's Lust thy latest book is based—
A story of Seduction wins success,
Thus hast thou well deserved thy cash for 'Tess.'
Pure morals are old-fashioned—Virtue's name
Is a mere butt for 'chaff' or vulgar blame,
But novels that defy all codes and laws
Of honest cleanness, win the world's applause,
And so thy venture sails with favouring winds,
Blest with approval from all prurient minds.
"See where at Horsham, Shelley's muse is crown'd!
Two Parsons and a Justice on the ground!
What glorious homage doth 'Prometheus' win!—
Yet sure if ever parted ghosts can grin,
Wild laughter from the Styxian shores must wake
At such tame honours for the dead bard's sake;
An Edmund Gosse doth make the day's oration,
Oh, what a petty mouthpiece for a Nation!
And William Sharp, face-buried in his beard,
Thinks his own works should be as much rever'd
As Shelley's, if the world were only wise
And viewed him with his own admiring eyes;
And Little (Stanley) doth with Gosse combine
To judge the perish'd Poet line by line,
Granting his 'lyrics' admirably done,
(Though they could match him easily, each one,)
But, on the whole, he filled his 'mission' well;
'Agreed!' says Chairman Hurst, J.P., D.L.!
"O Shelley! my companion and my friend,
Brother in golden song, is this the end?
Is this the guerdon for thy glorious thought,
Thy dreams of human freedom, lightning-fraught?
No larger honours from the world's chief city,
Save this half-hearted, slow and dull 'Committee'?
Where Names appear upon the muster-roll
But only Names that lack all visible soul;
Conspicuous by his absence, Tennyson,
The Horsham 'In Memoriam' doth shun;
Next, Henry Irving's name doth much attract
(That 'glory' of the stage who cannot act)
But even he, the Mime, keeps clear away
From personal share in such a 'got-up' day,—
And not one 'notable' the eye perceives,
Save the Methusaleh of song, Sims Reeves;
Alas, dear Shelley! Hast thou fallen so low?
And must thy Genius such dishonour know?
Is this the way thy Centenary's kept?
Better go unremembered and unwept
Than be thus 'celebrated' in a hurry,
And get 'recited' by an Alma Murray!
"Now hold, my Muse, and strive no more to tell
The public what they all should know full well;
Zeal for true worth has bid me here engage
The host of idiots that infest the age
And spin their meagre prose and verse for hire,
Libelling genius if it dare aspire.
Let harmless Barrie scrawl a Scottish tale
And English ears with 'dialect' assail,
Let William Archer judge, and bearded Sharp
Condemn his betters, enviously carp
At living bards (if any), one and all,
Such is the way of versifiers small;
Let Morris whine and steal from Tennyson,
The poet King, whose race is nearly run,