Things near & far
have always been proud of my parody of the terms of an ancient writ.
_Diem clausit extremum_, he has ended his last day, was the title of
the writ, which is moved now and then even in these days: my writ was
called _Cyathum hausit extremum_: he has drained his last cup. And
then there is the _merum et mixtum cervisium_, and the Charter of
_Terra Sabulosa_ or Sandy Soil, and the offices of Tankard Marshal
and _Clericus Spigotti_, or Clerk of the Spigot; all choice jests--to
adopt the manner of the work in question. But, as I say, let us not
enquire too curiously into the merits of “The Chronicle of Clemendy.”
I am content to abide by the verdict of M. Octave Uzanne, who is
held, I believe, to be a good judge of letters. He said that it was
“le renouveau de la Renaissance,” and that I was sure of my place
beside Rabelais and Boccaccio, on the serene, immortal seats. I am
surrendering my judgment wholly to that of M. Octave Uzanne.
By the way; I do not know how it was, but the only copy sent out
for review was addressed to “Le Livre,” which was then edited by M.
Uzanne. Somehow, no review copies found their way to the English
papers. But the MS. had been shown to a pushing young literary
gentleman, and he said that if it were properly “cut” it might make a
good Christmas book for boys.
And then, again, the question returns: why did I compel myself to
undergo all the toil and misery and disappointment that the writing
of this “Chronicle of Clemendy” involved? It was my own choice,
nobody stood over me with a stick to force me to do it. Why? Why
do men row themselves into blueness and incipient heart disease at
Henley and Putney? Why do men expose themselves to horrors, miseries
and the instant risk of death on all the most desperate mountains
of the world? The answer is the same in all these cases: that cold
mutton (or life) is in itself intolerable; that _Le Gigot de Mouton
froid, sauce Cyanide de Potasse_ is better than the same dish
_nature_.
* * * * *
And, going further, the reason of this odd state of things is plain
enough. The fact is, that what we commonly call life is not life
at all. All the things that are considered serious, important and
vital: the faithful earning of a living, the going to the City every
morning to copy letters, keep accounts or float companies; the toils
of the Chancery barrister, of the factory hand, of the doctor, of the
shop-keeper, of the mining engineer, the affairs of all the serious
and necessary employments of life; these things are not life at all.
They are the curse of life, or, as it is sometimes called, the curse
of Adam; as the theologians might have told us if they had not
been too busy over the “curse of alcohol,” over the dubious moral
influence of “the pictures,” over the decidedly frivolous character
of the lighter fiction of the day, and the demoralising effects of
putting a bob on the winner--this dreadful offence, I believe, is
held to “harden the heart” more quickly and thoroughly than any other
method. But this curse of getting a livelihood remains profoundly
unnatural to man, in spite of his long experience of it: hence his
frantic efforts to escape from what he erroneously calls life by
running himself red in the face at Lord’s, by rowing himself blue in
the face at Henley, by drinking methylated spirit, by “putting on”
those criminal bobs, by playing mind-torturing games like chess, by
knocking small balls into small holes, by climbing Alps--and even by
writing books. He will do anything to get away from what are called
the serious facts of life and follow any track however desperate,
trivial, perilous, or painful, if only those serious facts can be
evaded and forgotten, though it be but for a few hours. And so I
wrote on, night after night, till the August of 1886 saw my task
ended; and I immediately began to think of what I could write next.
_Chapter IV_
I have just been trying to reckon up the various quarters which
I have occupied in my forty-two years on-and-off life in London.
When I first came up to town in 1880--the year when the play was
the thing--I stayed at Wandsworth in an old Georgian house near the
ugly Georgian church. I looked for it a few years ago, but I could
not find it; I suspect that shops now flourish on its site and on
the site of its grave old garden. Then, in 1881–82 I was domiciled
in a house fronting Turnham Green; here, too, were ample lawns and
gardens which, for all I know, may remain still. Clarendon Road,
as I have mentioned once or twice, entertained me in ’83, ’84, and
again in ’85, and when I returned to London at the beginning of ’87
I lodged for a time in Upper Bedford Place, Russell Square. This
place I left for an amusing reason. I had been out rather late. The
festivity was not furious; simply a little and most informal dance
given by Mrs. Augusta Webster, in those days an admired poetess; and
I suppose that it was half-past one when I got home from Hammersmith.
I was moving softly up the stairs, and was a good deal puzzled to
hear the clanking noise of metal on metal, as I passed the door of
the first-floor bedroom. However, I supposed that somebody was ill
and that the fire was being kept up. But the next morning, the
landlady addressed me gravely. She said that Mr. and Mrs. Sogden
had been very much alarmed by hearing footsteps in the middle
of the night, and had made preparations for receiving burglars;
and on the whole the landlady thought that I should be much more
comfortable at her sister’s in Great Russell Street, where no ladies
were taken and things “were more Bohemian.” And, indeed, she was
quite right. The garret--a real garret, with a sloping roof and a
dormer window--looked out on Dyott Street, the last remnant of the
old rookery of St. Giles; the house was late seventeenth century or
quite early eighteenth, and the room, with tea and bread and butter
breakfast included, only cost ten-and-six a week. Later in the year,
I moved across the street and lived for a while over a stained-glass
business; then I crossed again and lived over a tailor’s shop.
January, 1890, found me in two rooms in Soho Street--undoubted
seventeenth century, panelled, with beautifully deep wooden cornices.
And here took place the battle of the fleas.
I had moved in, as I say, early in the year, in cold weather. The
rooms seemed quite all right, and the black tom cat of the premises
was a remarkable and consistent character whom it was a privilege
to know. His daily plan of dining with every one in the house,
from his own family in the basement to the people in the attics,
finally welcoming the cat’s-meat man with loud shrieks, shewed, I
thought, Mind. And, as I say, the cornice; well, I wish that I had
been draughtsman enough to draw a section of it. Well, everything
was as pleasant as it could be; and there, at the door, was all
Soho to explore and investigate, and I suppose I need not say that
Soho offered then, and still offers, I am glad to note, a large and
curious field wherein the contemplative mind loves to expatiate.
Very well; but the weather got warmer: and the fleas appeared.
At first as single spies; and then in battalions. They swarmed
everywhere. They made life hideous and intolerable. I did not see
what was to be done. My furniture, such as it was, occupied the
rooms; it would be highly inconvenient for me to move. The advertised
specifics were useless. I isolated a flea--they were fair, large
fleas--with a little of the powder, under a wine glass and watched
his behaviour. He seemed happy, though perhaps a little torpid; he
reminded me of a stout, red-faced old gentleman who has had two or
three glasses of “hot Scotch,” and is inclined to fall asleep by
the tavern fire. Clearly, such mild measures were useless against
the busy multitudes which swarmed all over my rooms. Then, I had
a notion, a much more brilliant notion than anything that I have
known in the region of literature. I have an odd and random vein of
practicality within me, and it came out in the Soho Street emergency.
I took a large sheet of newspaper and brushed it over with treacle
and laid it on the bedroom floor and waited for an hour or two. At
the end of that time, a dozen or so of fleas were sticking fast to
the treacle. I experienced the happy glow of the inventor; and now
there was no dismal reaction. By the evening, there were at least
six dozen fleas captured and out of action. I thought I might say,
Eureka.
But then there came a difficulty. I discovered a certain property
in treacle, which, so far as I know, is not recorded in scientific
text-books. The matter of the work--to use the term of alchemy--was,
I found, susceptible to weather. In certain states of the atmosphere,
in place of being sticky, it became crystalline and as hard as glass.
I do not know whether this interesting property of treacle can be
utilised for forecasting purposes. But this hardness rendered it
useless for my immediate end. The large, fair fleas hopped on to the
trap and hopped away. I surveyed the problem anew. Again the flash
akin to genius. I thought of fly-papers and bought half a dozen. The
battle was over in a few weeks. I kept a careful daily account, and
in a month, or perhaps five weeks, I had captured over three thousand
fleas. And I had purged the first floor of 12 Soho Street utterly of
all the race. I recollect well one night’s bag. I had been to see “A
Pair of Spectacles” at the Garrick, and when I came home I found I
had got 120 fine fleas.
And then, having won this notable victory, a very odd distaste for
London came upon me. I am not joking; the sentiment had nothing to do
with the insects whom I had defeated; but, somehow, London sickened
me. Its faint, hot summer airs were an oppression, its swarming
streets a tribulation; I thought of cold wells in the hills and
running brooks and the breath of the wood and the mountain in the
early morning--and I resolved to be a countryman again. So I took a
cottage high up on the Chiltern Hills, and while certain alterations
were being made, I left for Tours, Touraine, France.
The Rabelaisian enthusiasm was still upon me. I had just issued a
translation (called “Fantastic Tales”) of that extraordinary and
enigmatic book, “Le Moyen de Parvenir,” by Beroalde de Verville, who
was a canon of Tours Cathedral. So to Touraine I went; to see the
land of Rabelais, of Beroalde, of Balzac. And the odd thing is, that
my first Sunday afternoon in Tours--I got there on a Saturday--was
a severe disappointment. The fact was that I had taken Doré’s
wonderful illustrations to the “Contes Drolatiques” for granted.
I supposed that the enchanted heights, the profound and sombre
valleys, the airy abysses of these amazing plates represented, with
a little exaggeration, perhaps, the veritable scenery of Touraine.
You remember the picture showing how that sinful little page
climbed the heights of Marmoutiers to confess his sin to the Abbot?
Well, that Sunday afternoon, early in September, 1890, I set out
from the Faisan, in the Rue Royale, to see the tremendous ascent
of Marmoutiers. I crossed the bridge over the Loire, most of it
sand with a swift stream here and there, and arrived at Portillon,
where the conductor of the steam tram was calling out “Marmoutiers,
Rochecorbon, Vouvray” in a melodious chant. But I walked along the
road to Marmoutiers. Alas! there were no terrific heights, as in the
picture. Imagine something like the high ground near the river at
Henley; nothing higher, nothing as high. Instead of the dark green
woods of Henley, golden rocks and golden earth shining in a very
happy sun; little villas, larger villas, everywhere with gardens
that were gardens indeed. Green walled closes, with rich green