T HE link between a man's writing and himself is often
invisible, yet almost every writer with any serious claim to consideration displays a consistent personality. The strange thing is that that personality appears very often not to be his own. There are, of course, certain men of supreme genius whose writings do not bear the stamp of an individual at all. We do not mean that their work has no definite characteristics, or that the reader would suspect it of not being all the work of one hand ; but it does not lead the reader instinctively to picture to himself what manner of man the writer was. If we meet Shakespeare in the Elysian Fields, we shall know him by nothing but his face. His plays do not leave—at least upon the present writer—any definite impression of his personality. There is a form of genius which seems hardly to be bounded by the ordinary human outlines. The marvellous Elizabethan actor and poet could personate almost any type of humanity. He could appear in the guise of a man or a woman, the most dignified of Queens, the most graceless of tavern-brawlers. He could be a Roman Catholic or a Puritan, a believer or a doubter, a Caliban or an Ariel, a criminal or a saint, a sage or a fool. But who out of all the material he has given us can construct himself ? Shakespeare remains a pen, not a person. The same thing is true of several of the world's greatest writers. The critics wrest from the jaws of oblivion, like the intrepid shepherd of Scripture, two limbs or a piece of an ear, and then they set to work to imagine the whole figure; but each conceives it differently, and each tries to obliterate the work of his predecessor. One picture is painted on the top of another, and the public admires each fresh coat of paint in turn and is as wise as it was before.
Still, for the most part we do receive from the written word a definite impression of personality ; but how often, if we meet the real man, or read some convincing biography of him, do we find our mental image thrown down ? Suppose a Unfortunately, all the surprises which we get as we turn from the pen to the person are not delightful, and it is common to hear an ardent admirer regret that he has known anything of a writer but his works. Still, the public calls for the author, and we all join in the cry, even those who have been most often disappointed.
The natural way to argue from the pen to the person would be, we think, something like this. A man's writings repre- sent himself upon reflection,—what he would like to be, what he would be if he could, what he is in his own eyes. His tongue may do him injustice. The pen expresses his second thoughts. It is no unruly member; what is set down therewith is set down intentionally. Even if a man has the good or ill fortune to be able to write almost as easily as he speaks, there still remain certain mechanical bridles which have a restraining effect upon his pen. There is the post, for instance, and the proof-sheet. We all read our letters through before they drop down a hole into the region of the inevitable and irretrievable, and the printer and the editor insist that we should reconsider our words before we confide them to the public. All this being true, one would imagine that a man would express his opinion by word of mouth, his judgment by his pen. In fact, the pen ought logically to be the key to his true self, to that self which remains independent of the buffets of circumstance, un- influenced by the personality of others. In certain instances the logical theory works out fairly well; and where it does the difference between a man's writing and his character may be said to be superficial. But the worst of this theory is that, like so many others, it is of no general application. There are persons gifted with the power to write who are so naturally timid, or so naturally self-restrained, that they never speak their first thoughts at all. The shock of contact with their fellow-creatures seems to turn their minds topsy-turvy, so that what ought to come second appears to come first. You cannot get an impression out of them, or cheat them into betraying an impulse unawares, yet with their pens they tell all these things. Some portion of their minds is sensitive to sudden effects, and with their pens they can perpetuate those images which fade before the ordinary man can do more than allude to them. With their pens they chronicle the surprises which produce laughter, and with their pens they describe those instantaneous movements of the mind which we all have in common and recognise as touches of nature. People say of them that they keep their best ideas for print, that they are afraid to waste anything but dulness on their acquaintance. We do not believe that there ever was a writer of whom this was true. The artist, whatever his faults, is not niggardly of ideas, and the ability to do well in any art implies a sensitive- ness which makes it impossible habitually and of set purpose to disappoint a listener.
But if it is difficult to argue from the book to the man, it is equally difficult to argue from the man to his books. We may know a friend, as we think, very well, and yet be very much astonished by his writings; and it is probable that an author's works never make quite the same impression if we read them after a good biography as they do if we have read them before. It is always a little painful to a reader who knows Southey's life to hear a critic speak of his poetry with the contempt that is not unnatural to those who care nothing about the man; and we can imagine with what intense astonish- ment the few friends of the young ladies of Haworth Rectory must have read their books. It has happened to most people to like some author very much better than his writings,—much better, we feel, than, if his pen is really the key to his heart, he deserves to be liked. Yet this liking may rest upon no super- ficial attractions, but upon the practical experience of years. On the other hand, there are those in whom we look in vain for any sweet or great quality which finds expression in any- thing but ink. Occasionally it seems as though the pen magnified enormously some insignificant streak of a writer's character, so that if we look at him through his writings we see him entirely out of focus. Again, experience and character are not the same thing. A man may bring out of his experience a sentiment which does not come from his heart. Life may have taught him to expect the worst and be a cynic, and yet he may still have the good heart with which he was born, and his actions may still proceed from it.
There are, no doubt, experiences by which only the pen is affected. They are carefully locked away in the mind, and are prevented by the power of the will or of circumstances from either embellishing or staining the character, but through the pen they ooze out and colour the fancy.
It seems to us that there is no conclusion to this matter. Somewhere among the infinite folds of human character the link between the pen and the person is often irretrievably lost. The wise man will not look for it too closely; the most profitable plan is to forget that there is, as there must really be, any vital connection. So far as the great authors are concerned, only their works are immortal. They can safely leave, like Bacon, their characters to the verdict of charity, their works to the verdict of the ages; and for smaller people it is surely a mistake to allow a dislike for a person to spoil our enjoyment of his book. Let the Devil himself be a Doctor of Divinity, if only the scholars can learn.
A THAMES SALMON NURSERY.
Previous page
