Part 8

As for the Fairy, it is not too much to say that she is one of the prettiest things alive. She does not seem to stand at all in awe of her Elephant lord. She has her own little webs to weave--silvery webs of gossamer-discussion on politics, in which, bless her heart for a charming little Radical, she works neither good nor harm. Her eyes would burn a hole through many a stern old Tory's waistcoat and make him dizzily doubtful as to what party he really belonged to for the moment. She has the prettiest hair, all loosely curling about her face, and she has a very low voice, so modulated as to seem to some folks affected in its intonation. But it isn't affected; it is a natural music, and only repulsive old spinsters with cracked vocal cords presume to cast aspersions on its dulcet sweetness. She dresses "æsthetically"--in all sorts of strange tints, and rich stuffs, made in a fashion which the masculine mind must describe as "gathered-up-anyhow"--with large and wondrous sleeves and queer mediæval adornments--it pleases her whim so to do, and it also pleases the Elephant, who is apt to get excited on the subject of Colour. We all know what a red rag is to a bull--so we should not be surprised to find an Elephant who is calmed by some colours and enraged by others. Colour, in fact, is the only rule of life accepted by the Elephant--better to have no morality, according to him, than no sense of Colour. And so the Fairy robes herself in curious and cunningly-devised hues to soothe the Elephant's nerves (Elephants have thick hides but excessively fragile nerves, as every naturalist will tell you); and pranks herself out like a flower of grace set in a queen's garden. She does not talk much, this quaint Fairy, but she looks whole histories. Her gaze is softly wistful, and often abstracted; at certain moments her spirit seems to have gone out of her on invisible wings, miles away from the Elephant and literary Castle, and it is in such moments that she looks her very prettiest. To me she is infinitely more interesting than the Elephant himself, but as it is the Elephant whom everybody goes to see, I must try to do him justice--if I can!

To begin with, I know him very well, and he knows me. I have fed him many a time and oft with the sugared compliments he likes best--and what is really a matter worth noting he has _allowed_ me to feed him. This is very good of him. He is not so amiable to everybody. Few indeed are permitted the high honour of holding out a dainty morsel of flattery to that delicately-sniffing trunk which "smells a rat" too swiftly to be easily cajoled. But it has pleased the Elephant to take food from my hand, though while he ate, I noticed he never stopped winking. So that I know perfectly well who it was that lifted me up a while ago in a journal that shall be nameless, and did his utmost to smash me utterly by the force with which he threw me down again. Elephants have "nasty humours" now and then--it is their nature. But for once this particular animal found his match. He didn't hurt me though he tried; I got up from under his very feet, and--offered him another Compliment. He took it--gracefully; swallowed it "beautifully"--and does not wink quite so much now. Still, his eye is always on me--and mine on him--and we begin to understand each other.

His prettiest trick, and the one for which he is chiefly admired, is, as I said before, the delicate way in which he picks up Pins. Pins that any less sensitive creature would think worthless, he instantly perceives, selects and classes as "distinctly precious." Minute points of discussion having to do with vague subjects which (unless we could live on an Island of Dreams like the Laureate's Lotus-eaters) no one has any time to waste in considering, he (the Elephant) turns over and over and disposes of in his own peculiar fashion. He has a low estimate of man's moral responsibilities, he thinks that if the "masses" could only be brought to appreciate Colour as keenly as he himself appreciates it, the world would be both happy and wise, and would have no further need of law. He considers Nature _au naturel_ a mistake. Nature must be refined by Art. _Ergo_, a grand waterfall would not appeal to him, unless properly illumined by electricity, or otherwise got up for effect. He himself is got up for effect--if he were not, according to his own showing, he would be hideous. An Elephant of the jungle is unlovely, but an Elephant in civilian attire, decently housed, with a Fairy to look after him and preside over his meals, is a very different animal. Art has refined him. Nature has nothing more to do with him.

Sometimes the Elephant ruminates. Pins cease to interest him, and with coiled-up trunk (_i.e._, Intellectual Faculty), and heavy limbs at rest, he shuts his blinking emerald eyes to outer things, and thinks. Then, rising with a mighty roar of trumpeting that blares across the old world and the new, he tears up the ground beneath his feet, and throws a Production--_i.e._, a novel, or a play--in the face of his foes. And his foes momentarily shrink back from him, appalled at the noise he makes; but anon they rise up boldly in their puny strength to confront his ponderosity. Staves, darts, arrows and stones they get together in haste and trembling, and, shielding themselves behind different editor's desks, begin the wild affray. Lo, how the huge Trunk sways and the green eyes glare! Trample the Production to pieces, ye pigmy ruffians of reviewers, ye shall never crush what is "immortal!" Howl, ye spitfires of the Press, ye shall never make the Elephant's shadow diminish by one iota! For the fulminating truth of the elephantine Production, from a literary point of view, is this: That "as a work of art it is perfection, and perfection is what we artists aim at."

Thus the Elephant, with much pounding of feet, swinging of trunk, lashing of tail, and scattering of dust in the eyes of bewildered beholders. And truly he succeeds in attracting an infinite amount of attention, as why should he not? He is a lordly animal; large enough to be seen at a distance, and society pets him as it pets all creatures of whom it is vaguely afraid. Shy, retiring souls have no chance whatever of what is called "social success" nowadays. You must either be an Elephant or a Gnat; you must rend or sting before society will take any notice of you. And though critics curse the Elephant and wish he were well out of their way, Society fondles him; and as long as he is thus fondled, so long will he score certain victories in art and literature. It is impossible to "quash" him, he is too big. Every one is bound to look at him, and when he begins to move, albeit slowly, every one is equally bound to get out of the way.

There was once a time, however (when the Elephant was younger), in which it seemed doubtful whether he would remain an Elephant. A strange spell was upon him, a wizard-glow of the light that blinds reviewers--Genius. He stood on the confines of a sort of magic territory, wagging his delicate Trunk wistfully, and taking inquiring sniffs at the world. He was then like one of those deeply interesting animals we read about in the dear old fairy-books; he was waiting for the proper person to come and cut off his head, or throw water over him, or something, and say--"Quit thy present form and take that of a ----" What? Well, let us say "Poet," for example. Yes, that would have probably been the correct formula--"Quit thy present form and take that of a Poet." And then, hey presto! he would have skipped out of his hide, all dressed in dazzling blue and silver, a very Prince of wit and wisdom. But the magician who could or might have worked this change in him didn't turn up at the right moment, and so no one would believe he was anything _but_ an Elephant at last. And when he found that this was people's fixed opinion, and that nobody could be persuaded to think otherwise, he showed a few very ugly humours. He broke into the newspaper shops and went rampaging round among the pens and the ink-pots. He knocked down a few unwary authors whom he imagined stood in his way, and when they _were_ down, he stamped upon them. This was not nice of him. But he ought to have known, if he had been as wise as elephants are supposed to be, that authors, unless they are very frail indeed, take a deal of killing before being killed. And he might have foreseen the possibility of those trampled people getting up and revenging themselves whenever they had the chance. His "perfect" work was the very thing they had waited for ever so long. And they did not spare the Elephant. Not they! They remembered the weight of his feet on themselves, and not being able to tread on him because he was so large and heavy and obstinate, they stuck things into him instead. The "barbëd arrow," you know, that kind of disagreeable small weapon that goes in deep and rankles. A whole shower of such irritating little darts went into the Elephant--just in the delicate fleshy places between the folds of his hide--and it was an amazing sight to see how badly he took them. Never was such a roaring and trumpeting heard before! In the unreasoning heat of rage he quite forgot how matters really stood, and that he was only getting the _quid pro quo_ he actually deserved. He never gave a thought to the authors he had mangled and left for dead, and who had not been allowed to make any outcry on the subject of their wounds. He had no recollection of that Scriptural anecdote which tells how the "dry bones" came together "bone by bone," and became a "great standing army." _His_ "dry bones" were the poor poets and novelists he had stamped upon; indeed, not only had he stamped upon them, but he had even filled his trunk with muddy water, and squirted it over their seemingly lifeless remains. But the "great army" was there, and not past fighting, and it marched straight at and around the Elephant. On one occasion it encamped a force against him in the _St. James's Gazette_, and alas, for the good Elephant's vanity, he imagined he had foes there simply because he holds Radical views. Ye gods! Who that is commonly sane, cares whether an elephant be Radical, Whig, or Tory? Politics are the very last subject in the world I should consult an Elephant about. The mere idea of such a thing is enough to make a certain _St. James's Gazette_ reviewer I wot of, split his sides with laughter in the evil secrecy of his literary den.

As I hinted before, the Elephant while on the rampage in the newspaper-shops once chanced on my humble self, sitting back in an unobtrusive corner. One would have thought that to a lordly animal of such a size, I might have seemed too microscopic to be noticed, but not a bit of it. He "went" for me, with a good deal of unnecessary vigour--a total waste of power on his part, I considered; however, that was his look-out, not mine. He didn't know who I was then, and he doesn't quite know now, though I believe if I threw off my domino and showed him my features he would take to his old tricks again in a minute. But I don't want to irritate him, because he is really a good creature; I would much rather pet him than goad him. He can be cruel, but he can also be kind, and it is in the latter mood that everybody likes him and wants to give him sugar-candy. Moreover, as Elephant he is the living Emblem of Wisdom--a sacred being; and, if one is of an Eastern turn of mind, worthy of worship--and I never heard of any one yet who would venture to cast a doubt on his sagacity. He is wonderfully knowing; his opinion on some things is always worth having, and when he picks up Pins his movements are graceful and always worth watching. Moreover, one never gets tired of looking at the lovely Fairy who guards and guides him. We could not spare either of the twain from our midst--they form a picture "full of Colour." When we view that picture the "moral sense" of Colour enters into us--we feel twice born and twice alive. See how graceful is the _cortége_! how quaint and pretty and Oriental! Through the eye-holes of my domino I gaze admiringly upon the group--it makes a bright reflection on the "tablets of my memory." Move on, gentle Elephant! Move on! As slowly as you like, and at your own pleasure. Only don't try to "smash" me any more--it's useless. I am formed of that hard "virile" composition of literary ware "guaranteed unsmashable"--I am neither glass nor porcelain. Have another biscuit? Another _bon-bon_ of sugared praise? Well, then, you are a poet in disguise--a genius, wrapped up and sealed down under a hopeless weight of circumstances. I know your buried qualities well, and had some brave person cut off your head--_i.e._ your Self-Esteem (as I previously suggested)--years ago, we might have had a Prince, nay, even a King, among us. Yet on the whole I think you are happy in your condition. The _dolce far niente_ suits you very well, and the bovine repose of an almost Buddhistic meditation entirely agrees with your constitution, while as long as life lasts you may be sure you shall never lack Pins. Pass, good Elephant! I salute you profoundly, and with a still more profound reverence I kiss the hands of the Fairy!

XI.

THE STORY OF A SOUTH AFRICAN DREAM.

Elephants and Fairies suggest the "Arabian Nights." The "Arabian Nights" suggest, in their turn, the East, and the East suggests--ah! what does the East not suggest? A. P. Sinnett with his eyeglass? a vision of "Koot-Hoomi?" pretty Mrs. Besant, once atheist, now theosophist? or the marvellous fat (now dematerialised) of the marvellous Blavatsky? More, far more than these things! The very idea of the East causes me to stand still where I am, in a corner among all the literary folk, and "dream." The mood grows upon me; I am in the humour for "dreams." I feel metaphysical; don't listen to me; the fit will pass by and by. Nay, it _is_ passing, and I feel pious instead--very pious; and I shall probably get blasphemous directly. From piety to blasphemy is but a step; from the prayer of Moses to his professing to see the Deity's "back parts" was but the hair's-breadth of a line in Holy Writ. And as I find everything in a very bad state, and as I think everybody wants reforming, I am going to tell a little story. It is a beautiful little story, and if you ask the _Athenæum_ about it, it will tell you that it is "like a picture by Watts"; that "it has had no forerunners in literature and probably will have no successors." So you must pay great attention to it, and you must think it over for a long time. It requires thinking over for a long time, because it is a Parable. The best people, and especially those who want to "tickle the ears" of the _Pall Mall_ groundlings, are all going to talk and live and write in Parables for the future. So listen!

"There was once a woman in South Africa. She saw the sunlight lie across her bed. When there is a window and no blind to it, the sunlight has a way of pouring in, And of falling in the direction which is most natural to itself.

* * * * *

The sunlight did not move, So the woman covered her eyes. And sleep came upon the woman and she dreamed.

* * * * *

Now in her dream the woman saw a hole. It was a round hole, and it was red inside and very deep And the woman looked down at the hole and said--'What hole is this?' And a loud voice answered her, saying-- 'That hole is Hell!' And the woman looked up, and, lo! there was God laughing at her.

* * * * *

And the woman looked down again at the hole, and saw how red it was and how very deep. And she knelt down, with both arms leaning on the brink of the hole. And she said to God: 'I like this place.' And God answered: 'Ay, dost thou so?' And God laughed again. And the woman said again: 'I like this place. It seems warm.' And God said: 'Ay, it _is_ warm.' And the woman said: 'I think I will go in thither.' And God said: 'Ay, go by all means!' And the woman went.

* * * * *

The hole was very wide and red and deep. And the woman had plenty of space to slide down. She slid; and the hole got wider and redder and deeper, but still she slid on. And presently she caught a creature by the hair. And she said to the creature: 'Who art thou?' And the creature answered: 'I am X. Y. Z. of the _Athenæum_, Bream's Buildings, Chancery Lane. And the woman said: 'Good, I like thee. Give me thy hand, and we will go together.' And the creature went with the woman.

* * * * *

The hole grew deeper, and it began to be more hot than warm. And further on the woman saw another creature saying mock prayers. And the woman asked: 'To whom dost thou say mock prayers?' And the creature said: 'To God up there. I want him not to laugh at me.' Then the woman said: 'Who art thou that God should laugh?' And the creature writhed, and answered: 'I am the religious Spirit of the _Pall Mall_, abiding in the street called Northumberland, off Strand.' And the woman said again: 'And doth God laugh at thee?' And the creature answered: 'Ay, he laugheth sore.' And the woman said: 'Nay, he shall not laugh. I will tell him to protect thee. Come with me.' And the creature ceased praying mock prayers, and followed the woman.

* * * * *

And presently the woman from South Africa grew weary. She desired to get out of the hole. And she called aloud to God: 'I wish to leave Hell.' And God said: 'Leave it then.' And she left it.

* * * * *

Outside the sun was shining. There was no hole anywhere to be seen. And the woman looked up, and lo! there was God laughing at her. Then said the woman: 'There is no hole.' And God gaily answered, 'No.' Then the woman asked: 'Where is Hell?' And God, very much amused, replied: 'I haven't the least idea!' And the woman smiled right joyously, and said: 'I have had bad Dreams.' And God said: 'You have!'

* * * * *

The sunlight lay across the bed of the woman from South Africa. She woke, and thought of the deep red hole she had seen. And she reflected on her strange meeting with X. Y. Z. of the _Athenæum_, and the 'Religious Spirit' of the _Pall Mall_. And she also thought what a playful and hilarious personage God was. Then she remembered she had had late supper the previous evening. Which accounted for 'Dreams.'

* * * * *

The sunlight still lies now and then across the bed of the woman from South Africa. It is a way the sunlight has. And God laughs, as well He may."

Now I hope everybody sees what a "touching simplicity" there is, what a child-like familiarity with the Deity pervades the whole of this "prose poem." And yet there is a "subtlety," a candour, a strange melancholy, a curious cynicism, and a weirdness of conception and strong picturesqueness about its every line. It is unique in itself; it wants no explanation, because it says everything in the fewest words. It has a diction as innocent and unadorned as that of an infant's first spelling-book. And all the best critics I know want authors to let "brevity be the soul of wit," and to tell their stories as concisely as possible. If I were a novel-maker and wished to please the critics, I should write my "thrillers" in telegram form; twelve or twenty-four words to a chapter. Then I am sure I should get very well reviewed. Critics have no time to read any thoroughly finished and careful work--they seldom can do more than scan the first page and the last. I know this, being a Critic myself, and I think it is a thousand pities authors should take any trouble to write a middle part to their stories. An Ollendorf curtness of wording is always desirable, unless, indeed, one happens to be a George Meredith, and can manage to get cleverly involved in a long sentence which takes time to decipher, and when deciphered has literally no meaning at all. Then of course one is a genius at once; but such masterly art is rare. And so on the whole I like the "allegory" style best, because it is both brief and obscure at the same time. It has the surface appearance of simplicity, but its depth--ah! it is surprising to what a depth you can go in an allegory. You can fall down a regular well of thought and go fast asleep at the bottom, and when you wake up you wonder what it was all about, and you have to begin that allegory over again. That is what I call "reading"--hard reading--sensible reading. I like a thing you can never make head or tail of--the brain fattens on such provender. I am going to write out several dozen "Dreams" by and by--some of the queer ones I have had after a bout of champagne, for example--and I shall give them _gratis_ to the _Pall Mall_ with my fondest blessing. If there is "one bright particular star" in the sphere of journalism I worship more than another it is the _Pall Mall_, and I feel I can never do too much for it. And it likes "dreams" and little innocent religious allegories, because it is so good itself, and, like the boy Washington, has "never told a lie." I have always considered that the _Pall Mall_ and the German Kaiser are the only two earthly institutions "God" can favour, seeing that, according to the lady from South Africa, He has taken to "laughing" at most things. It is a pleasant picture, that of God laughing--one, too, not to be found in all the Bible. There the Deity has been represented as angry, jealous, reproachful, or benignant, but it has been left to South African literary skill to show us how He "laughed." And as the _Pall Mall_ thinks it all right that He _should_ laugh, why then we ought to coincide unanimously in the _Pall Mall's_ opinion. Because just imagine what London would be without the _Pall Mall_! Can mind conceive a more hideous desert?--a more wildly howling desolation? We should be left friendless and all unguided without our angel of reform; our clean, white-winged, heavenly, truthful Apostle of Northumberland Street, who is always able to tell us what is good and what is bad; who can inform us all, statesmen, clerics, authors, artists, and day-labourers, exactly what we ought and what we ought not to do. In the event of another Deluge (and some of the scientists assure us we shall have it soon) I know of a way in which some few of us might be saved; that is, some few with whom "God" is delighted, such as myself and the German Kaiser. We should simply require to make friends with the _Pall Mall_ staff, (several of the members are ladies, and how charming to have their society!), and build an ark out of planks from the _Pall Mall_ office floors. We should then paste it all over with _Pall Mall_ placards of the latest accounts of the Flood up to date of sailing, for the fishes to read, and then we should get into it; we who were the elected ones (including the Kaiser of course), and off we would go in smiling safety, secure from winds and waves, being the only "just people" left on a corrupted earth. And if in the end we found another Mount Ararat, and it were left to the governing body, _i.e._, the _Pall Mall_ staff and the German Kaiser, to begin a new world ... O ye gods and little fishes! What a world it would be!

XII.

QUESTIONETH CONCERNING THE SLOUGH OF DESPOND.