บทที่ บทที่ 46 · 第46章

. When he was in his third year a magazine was founded at Cambridge, the

contributions to which were exclusively by undergraduates. Ernest sent

in an essay upon the Greek Drama, which he has declined to let me

reproduce here without his being allowed to re-edit it. I have

therefore been unable to give it in its original form, but when pruned

of its redundancies (and this is all that has been done to it) it runs

as follows—

“I shall not attempt within the limits at my disposal to make a

_résumé_ of the rise and progress of the Greek drama, but will confine

myself to considering whether the reputation enjoyed by the three chief

Greek tragedians, Æschylus, Sophocles and Euripides, is one that will

be permanent, or whether they will one day be held to have been

overrated.

“Why, I ask myself, do I see much that I can easily admire in Homer,

Thucydides, Herodotus, Demosthenes, Aristophanes, Theocritus, parts of

Lucretius, Horace’s satires and epistles, to say nothing of other

ancient writers, and yet find myself at once repelled by even those

works of Æschylus, Sophocles and Euripides which are most generally

admired.

“With the first-named writers I am in the hands of men who feel, if not

as I do, still as I can understand their feeling, and as I am

interested to see that they should have felt; with the second I have so

little sympathy that I cannot understand how anyone can ever have taken

any interest in them whatever. Their highest flights to me are dull,

pompous and artificial productions, which, if they were to appear now

for the first time, would, I should think, either fall dead or be

severely handled by the critics. I wish to know whether it is I who am

in fault in this matter, or whether part of the blame may not rest with

the tragedians themselves.

“How far I wonder did the Athenians genuinely like these poets, and how

far was the applause which was lavished upon them due to fashion or

affectation? How far, in fact, did admiration for the orthodox

tragedians take that place among the Athenians which going to church

does among ourselves?

“This is a venturesome question considering the verdict now generally

given for over two thousand years, nor should I have permitted myself

to ask it if it had not been suggested to me by one whose reputation

stands as high, and has been sanctioned for as long time as those of

the tragedians themselves, I mean by Aristophanes.

“Numbers, weight of authority, and time, have conspired to place

Aristophanes on as high a literary pinnacle as any ancient writer, with

the exception perhaps of Homer, but he makes no secret of heartily

hating Euripides and Sophocles, and I strongly suspect only praises

Æschylus that he may run down the other two with greater impunity. For

after all there is no such difference between Æschylus and his

successors as will render the former very good and the latter very bad;

and the thrusts at Æschylus which Aristophanes puts into the mouth of

Euripides go home too well to have been written by an admirer.

“It may be observed that while Euripides accuses Æschylus of being

‘pomp-bundle-worded,’ which I suppose means bombastic and given to

rodomontade, Æschylus retorts on Euripides that he is a ‘gossip

gleaner, a describer of beggars, and a rag-stitcher,’ from which it may

be inferred that he was truer to the life of his own times than

Æschylus was. It happens, however, that a faithful rendering of

contemporary life is the very quality which gives its most permanent

interest to any work of fiction, whether in literature or painting, and

it is a not unnatural consequence that while only seven plays by

Æschylus, and the same number by Sophocles, have come down to us, we

have no fewer than nineteen by Euripides.

“This, however, is a digression; the question before us is whether

Aristophanes really liked Æschylus or only pretended to do so. It must

be remembered that the claims of Æschylus, Sophocles and Euripides, to

the foremost place amongst tragedians were held to be as

incontrovertible as those of Dante, Petrarch, Tasso and Ariosto to be

the greatest of Italian poets, are held among the Italians of to-day.

If we can fancy some witty, genial writer, we will say in Florence,

finding himself bored by all the poets I have named, we can yet believe

he would be unwilling to admit that he disliked them without exception.

He would prefer to think he could see something at any rate in Dante,

whom he could idealise more easily, inasmuch as he was more remote; in

order to carry his countrymen the farther with him, he would endeavour

to meet them more than was consistent with his own instincts. Without

some such palliation as admiration for one, at any rate, of the

tragedians, it would be almost as dangerous for Aristophanes to attack

them as it would be for an Englishman now to say that he did not think

very much of the Elizabethan dramatists. Yet which of us in his heart

likes any of the Elizabethan dramatists except Shakespeare? Are they in

reality anything else than literary Struldbrugs?

“I conclude upon the whole that Aristophanes did not like any of the

tragedians; yet no one will deny that this keen, witty, outspoken

writer was as good a judge of literary value, and as able to see any

beauties that the tragic dramas contained as nine-tenths, at any rate,

of ourselves. He had, moreover, the advantage of thoroughly

understanding the standpoint from which the tragedians expected their

work to be judged, and what was his conclusion? Briefly it was little

else than this, that they were a fraud or something very like it. For

my own part I cordially agree with him. I am free to confess that with

the exception perhaps of some of the Psalms of David I know no writings

which seem so little to deserve their reputation. I do not know that I

should particularly mind my sisters reading them, but I will take good

care never to read them myself.”

This last bit about the Psalms was awful, and there was a great fight

with the editor as to whether or no it should be allowed to stand.

Ernest himself was frightened at it, but he had once heard someone say

that the Psalms were many of them very poor, and on looking at them

more closely, after he had been told this, he found that there could

hardly be two opinions on the subject. So he caught up the remark and

reproduced it as his own, concluding that these psalms had probably

never been written by David at all, but had got in among the others by

mistake.

The essay, perhaps on account of the passage about the Psalms, created

quite a sensation, and on the whole was well received. Ernest’s friends

praised it more highly than it deserved, and he was himself very proud

of it, but he dared not show it at Battersby. He knew also that he was

now at the end of his tether; this was his one idea (I feel sure he had

caught more than half of it from other people), and now he had not

another thing left to write about. He found himself cursed with a small

reputation which seemed to him much bigger than it was, and a

consciousness that he could never keep it up. Before many days were

over he felt his unfortunate essay to be a white elephant to him, which

he must feed by hurrying into all sorts of frantic attempts to cap his

triumph, and, as may be imagined, these attempts were failures.

He did not understand that if he waited and listened and observed,

another idea of some kind would probably occur to him some day, and

that the development of this would in its turn suggest still further

ones. He did not yet know that the very worst way of getting hold of

ideas is to go hunting expressly after them. The way to get them is to

study something of which one is fond, and to note down whatever crosses

one’s mind in reference to it, either during study or relaxation, in a

little note-book kept always in the waistcoat pocket. Ernest has come

to know all about this now, but it took him a long time to find it out,

for this is not the kind of thing that is taught at schools and

universities.

Nor yet did he know that ideas, no less than the living beings in whose

minds they arise, must be begotten by parents not very unlike

themselves, the most original still differing but slightly from the

parents that have given rise to them. Life is like a fugue, everything

must grow out of the subject and there must be nothing new. Nor, again,

did he see how hard it is to say where one idea ends and another

begins, nor yet how closely this is paralleled in the difficulty of

saying where a life begins or ends, or an action or indeed anything,

there being an unity in spite of infinite multitude, and an infinite

multitude in spite of unity. He thought that ideas came into clever

people’s heads by a kind of spontaneous germination, without parentage

in the thoughts of others or the course of observation; for as yet he

believed in genius, of which he well knew that he had none, if it was

the fine frenzied thing he thought it was.

Not very long before this he had come of age, and Theobald had handed

him over his money, which amounted now to £5000; it was invested to

bring in 5 per cent and gave him therefore an income of £250 a year. He

did not, however, realise the fact (he could realise nothing so foreign

to his experience) that he was independent of his father till a long

time afterwards; nor did Theobald make any difference in his manner

towards him. So strong was the hold which habit and association held

over both father and son, that the one considered he had as good a

right as ever to dictate, and the other that he had as little right as

ever to gainsay.

During his last year at Cambridge he overworked himself through this

very blind deference to his father’s wishes, for there was no reason

why he should take more than a poll degree except that his father laid

such stress upon his taking honours. He became so ill, indeed, that it

was doubtful how far he would be able to go in for his degree at all;

but he managed to do so, and when the list came out was found to be

placed higher than either he or anyone else expected, being among the

first three or four senior optimes, and a few weeks later, in the lower

half of the second class of the Classical Tripos. Ill as he was when he

got home, Theobald made him go over all the examination papers with

him, and in fact reproduce as nearly as possible the replies that he

had sent in. So little kick had he in him, and so deep was the groove

into which he had got, that while at home he spent several hours a day

in continuing his classical and mathematical studies as though he had

not yet taken his degree.