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Title: De Profundis
Author: Oscar Wilde
Date: 1897
Language: en
Topics: letter, prison, individualist anarchism
Source: https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/921

Oscar Wilde

De Profundis

... Suffering is one very long moment. We cannot divide it by seasons.

We can only record its moods, and chronicle their return. With us time

itself does not progress. It revolves. It seems to circle round one

centre of pain. The paralysing immobility of a life every circumstance

of which is regulated after an unchangeable pattern, so that we eat and

drink and lie down and pray, or kneel at least for prayer, according to

the inflexible laws of an iron formula: this immobile quality, that

makes each dreadful day in the very minutest detail like its brother,

seems to communicate itself to those external forces the very essence of

whose existence is ceaseless change. Of seed-time or harvest, of the

reapers bending over the corn, or the grape gatherers threading through

the vines, of the grass in the orchard made white with broken blossoms

or strewn with fallen fruit: of these we know nothing and can know

nothing.

For us there is only one season, the season of sorrow. The very sun and

moon seem taken from us. Outside, the day may be blue and gold, but the

light that creeps down through the thickly-muffled glass of the small

iron-barred window beneath which one sits is grey and niggard. It is

always twilight in one’s cell, as it is always twilight in one’s heart.

And in the sphere of thought, no less than in the sphere of time, motion

is no more. The thing that you personally have long ago forgotten, or

can easily forget, is happening to me now, and will happen to me again

to-morrow. Remember this, and you will be able to understand a little of

why I am writing, and in this manner writing....

A week later, I am transferred here. Three more months go over and my

mother dies. No one knew how deeply I loved and honoured her. Her death

was terrible to me; but I, once a lord of language, have no words in

which to express my anguish and my shame. She and my father had

bequeathed me a name they had made noble and honoured, not merely in

literature, art, archaeology, and science, but in the public history of

my own country, in its evolution as a nation. I had disgraced that name

eternally. I had made it a low by-word among low people. I had dragged

it through the very mire. I had given it to brutes that they might make

it brutal, and to fools that they might turn it into a synonym for

folly. What I suffered then, and still suffer, is not for pen to write

or paper to record. My wife, always kind and gentle to me, rather than

that I should hear the news from indifferent lips, travelled, ill as she

was, all the way from Genoa to England to break to me herself the

tidings of so irreparable, so irremediable, a loss. Messages of sympathy

reached me from all who had still affection for me. Even people who had

not known me personally, hearing that a new sorrow had broken into my

life, wrote to ask that some expression of their condolence should be

conveyed to me....

Three months go over. The calendar of my daily conduct and labour that

hangs on the outside of my cell door, with my name and sentence written

upon it, tells me that it is May....

Prosperity, pleasure and success, may be rough of grain and common in

fibre, but sorrow is the most sensitive of all created things. There is

nothing that stirs in the whole world of thought to which sorrow does

not vibrate in terrible and exquisite pulsation. The thin beaten-out

leaf of tremulous gold that chronicles the direction of forces the eye

cannot see is in comparison coarse. It is a wound that bleeds when any

hand but that of love touches it, and even then must bleed again, though

not in pain.

Where there is sorrow there is holy ground. Some day people will realise

what that means. They will know nothing of life till they do,—and

natures like his can realise it. When I was brought down from my prison

to the Court of Bankruptcy, between two policemen,—waited in the long

dreary corridor that, before the whole crowd, whom an action so sweet

and simple hushed into silence, he might gravely raise his hat to me,

as, handcuffed and with bowed head, I passed him by. Men have gone to

heaven for smaller things than that. It was in this spirit, and with

this mode of love, that the saints knelt down to wash the feet of the

poor, or stooped to kiss the leper on the cheek. I have never said one

single word to him about what he did. I do not know to the present

moment whether he is aware that I was even conscious of his action. It

is not a thing for which one can render formal thanks in formal words. I

store it in the treasure-house of my heart. I keep it there as a secret

debt that I am glad to think I can never possibly repay. It is embalmed

and kept sweet by the myrrh and cassia of many tears. When wisdom has

been profitless to me, philosophy barren, and the proverbs and phrases

of those who have sought to give me consolation as dust and ashes in my

mouth, the memory of that little, lovely, silent act of love has

unsealed for me all the wells of pity: made the desert blossom like a

rose, and brought me out of the bitterness of lonely exile into harmony

with the wounded, broken, and great heart of the world. When people are

able to understand, not merely how beautiful ---’s action was, but why

it meant so much to me, and always will mean so much, then, perhaps,

they will realise how and in what spirit they should approach me....

The poor are wise, more charitable, more kind, more sensitive than we

are. In their eyes prison is a tragedy in a man’s life, a misfortune, a

casuality, something that calls for sympathy in others. They speak of

one who is in prison as of one who is ‘in trouble’ simply. It is the

phrase they always use, and the expression has the perfect wisdom of

love in it. With people of our own rank it is different. With us, prison

makes a man a pariah. I, and such as I am, have hardly any right to air

and sun. Our presence taints the pleasures of others. We are unwelcome

when we reappear. To revisit the glimpses of the moon is not for us. Our

very children are taken away. Those lovely links with humanity are

broken. We are doomed to be solitary, while our sons still live. We are

denied the one thing that might heal us and keep us, that might bring

balm to the bruised heart, and peace to the soul in pain....

I must say to myself that I ruined myself, and that nobody great or

small can be ruined except by his own hand. I am quite ready to say so.

I am trying to say so, though they may not think it at the present

moment. This pitiless indictment I bring without pity against myself.

Terrible as was what the world did to me, what I did to myself was far

more terrible still.

I was a man who stood in symbolic relations to the art and culture of my

age. I had realised this for myself at the very dawn of my manhood, and

had forced my age to realise it afterwards. Few men hold such a position

in their own lifetime, and have it so acknowledged. It is usually

discerned, if discerned at all, by the historian, or the critic, long

after both the man and his age have passed away. With me it was

different. I felt it myself, and made others feel it. Byron was a

symbolic figure, but his relations were to the passion of his age and

its weariness of passion. Mine were to something more noble, more

permanent, of more vital issue, of larger scope.

The gods had given me almost everything. But I let myself be lured into

long spells of senseless and sensual ease. I amused myself with being a

flâneur, a dandy, a man of fashion. I surrounded myself with the smaller

natures and the meaner minds. I became the spendthrift of my own genius,

and to waste an eternal youth gave me a curious joy. Tired of being on

the heights, I deliberately went to the depths in the search for new

sensation. What the paradox was to me in the sphere of thought,

perversity became to me in the sphere of passion. Desire, at the end,

was a malady, or a madness, or both. I grew careless of the lives of

others. I took pleasure where it pleased me, and passed on. I forgot

that every little action of the common day makes or unmakes character,

and that therefore what one has done in the secret chamber one has some

day to cry aloud on the housetop. I ceased to be lord over myself. I was

no longer the captain of my soul, and did not know it. I allowed

pleasure to dominate me. I ended in horrible disgrace. There is only one

thing for me now, absolute humility.

I have lain in prison for nearly two years. Out of my nature has come

wild despair; an abandonment to grief that was piteous even to look at;

terrible and impotent rage; bitterness and scorn; anguish that wept

aloud; misery that could find no voice; sorrow that was dumb. I have

passed through every possible mood of suffering. Better than Wordsworth

himself I know what Wordsworth meant when he said—

‘Suffering is permanent, obscure, and dark

And has the nature of infinity.’

But while there were times when I rejoiced in the idea that my

sufferings were to be endless, I could not bear them to be without

meaning. Now I find hidden somewhere away in my nature something that

tells me that nothing in the whole world is meaningless, and suffering

least of all. That something hidden away in my nature, like a treasure

in a field, is Humility.

It is the last thing left in me, and the best: the ultimate discovery at

which I have arrived, the starting-point for a fresh development. It has

come to me right out of myself, so I know that it has come at the proper

time. It could not have come before, nor later. Had any one told me of

it, I would have rejected it. Had it been brought to me, I would have

refused it. As I found it, I want to keep it. I must do so. It is the

one thing that has in it the elements of life, of a new life, Vita Nuova

for me. Of all things it is the strangest. One cannot acquire it, except

by surrendering everything that one has. It is only when one has lost

all things, that one knows that one possesses it.

Now I have realised that it is in me, I see quite clearly what I ought

to do; in fact, must do. And when I use such a phrase as that, I need

not say that I am not alluding to any external sanction or command. I

admit none. I am far more of an individualist than I ever was. Nothing

seems to me of the smallest value except what one gets out of oneself.

My nature is seeking a fresh mode of self-realisation. That is all I am

concerned with. And the first thing that I have got to do is to free

myself from any possible bitterness of feeling against the world.

I am completely penniless, and absolutely homeless. Yet there are worse

things in the world than that. I am quite candid when I say that rather

than go out from this prison with bitterness in my heart against the

world, I would gladly and readily beg my bread from door to door. If I

got nothing from the house of the rich I would get something at the

house of the poor. Those who have much are often greedy; those who have

little always share. I would not a bit mind sleeping in the cool grass

in summer, and when winter came on sheltering myself by the warm

close-thatched rick, or under the penthouse of a great barn, provided I

had love in my heart. The external things of life seem to me now of no

importance at all. You can see to what intensity of individualism I have

arrived—or am arriving rather, for the journey is long, and ‘where I

walk there are thorns.’

Of course I know that to ask alms on the highway is not to be my lot,

and that if ever I lie in the cool grass at night-time it will be to

write sonnets to the moon. When I go out of prison, R--- will be waiting

for me on the other side of the big iron-studded gate, and he is the

symbol, not merely of his own affection, but of the affection of many

others besides. I believe I am to have enough to live on for about

eighteen months at any rate, so that if I may not write beautiful books,

I may at least read beautiful books; and what joy can be greater? After

that, I hope to be able to recreate my creative faculty.

But were things different: had I not a friend left in the world; were

there not a single house open to me in pity; had I to accept the wallet

and ragged cloak of sheer penury: as long as I am free from all

resentment, hardness and scorn, I would be able to face the life with

much more calm and confidence than I would were my body in purple and

fine linen, and the soul within me sick with hate.

And I really shall have no difficulty. When you really want love you

will find it waiting for you.

I need not say that my task does not end there. It would be

comparatively easy if it did. There is much more before me. I have hills

far steeper to climb, valleys much darker to pass through. And I have to

get it all out of myself. Neither religion, morality, nor reason can

help me at all.

Morality does not help me. I am a born antinomian. I am one of those who

are made for exceptions, not for laws. But while I see that there is

nothing wrong in what one does, I see that there is something wrong in

what one becomes. It is well to have learned that.

Religion does not help me. The faith that others give to what is unseen,

I give to what one can touch, and look at. My gods dwell in temples made

with hands; and within the circle of actual experience is my creed made

perfect and complete: too complete, it may be, for like many or all of

those who have placed their heaven in this earth, I have found in it not

merely the beauty of heaven, but the horror of hell also. When I think

about religion at all, I feel as if I would like to found an order for

those who cannot believe: the Confraternity of the Faithless, one might

call it, where on an altar, on which no taper burned, a priest, in whose

heart peace had no dwelling, might celebrate with unblessed bread and a

chalice empty of wine. Every thing to be true must become a religion.

And agnosticism should have its ritual no less than faith. It has sown

its martyrs, it should reap its saints, and praise God daily for having

hidden Himself from man. But whether it be faith or agnosticism, it must

be nothing external to me. Its symbols must be of my own creating. Only

that is spiritual which makes its own form. If I may not find its secret

within myself, I shall never find it: if I have not got it already, it

will never come to me.

Reason does not help me. It tells me that the laws under which I am

convicted are wrong and unjust laws, and the system under which I have

suffered a wrong and unjust system. But, somehow, I have got to make

both of these things just and right to me. And exactly as in Art one is

only concerned with what a particular thing is at a particular moment to

oneself, so it is also in the ethical evolution of one’s character. I

have got to make everything that has happened to me good for me. The

plank bed, the loathsome food, the hard ropes shredded into oakum till

one’s finger-tips grow dull with pain, the menial offices with which

each day begins and finishes, the harsh orders that routine seems to

necessitate, the dreadful dress that makes sorrow grotesque to look at,

the silence, the solitude, the shame—each and all of these things I have

to transform into a spiritual experience. There is not a single

degradation of the body which I must not try and make into a

spiritualising of the soul.

I want to get to the point when I shall be able to say quite simply, and

without affectation that the two great turning-points in my life were

when my father sent me to Oxford, and when society sent me to prison. I

will not say that prison is the best thing that could have happened to

me: for that phrase would savour of too great bitterness towards myself.

I would sooner say, or hear it said of me, that I was so typical a child

of my age, that in my perversity, and for that perversity’s sake, I

turned the good things of my life to evil, and the evil things of my

life to good.

What is said, however, by myself or by others, matters little. The

important thing, the thing that lies before me, the thing that I have to

do, if the brief remainder of my days is not to be maimed, marred, and

incomplete, is to absorb into my nature all that has been done to me, to

make it part of me, to accept it without complaint, fear, or reluctance.

The supreme vice is shallowness. Whatever is realised is right.

When first I was put into prison some people advised me to try and

forget who I was. It was ruinous advice. It is only by realising what I

am that I have found comfort of any kind. Now I am advised by others to

try on my release to forget that I have ever been in a prison at all. I

know that would be equally fatal. It would mean that I would always be

haunted by an intolerable sense of disgrace, and that those things that

are meant for me as much as for anybody else—the beauty of the sun and

moon, the pageant of the seasons, the music of daybreak and the silence

of great nights, the rain falling through the leaves, or the dew

creeping over the grass and making it silver—would all be tainted for

me, and lose their healing power, and their power of communicating joy.

To regret one’s own experiences is to arrest one’s own development. To

deny one’s own experiences is to put a lie into the lips of one’s own

life. It is no less than a denial of the soul.

For just as the body absorbs things of all kinds, things common and

unclean no less than those that the priest or a vision has cleansed, and

converts them into swiftness or strength, into the play of beautiful

muscles and the moulding of fair flesh, into the curves and colours of

the hair, the lips, the eye; so the soul in its turn has its nutritive

functions also, and can transform into noble moods of thought and

passions of high import what in itself is base, cruel and degrading;

nay, more, may find in these its most august modes of assertion, and can

often reveal itself most perfectly through what was intended to

desecrate or destroy.

The fact of my having been the common prisoner of a common gaol I must

frankly accept, and, curious as it may seem, one of the things I shall

have to teach myself is not to be ashamed of it. I must accept it as a

punishment, and if one is ashamed of having been punished, one might

just as well never have been punished at all. Of course there are many

things of which I was convicted that I had not done, but then there are

many things of which I was convicted that I had done, and a still

greater number of things in my life for which I was never indicted at

all. And as the gods are strange, and punish us for what is good and

humane in us as much as for what is evil and perverse, I must accept the

fact that one is punished for the good as well as for the evil that one

does. I have no doubt that it is quite right one should be. It helps

one, or should help one, to realise both, and not to be too conceited

about either. And if I then am not ashamed of my punishment, as I hope

not to be, I shall be able to think, and walk, and live with freedom.

Many men on their release carry their prison about with them into the

air, and hide it as a secret disgrace in their hearts, and at length,

like poor poisoned things, creep into some hole and die. It is wretched

that they should have to do so, and it is wrong, terribly wrong, of

society that it should force them to do so. Society takes upon itself

the right to inflict appalling punishment on the individual, but it also

has the supreme vice of shallowness, and fails to realise what it has

done. When the man’s punishment is over, it leaves him to himself; that

is to say, it abandons him at the very moment when its highest duty

towards him begins. It is really ashamed of its own actions, and shuns

those whom it has punished, as people shun a creditor whose debt they

cannot pay, or one on whom they have inflicted an irreparable, an

irremediable wrong. I can claim on my side that if I realise what I have

suffered, society should realise what it has inflicted on me; and that

there should be no bitterness or hate on either side.

Of course I know that from one point of view things will be made

different for me than for others; must indeed, by the very nature of the

case, be made so. The poor thieves and outcasts who are imprisoned here

with me are in many respects more fortunate than I am. The little way in

grey city or green field that saw their sin is small; to find those who

know nothing of what they have done they need go no further than a bird

might fly between the twilight and the dawn; but for me the world is

shrivelled to a handsbreadth, and everywhere I turn my name is written

on the rocks in lead. For I have come, not from obscurity into the

momentary notoriety of crime, but from a sort of eternity of fame to a

sort of eternity of infamy, and sometimes seem to myself to have shown,

if indeed it required showing, that between the famous and the infamous

there is but one step, if as much as one.

Still, in the very fact that people will recognise me wherever I go, and

know all about my life, as far as its follies go, I can discern

something good for me. It will force on me the necessity of again

asserting myself as an artist, and as soon as I possibly can. If I can

produce only one beautiful work of art I shall be able to rob malice of

its venom, and cowardice of its sneer, and to pluck out the tongue of

scorn by the roots.

And if life be, as it surely is, a problem to me, I am no less a problem

to life. People must adopt some attitude towards me, and so pass

judgment, both on themselves and me. I need not say I am not talking of

particular individuals. The only people I would care to be with now are

artists and people who have suffered: those who know what beauty is, and

those who know what sorrow is: nobody else interests me. Nor am I making

any demands on life. In all that I have said I am simply concerned with

my own mental attitude towards life as a whole; and I feel that not to

be ashamed of having been punished is one of the first points I must

attain to, for the sake of my own perfection, and because I am so

imperfect.

Then I must learn how to be happy. Once I knew it, or thought I knew it,

by instinct. It was always springtime once in my heart. My temperament

was akin to joy. I filled my life to the very brim with pleasure, as one

might fill a cup to the very brim with wine. Now I am approaching life

from a completely new standpoint, and even to conceive happiness is

often extremely difficult for me. I remember during my first term at

Oxford reading in Pater’s Renaissance—that book which has had such

strange influence over my life—how Dante places low in the Inferno those

who wilfully live in sadness; and going to the college library and

turning to the passage in the Divine Comedy where beneath the dreary

marsh lie those who were ‘sullen in the sweet air,’ saying for ever and

ever through their sighs—

‘Tristi fummo

Nell aer dolce che dal sol s’allegra.’

I knew the church condemned accidia, but the whole idea seemed to me

quite fantastic, just the sort of sin, I fancied, a priest who knew

nothing about real life would invent. Nor could I understand how Dante,

who says that ‘sorrow remarries us to God,’ could have been so harsh to

those who were enamoured of melancholy, if any such there really were. I

had no idea that some day this would become to me one of the greatest

temptations of my life.

While I was in Wandsworth prison I longed to die. It was my one desire.

When after two months in the infirmary I was transferred here, and found

myself growing gradually better in physical health, I was filled with

rage. I determined to commit suicide on the very day on which I left

prison. After a time that evil mood passed away, and I made up my mind

to live, but to wear gloom as a king wears purple: never to smile again:

to turn whatever house I entered into a house of mourning: to make my

friends walk slowly in sadness with me: to teach them that melancholy is

the true secret of life: to maim them with an alien sorrow: to mar them

with my own pain. Now I feel quite differently. I see it would be both

ungrateful and unkind of me to pull so long a face that when my friends

came to see me they would have to make their faces still longer in order

to show their sympathy; or, if I desired to entertain them, to invite

them to sit down silently to bitter herbs and funeral baked meats. I

must learn how to be cheerful and happy.

The last two occasions on which I was allowed to see my friends here, I

tried to be as cheerful as possible, and to show my cheerfulness, in

order to make them some slight return for their trouble in coming all

the way from town to see me. It is only a slight return, I know, but it

is the one, I feel certain, that pleases them most. I saw R--- for an

hour on Saturday week, and I tried to give the fullest possible

expression of the delight I really felt at our meeting. And that, in the

views and ideas I am here shaping for myself, I am quite right is shown

to me by the fact that now for the first time since my imprisonment I

have a real desire for life.

There is before me so much to do, that I would regard it as a terrible

tragedy if I died before I was allowed to complete at any rate a little

of it. I see new developments in art and life, each one of which is a

fresh mode of perfection. I long to live so that I can explore what is

no less than a new world to me. Do you want to know what this new world

is? I think you can guess what it is. It is the world in which I have

been living. Sorrow, then, and all that it teaches one, is my new world.

I used to live entirely for pleasure. I shunned suffering and sorrow of

every kind. I hated both. I resolved to ignore them as far as possible:

to treat them, that is to say, as modes of imperfection. They were not

part of my scheme of life. They had no place in my philosophy. My

mother, who knew life as a whole, used often to quote to me Goethe’s

lines—written by Carlyle in a book he had given her years ago, and

translated by him, I fancy, also:—

‘Who never ate his bread in sorrow,

Who never spent the midnight hours

Weeping and waiting for the morrow,—

He knows you not, ye heavenly powers.’

They were the lines which that noble Queen of Prussia, whom Napoleon

treated with such coarse brutality, used to quote in her humiliation and

exile; they were the lines my mother often quoted in the troubles of her

later life. I absolutely declined to accept or admit the enormous truth

hidden in them. I could not understand it. I remember quite well how I

used to tell her that I did not want to eat my bread in sorrow, or to

pass any night weeping and watching for a more bitter dawn.

I had no idea that it was one of the special things that the Fates had

in store for me: that for a whole year of my life, indeed, I was to do

little else. But so has my portion been meted out to me; and during the

last few months I have, after terrible difficulties and struggles, been

able to comprehend some of the lessons hidden in the heart of pain.

Clergymen and people who use phrases without wisdom sometimes talk of

suffering as a mystery. It is really a revelation. One discerns things

one never discerned before. One approaches the whole of history from a

different standpoint. What one had felt dimly, through instinct, about

art, is intellectually and emotionally realised with perfect clearness

of vision and absolute intensity of apprehension.

I now see that sorrow, being the supreme emotion of which man is

capable, is at once the type and test of all great art. What the artist

is always looking for is the mode of existence in which soul and body

are one and indivisible: in which the outward is expressive of the

inward: in which form reveals. Of such modes of existence there are not

a few: youth and the arts preoccupied with youth may serve as a model

for us at one moment: at another we may like to think that, in its

subtlety and sensitiveness of impression, its suggestion of a spirit

dwelling in external things and making its raiment of earth and air, of

mist and city alike, and in its morbid sympathy of its moods, and tones,

and colours, modern landscape art is realising for us pictorially what

was realised in such plastic perfection by the Greeks. Music, in which

all subject is absorbed in expression and cannot be separated from it,

is a complex example, and a flower or a child a simple example, of what

I mean; but sorrow is the ultimate type both in life and art.

Behind joy and laughter there may be a temperament, coarse, hard and

callous. But behind sorrow there is always sorrow. Pain, unlike

pleasure, wears no mask. Truth in art is not any correspondence between

the essential idea and the accidental existence; it is not the

resemblance of shape to shadow, or of the form mirrored in the crystal

to the form itself; it is no echo coming from a hollow hill, any more

than it is a silver well of water in the valley that shows the moon to

the moon and Narcissus to Narcissus. Truth in art is the unity of a

thing with itself: the outward rendered expressive of the inward: the

soul made incarnate: the body instinct with spirit. For this reason

there is no truth comparable to sorrow. There are times when sorrow

seems to me to be the only truth. Other things may be illusions of the

eye or the appetite, made to blind the one and cloy the other, but out

of sorrow have the worlds been built, and at the birth of a child or a

star there is pain.

More than this, there is about sorrow an intense, an extraordinary

reality. I have said of myself that I was one who stood in symbolic

relations to the art and culture of my age. There is not a single

wretched man in this wretched place along with me who does not stand in

symbolic relation to the very secret of life. For the secret of life is

suffering. It is what is hidden behind everything. When we begin to

live, what is sweet is so sweet to us, and what is bitter so bitter,

that we inevitably direct all our desires towards pleasures, and seek

not merely for a ‘month or twain to feed on honeycomb,’ but for all our

years to taste no other food, ignorant all the while that we may really

be starving the soul.

I remember talking once on this subject to one of the most beautiful

personalities I have ever known: a woman, whose sympathy and noble

kindness to me, both before and since the tragedy of my imprisonment,

have been beyond power and description; one who has really assisted me,

though she does not know it, to bear the burden of my troubles more than

any one else in the whole world has, and all through the mere fact of

her existence, through her being what she is—partly an ideal and partly

an influence: a suggestion of what one might become as well as a real

help towards becoming it; a soul that renders the common air sweet, and

makes what is spiritual seem as simple and natural as sunlight or the

sea: one for whom beauty and sorrow walk hand in hand, and have the same

message. On the occasion of which I am thinking I recall distinctly how

I said to her that there was enough suffering in one narrow London lane

to show that God did not love man, and that wherever there was any

sorrow, though but that of a child, in some little garden weeping over a

fault that it had or had not committed, the whole face of creation was

completely marred. I was entirely wrong. She told me so, but I could not

believe her. I was not in the sphere in which such belief was to be

attained to. Now it seems to me that love of some kind is the only

possible explanation of the extraordinary amount of suffering that there

is in the world. I cannot conceive of any other explanation. I am

convinced that there is no other, and that if the world has indeed, as I

have said, been built of sorrow, it has been built by the hands of love,

because in no other way could the soul of man, for whom the world was

made, reach the full stature of its perfection. Pleasure for the

beautiful body, but pain for the beautiful soul.

When I say that I am convinced of these things I speak with too much

pride. Far off, like a perfect pearl, one can see the city of God. It is

so wonderful that it seems as if a child could reach it in a summer’s

day. And so a child could. But with me and such as me it is different.

One can realise a thing in a single moment, but one loses it in the long

hours that follow with leaden feet. It is so difficult to keep ‘heights

that the soul is competent to gain.’ We think in eternity, but we move

slowly through time; and how slowly time goes with us who lie in prison

I need not tell again, nor of the weariness and despair that creep back

into one’s cell, and into the cell of one’s heart, with such strange

insistence that one has, as it were, to garnish and sweep one’s house

for their coming, as for an unwelcome guest, or a bitter master, or a

slave whose slave it is one’s chance or choice to be.

And, though at present my friends may find it a hard thing to believe,

it is true none the less, that for them living in freedom and idleness

and comfort it is more easy to learn the lessons of humility than it is

for me, who begin the day by going down on my knees and washing the

floor of my cell. For prison life with its endless privations and

restrictions makes one rebellious. The most terrible thing about it is

not that it breaks one’s heart—hearts are made to be broken—but that it

turns one’s heart to stone. One sometimes feels that it is only with a

front of brass and a lip of scorn that one can get through the day at

all. And he who is in a state of rebellion cannot receive grace, to use

the phrase of which the Church is so fond—so rightly fond, I dare

say—for in life as in art the mood of rebellion closes up the channels

of the soul, and shuts out the airs of heaven. Yet I must learn these

lessons here, if I am to learn them anywhere, and must be filled with

joy if my feet are on the right road and my face set towards ‘the gate

which is called beautiful,’ though I may fall many times in the mire and

often in the mist go astray.

This New Life, as through my love of Dante I like sometimes to call it,

is of course no new life at all, but simply the continuance, by means of

development, and evolution, of my former life. I remember when I was at

Oxford saying to one of my friends as we were strolling round Magdalen’s

narrow bird-haunted walks one morning in the year before I took my

degree, that I wanted to eat of the fruit of all the trees in the garden

of the world, and that I was going out into the world with that passion

in my soul. And so, indeed, I went out, and so I lived. My only mistake

was that I confined myself so exclusively to the trees of what seemed to

me the sun-lit side of the garden, and shunned the other side for its

shadow and its gloom. Failure, disgrace, poverty, sorrow, despair,

suffering, tears even, the broken words that come from lips in pain,

remorse that makes one walk on thorns, conscience that condemns,

self-abasement that punishes, the misery that puts ashes on its head,

the anguish that chooses sack-cloth for its raiment and into its own

drink puts gall:—all these were things of which I was afraid. And as I

had determined to know nothing of them, I was forced to taste each of

them in turn, to feed on them, to have for a season, indeed, no other

food at all.

I don’t regret for a single moment having lived for pleasure. I did it

to the full, as one should do everything that one does. There was no

pleasure I did not experience. I threw the pearl of my soul into a cup

of wine. I went down the primrose path to the sound of flutes. I lived

on honeycomb. But to have continued the same life would have been wrong

because it would have been limiting. I had to pass on. The other half of

the garden had its secrets for me also. Of course all this is

foreshadowed and prefigured in my books. Some of it is in The Happy

Prince, some of it in The Young King, notably in the passage where the

bishop says to the kneeling boy, ‘Is not He who made misery wiser than

thou art’? a phrase which when I wrote it seemed to me little more than

a phrase; a great deal of it is hidden away in the note of doom that

like a purple thread runs through the texture of Dorian Gray; in The

Critic as Artist it is set forth in many colours; in The Soul of Man it

is written down, and in letters too easy to read; it is one of the

refrains whose recurring motifs make Salome so like a piece of music and

bind it together as a ballad; in the prose poem of the man who from the

bronze of the image of the ‘Pleasure that liveth for a moment’ has to

make the image of the ‘Sorrow that abideth for ever’ it is incarnate. It

could not have been otherwise. At every single moment of one’s life one

is what one is going to be no less than what one has been. Art is a

symbol, because man is a symbol.

It is, if I can fully attain to it, the ultimate realisation of the

artistic life. For the artistic life is simply self-development.

Humility in the artist is his frank acceptance of all experiences, just

as love in the artist is simply the sense of beauty that reveals to the

world its body and its soul. In Marius the Epicurean Pater seeks to

reconcile the artistic life with the life of religion, in the deep,

sweet, and austere sense of the word. But Marius is little more than a

spectator: an ideal spectator indeed, and one to whom it is given ‘to

contemplate the spectacle of life with appropriate emotions,’ which

Wordsworth defines as the poet’s true aim; yet a spectator merely, and

perhaps a little too much occupied with the comeliness of the benches of

the sanctuary to notice that it is the sanctuary of sorrow that he is

gazing at.

I see a far more intimate and immediate connection between the true life

of Christ and the true life of the artist; and I take a keen pleasure in

the reflection that long before sorrow had made my days her own and

bound me to her wheel I had written in The Soul of Man that he who would

lead a Christ-like life must be entirely and absolutely himself, and had

taken as my types not merely the shepherd on the hillside and the

prisoner in his cell, but also the painter to whom the world is a

pageant and the poet for whom the world is a song. I remember saying

once to André Gide, as we sat together in some Paris café, that while

meta-physics had but little real interest for me, and morality

absolutely none, there was nothing that either Plato or Christ had said

that could not be transferred immediately into the sphere of Art and

there find its complete fulfilment.

Nor is it merely that we can discern in Christ that close union of

personality with perfection which forms the real distinction between the

classical and romantic movement in life, but the very basis of his

nature was the same as that of the nature of the artist—an intense and

flamelike imagination. He realised in the entire sphere of human

relations that imaginative sympathy which in the sphere of Art is the

sole secret of creation. He understood the leprosy of the leper, the

darkness of the blind, the fierce misery of those who live for pleasure,

the strange poverty of the rich. Some one wrote to me in trouble, ‘When

you are not on your pedestal you are not interesting.’ How remote was

the writer from what Matthew Arnold calls ‘the Secret of Jesus.’ Either

would have taught him that whatever happens to another happens to

oneself, and if you want an inscription to read at dawn and at

night-time, and for pleasure or for pain, write up on the walls of your

house in letters for the sun to gild and the moon to silver, ‘Whatever

happens to oneself happens to another.’

Christ’s place indeed is with the poets. His whole conception of

Humanity sprang right out of the imagination and can only be realised by

it. What God was to the pantheist, man was to Him. He was the first to

conceive the divided races as a unity. Before his time there had been

gods and men, and, feeling through the mysticism of sympathy that in

himself each had been made incarnate, he calls himself the Son of the

one or the Son of the other, according to his mood. More than any one

else in history he wakes in us that temper of wonder to which romance

always appeals. There is still something to me almost incredible in the

idea of a young Galilean peasant imagining that he could bear on his own

shoulders the burden of the entire world; all that had already been done

and suffered, and all that was yet to be done and suffered: the sins of

Nero, of Caesar Borgia, of Alexander VI., and of him who was Emperor of

Rome and Priest of the Sun: the sufferings of those whose names are

legion and whose dwelling is among the tombs: oppressed nationalities,

factory children, thieves, people in prison, outcasts, those who are

dumb under oppression and whose silence is heard only of God; and not

merely imagining this but actually achieving it, so that at the present

moment all who come in contact with his personality, even though they

may neither bow to his altar nor kneel before his priest, in some way

find that the ugliness of their sin is taken away and the beauty of

their sorrow revealed to them.

I had said of Christ that he ranks with the poets. That is true. Shelley

and Sophocles are of his company. But his entire life also is the most

wonderful of poems. For ‘pity and terror’ there is nothing in the entire

cycle of Greek tragedy to touch it. The absolute purity of the

protagonist raises the entire scheme to a height of romantic art from

which the sufferings of Thebes and Pelops’ line are by their very horror

excluded, and shows how wrong Aristotle was when he said in his treatise

on the drama that it would be impossible to bear the spectacle of one

blameless in pain. Nor in Æschylus nor Dante, those stern masters of

tenderness, in Shakespeare, the most purely human of all the great

artists, in the whole of Celtic myth and legend, where the loveliness of

the world is shown through a mist of tears, and the life of a man is no

more than the life of a flower, is there anything that, for sheer

simplicity of pathos wedded and made one with sublimity of tragic

effect, can be said to equal or even approach the last act of Christ’s

passion. The little supper with his companions, one of whom has already

sold him for a price; the anguish in the quiet moon-lit garden; the

false friend coming close to him so as to betray him with a kiss; the

friend who still believed in him, and on whom as on a rock he had hoped

to build a house of refuge for Man, denying him as the bird cried to the

dawn; his own utter loneliness, his submission, his acceptance of

everything; and along with it all such scenes as the high priest of

orthodoxy rending his raiment in wrath, and the magistrate of civil

justice calling for water in the vain hope of cleansing himself of that

stain of innocent blood that makes him the scarlet figure of history;

the coronation ceremony of sorrow, one of the most wonderful things in

the whole of recorded time; the crucifixion of the Innocent One before

the eyes of his mother and of the disciple whom he loved; the soldiers

gambling and throwing dice for his clothes; the terrible death by which

he gave the world its most eternal symbol; and his final burial in the

tomb of the rich man, his body swathed in Egyptian linen with costly

spices and perfumes as though he had been a king’s son. When one

contemplates all this from the point of view of art alone one cannot but

be grateful that the supreme office of the Church should be the playing

of the tragedy without the shedding of blood: the mystical presentation,

by means of dialogue and costume and gesture even, of the Passion of her

Lord; and it is always a source of pleasure and awe to me to remember

that the ultimate survival of the Greek chorus, lost elsewhere to art,

is to be found in the servitor answering the priest at Mass.

Yet the whole life of Christ—so entirely may sorrow and beauty be made

one in their meaning and manifestation—is really an idyll, though it

ends with the veil of the temple being rent, and the darkness coming

over the face of the earth, and the stone rolled to the door of the

sepulchre. One always thinks of him as a young bridegroom with his

companions, as indeed he somewhere describes himself; as a shepherd

straying through a valley with his sheep in search of green meadow or

cool stream; as a singer trying to build out of the music the walls of

the City of God; or as a lover for whose love the whole world was too

small. His miracles seem to me to be as exquisite as the coming of

spring, and quite as natural. I see no difficulty at all in believing

that such was the charm of his personality that his mere presence could

bring peace to souls in anguish, and that those who touched his garments

or his hands forgot their pain; or that as he passed by on the highway

of life people who had seen nothing of life’s mystery, saw it clearly,

and others who had been deaf to every voice but that of pleasure heard

for the first time the voice of love and found it as ‘musical as

Apollo’s lute’; or that evil passions fled at his approach, and men

whose dull unimaginative lives had been but a mode of death rose as it

were from the grave when he called them; or that when he taught on the

hillside the multitude forgot their hunger and thirst and the cares of

this world, and that to his friends who listened to him as he sat at

meat the coarse food seemed delicate, and the water had the taste of

good wine, and the whole house became full of the odour and sweetness of

nard.

Renan in his Vie de Jesus—that gracious fifth gospel, the gospel

according to St. Thomas, one might call it—says somewhere that Christ’s

great achievement was that he made himself as much loved after his death

as he had been during his lifetime. And certainly, if his place is among

the poets, he is the leader of all the lovers. He saw that love was the

first secret of the world for which the wise men had been looking, and

that it was only through love that one could approach either the heart

of the leper or the feet of God.

And above all, Christ is the most supreme of individualists. Humility,

like the artistic, acceptance of all experiences, is merely a mode of

manifestation. It is man’s soul that Christ is always looking for. He

calls it ‘God’s Kingdom,’ and finds it in every one. He compares it to

little things, to a tiny seed, to a handful of leaven, to a pearl. That

is because one realises one’s soul only by getting rid of all alien

passions, all acquired culture, and all external possessions, be they

good or evil.

I bore up against everything with some stubbornness of will and much

rebellion of nature, till I had absolutely nothing left in the world but

one thing. I had lost my name, my position, my happiness, my freedom, my

wealth. I was a prisoner and a pauper. But I still had my children left.

Suddenly they were taken away from me by the law. It was a blow so

appalling that I did not know what to do, so I flung myself on my knees,

and bowed my head, and wept, and said, ‘The body of a child is as the

body of the Lord: I am not worthy of either.’ That moment seemed to save

me. I saw then that the only thing for me was to accept everything.

Since then—curious as it will no doubt sound—I have been happier. It was

of course my soul in its ultimate essence that I had reached. In many

ways I had been its enemy, but I found it waiting for me as a friend.

When one comes in contact with the soul it makes one simple as a child,

as Christ said one should be.

It is tragic how few people ever ‘possess their souls’ before they die.

‘Nothing is more rare in any man,’ says Emerson, ‘than an act of his

own.’ It is quite true. Most people are other people. Their thoughts are

some one else’s opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a

quotation. Christ was not merely the supreme individualist, but he was

the first individualist in history. People have tried to make him out an

ordinary philanthropist, or ranked him as an altruist with the

scientific and sentimental. But he was really neither one nor the other.

Pity he has, of course, for the poor, for those who are shut up in

prisons, for the lowly, for the wretched; but he has far more pity for

the rich, for the hard hedonists, for those who waste their freedom in

becoming slaves to things, for those who wear soft raiment and live in

kings’ houses. Riches and pleasure seemed to him to be really greater

tragedies than poverty or sorrow. And as for altruism, who knew better

than he that it is vocation not volition that determines us, and that

one cannot gather grapes of thorns or figs from thistles?

To live for others as a definite self-conscious aim was not his creed.

It was not the basis of his creed. When he says, ‘Forgive your enemies,’

it is not for the sake of the enemy, but for one’s own sake that he says

so, and because love is more beautiful than hate. In his own entreaty to

the young man, ‘Sell all that thou hast and give to the poor,’ it is not

of the state of the poor that he is thinking but of the soul of the

young man, the soul that wealth was marring. In his view of life he is

one with the artist who knows that by the inevitable law of

self-perfection, the poet must sing, and the sculptor think in bronze,

and the painter make the world a mirror for his moods, as surely and as

certainly as the hawthorn must blossom in spring, and the corn turn to

gold at harvest-time, and the moon in her ordered wanderings change from

shield to sickle, and from sickle to shield.

But while Christ did not say to men, ‘Live for others,’ he pointed out

that there was no difference at all between the lives of others and

one’s own life. By this means he gave to man an extended, a Titan

personality. Since his coming the history of each separate individual

is, or can be made, the history of the world. Of course, culture has

intensified the personality of man. Art has made us myriad-minded. Those

who have the artistic temperament go into exile with Dante and learn how

salt is the bread of others, and how steep their stairs; they catch for

a moment the serenity and calm of Goethe, and yet know but too well that

Baudelaire cried to God—

‘O Seigneur, donnez moi la force et le courage

De contempler mon corps et mon coeur sans dégoût.’

Out of Shakespeare’s sonnets they draw, to their own hurt it may be, the

secret of his love and make it their own; they look with new eyes on

modern life, because they have listened to one of Chopin’s nocturnes, or

handled Greek things, or read the story of the passion of some dead man

for some dead woman whose hair was like threads of fine gold, and whose

mouth was as a pomegranate. But the sympathy of the artistic temperament

is necessarily with what has found expression. In words or in colours,

in music or in marble, behind the painted masks of an Æschylean play, or

through some Sicilian shepherds’ pierced and jointed reeds, the man and

his message must have been revealed.

To the artist, expression is the only mode under which he can conceive

life at all. To him what is dumb is dead. But to Christ it was not so.

With a width and wonder of imagination that fills one almost with awe,

he took the entire world of the inarticulate, the voiceless world of

pain, as his kingdom, and made of himself its eternal mouthpiece. Those

of whom I have spoken, who are dumb under oppression, and ‘whose silence

is heard only of God,’ he chose as his brothers. He sought to become

eyes to the blind, ears to the deaf, and a cry in the lips of those

whose tongues had been tied. His desire was to be to the myriads who had

found no utterance a very trumpet through which they might call to

heaven. And feeling, with the artistic nature of one to whom suffering

and sorrow were modes through which he could realise his conception of

the beautiful, that an idea is of no value till it becomes incarnate and

is made an image, he made of himself the image of the Man of Sorrows,

and as such has fascinated and dominated art as no Greek god ever

succeeded in doing.

For the Greek gods, in spite of the white and red of their fair fleet

limbs, were not really what they appeared to be. The curved brow of

Apollo was like the sun’s disc crescent over a hill at dawn, and his

feet were as the wings of the morning, but he himself had been cruel to

Marsyas and had made Niobe childless. In the steel shields of Athena’s

eyes there had been no pity for Arachne; the pomp and peacocks of Hera

were all that was really noble about her; and the Father of the Gods

himself had been too fond of the daughters of men. The two most deeply

suggestive figures of Greek Mythology were, for religion, Demeter, an

Earth Goddess, not one of the Olympians, and for art, Dionysus, the son

of a mortal woman to whom the moment of his birth had proved also the

moment of her death.

But Life itself from its lowliest and most humble sphere produced one

far more marvellous than the mother of Proserpina or the son of Semele.

Out of the Carpenter’s shop at Nazareth had come a personality

infinitely greater than any made by myth and legend, and one, strangely

enough, destined to reveal to the world the mystical meaning of wine and

the real beauties of the lilies of the field as none, either on

Cithaeron or at Enna, had ever done.

The song of Isaiah, ‘He is despised and rejected of men, a man of

sorrows and acquainted with grief: and we hid as it were our faces from

him,’ had seemed to him to prefigure himself, and in him the prophecy

was fulfilled. We must not be afraid of such a phrase. Every single work

of art is the fulfilment of a prophecy: for every work of art is the

conversion of an idea into an image. Every single human being should be

the fulfilment of a prophecy: for every human being should be the

realisation of some ideal, either in the mind of God or in the mind of

man. Christ found the type and fixed it, and the dream of a Virgilian

poet, either at Jerusalem or at Babylon, became in the long progress of

the centuries incarnate in him for whom the world was waiting.

To me one of the things in history the most to be regretted is that the

Christ’s own renaissance, which has produced the Cathedral at Chartres,

the Arthurian cycle of legends, the life of St. Francis of Assisi, the

art of Giotto, and Dante’s Divine Comedy, was not allowed to develop on

its own lines, but was interrupted and spoiled by the dreary classical

Renaissance that gave us Petrarch, and Raphael’s frescoes, and Palladian

architecture, and formal French tragedy, and St. Paul’s Cathedral, and

Pope’s poetry, and everything that is made from without and by dead

rules, and does not spring from within through some spirit informing it.

But wherever there is a romantic movement in art there somehow, and

under some form, is Christ, or the soul of Christ. He is in Romeo and

Juliet, in the Winter’s Tale, in Provençal poetry, in the Ancient

Mariner, in La Belle Dame sans merci, and in Chatterton’s Ballad of

Charity.

We owe to him the most diverse things and people. Hugo’s Les Misérables,

Baudelaire’s Fleurs du Mal, the note of pity in Russian novels, Verlaine

and Verlaine’s poems, the stained glass and tapestries and the

quattro-cento work of Burne-Jones and Morris, belong to him no less than

the tower of Giotto, Lancelot and Guinevere, Tannhäuser, the troubled

romantic marbles of Michael Angelo, pointed architecture, and the love

of children and flowers—for both of which, indeed, in classical art

there was but little place, hardly enough for them to grow or play in,

but which, from the twelfth century down to our own day, have been

continually making their appearances in art, under various modes and at

various times, coming fitfully and wilfully, as children, as flowers,

are apt to do: spring always seeming to one as if the flowers had been

in hiding, and only came out into the sun because they were afraid that

grown up people would grow tired of looking for them and give up the

search; and the life of a child being no more than an April day on which

there is both rain and sun for the narcissus.

It is the imaginative quality of Christ’s own nature that makes him this

palpitating centre of romance. The strange figures of poetic drama and

ballad are made by the imagination of others, but out of his own

imagination entirely did Jesus of Nazareth create himself. The cry of

Isaiah had really no more to do with his coming than the song of the

nightingale has to do with the rising of the moon—no more, though

perhaps no less. He was the denial as well as the affirmation of

prophecy. For every expectation that he fulfilled there was another that

he destroyed. ‘In all beauty,’ says Bacon, ‘there is some strangeness of

proportion,’ and of those who are born of the spirit—of those, that is

to say, who like himself are dynamic forces—Christ says that they are

like the wind that ‘bloweth where it listeth, and no man can tell whence

it cometh and whither it goeth.’ That is why he is so fascinating to

artists. He has all the colour elements of life: mystery, strangeness,

pathos, suggestion, ecstasy, love. He appeals to the temper of wonder,

and creates that mood in which alone he can be understood.

And to me it is a joy to remember that if he is ‘of imagination all

compact,’ the world itself is of the same substance. I said in Dorian

Gray that the great sins of the world take place in the brain: but it is

in the brain that everything takes place. We know now that we do not see

with the eyes or hear with the ears. They are really channels for the

transmission, adequate or inadequate, of sense impressions. It is in the

brain that the poppy is red, that the apple is odorous, that the skylark

sings.

Of late I have been studying with diligence the four prose poems about

Christ. At Christmas I managed to get hold of a Greek Testament, and

every morning, after I had cleaned my cell and polished my tins, I read

a little of the Gospels, a dozen verses taken by chance anywhere. It is

a delightful way of opening the day. Every one, even in a turbulent,

ill-disciplined life, should do the same. Endless repetition, in and out

of season, has spoiled for us the freshness, the naïveté, the simple

romantic charm of the Gospels. We hear them read far too often and far

too badly, and all repetition is anti-spiritual. When one returns to the

Greek; it is like going into a garden of lilies out of some, narrow and

dark house.

And to me, the pleasure is doubled by the reflection that it is

extremely probable that we have the actual terms, the ipsissima verba,

used by Christ. It was always supposed that Christ talked in Aramaic.

Even Renan thought so. But now we know that the Galilean peasants, like

the Irish peasants of our own day, were bilingual, and that Greek was

the ordinary language of intercourse all over Palestine, as indeed all

over the Eastern world. I never liked the idea that we knew of Christ’s

own words only through a translation of a translation. It is a delight

to me to think that as far as his conversation was concerned, Charmides

might have listened to him, and Socrates reasoned with him, and Plato

understood him: that he really said εyω ειμι ο ποιμην ο καλος, that when

he thought of the lilies of the field and how they neither toil nor

spin, his absolute expression was καταyαθετε τα κρίνα του αγρου τως

αυξανει ου κοπιυ ουδε νηθει, and that his last word when he cried out

‘my life has been completed, has reached its fulfilment, has been

perfected,’ was exactly as St. John tells us it was: τετέλεσται—no more.

While in reading the Gospels—particularly that of St. John himself, or

whatever early Gnostic took his name and mantle—I see the continual

assertion of the imagination as the basis of all spiritual and material

life, I see also that to Christ imagination was simply a form of love,

and that to him love was lord in the fullest meaning of the phrase. Some

six weeks ago I was allowed by the doctor to have white bread to eat

instead of the coarse black or brown bread of ordinary prison fare. It

is a great delicacy. It will sound strange that dry bread could possibly

be a delicacy to any one. To me it is so much so that at the close of

each meal I carefully eat whatever crumbs may be left on my tin plate,

or have fallen on the rough towel that one uses as a cloth so as not to

soil one’s table; and I do so not from hunger—I get now quite sufficient

food—but simply in order that nothing should be wasted of what is given

to me. So one should look on love.

Christ, like all fascinating personalities, had the power of not merely

saying beautiful things himself, but of making other people say

beautiful things to him; and I love the story St. Mark tells us about

the Greek woman, who, when as a trial of her faith he said to her that

he could not give her the bread of the children of Israel, answered him

that the little dogs—(κυναρια, ‘little dogs’ it should be rendered)—who

are under the table eat of the crumbs that the children let fall. Most

people live for love and admiration. But it is by love and admiration

that we should live. If any love is shown us we should recognise that we

are quite unworthy of it. Nobody is worthy to be loved. The fact that

God loves man shows us that in the divine order of ideal things it is

written that eternal love is to be given to what is eternally unworthy.

Or if that phrase seems to be a bitter one to bear, let us say that

every one is worthy of love, except him who thinks that he is. Love is a

sacrament that should be taken kneeling, and Domine, non sum dignus

should be on the lips and in the hearts of those who receive it.

If ever I write again, in the sense of producing artistic work, there

are just two subjects on which and through which I desire to express

myself: one is ‘Christ as the precursor of the romantic movement in

life’: the other is ‘The artistic life considered in its relation to

conduct.’ The first is, of course, intensely fascinating, for I see in

Christ not merely the essentials of the supreme romantic type, but all

the accidents, the wilfulnesses even, of the romantic temperament also.

He was the first person who ever said to people that they should live

‘flower-like lives.’ He fixed the phrase. He took children as the type

of what people should try to become. He held them up as examples to

their elders, which I myself have always thought the chief use of

children, if what is perfect should have a use. Dante describes the soul

of a man as coming from the hand of God ‘weeping and laughing like a

little child,’ and Christ also saw that the soul of each one should be a

guisa di fanciulla che piangendo e ridendo pargoleggia. He felt that

life was changeful, fluid, active, and that to allow it to be

stereotyped into any form was death. He saw that people should not be

too serious over material, common interests: that to be unpractical was

to be a great thing: that one should not bother too much over affairs.

The birds didn’t, why should man? He is charming when he says, ‘Take no

thought for the morrow; is not the soul more than meat? is not the body

more than raiment?’ A Greek might have used the latter phrase. It is

full of Greek feeling. But only Christ could have said both, and so

summed up life perfectly for us.

His morality is all sympathy, just what morality should be. If the only

thing that he ever said had been, ‘Her sins are forgiven her because she

loved much,’ it would have been worth while dying to have said it. His

justice is all poetical justice, exactly what justice should be. The

beggar goes to heaven because he has been unhappy. I cannot conceive a

better reason for his being sent there. The people who work for an hour

in the vineyard in the cool of the evening receive just as much reward

as those who have toiled there all day long in the hot sun. Why

shouldn’t they? Probably no one deserved anything. Or perhaps they were

a different kind of people. Christ had no patience with the dull

lifeless mechanical systems that treat people as if they were things,

and so treat everybody alike: for him there were no laws: there were

exceptions merely, as if anybody, or anything, for that matter, was like

aught else in the world!

That which is the very keynote of romantic art was to him the proper

basis of natural life. He saw no other basis. And when they brought him

one, taken in the very act of sin and showed him her sentence written in

the law, and asked him what was to be done, he wrote with his finger on

the ground as though he did not hear them, and finally, when they

pressed him again, looked up and said, ‘Let him of you who has never

sinned be the first to throw the stone at her.’ It was worth while

living to have said that.

Like all poetical natures he loved ignorant people. He knew that in the

soul of one who is ignorant there is always room for a great idea. But

he could not stand stupid people, especially those who are made stupid

by education: people who are full of opinions not one of which they even

understand, a peculiarly modern type, summed up by Christ when he

describes it as the type of one who has the key of knowledge, cannot use

it himself, and does not allow other people to use it, though it may be

made to open the gate of God’s Kingdom. His chief war was against the

Philistines. That is the war every child of light has to wage.

Philistinism was the note of the age and community in which he lived. In

their heavy inaccessibility to ideas, their dull respectability, their

tedious orthodoxy, their worship of vulgar success, their entire

preoccupation with the gross materialistic side of life, and their

ridiculous estimate of themselves and their importance, the Jews of

Jerusalem in Christ’s day were the exact counterpart of the British

Philistine of our own. Christ mocked at the ‘whited sepulchre’ of

respectability, and fixed that phrase for ever. He treated worldly

success as a thing absolutely to be despised. He saw nothing in it at

all. He looked on wealth as an encumbrance to a man. He would not hear

of life being sacrificed to any system of thought or morals. He pointed

out that forms and ceremonies were made for man, not man for forms and

ceremonies. He took sabbatarianism as a type of the things that should

be set at nought. The cold philanthropies, the ostentatious public

charities, the tedious formalisms so dear to the middle-class mind, he

exposed with utter and relentless scorn. To us, what is termed orthodoxy

is merely a facile unintelligent acquiescence; but to them, and in their

hands, it was a terrible and paralysing tyranny. Christ swept it aside.

He showed that the spirit alone was of value. He took a keen pleasure in

pointing out to them that though they were always reading the law and

the prophets, they had not really the smallest idea of what either of

them meant. In opposition to their tithing of each separate day into the

fixed routine of prescribed duties, as they tithe mint and rue, he

preached the enormous importance of living completely for the moment.

Those whom he saved from their sins are saved simply for beautiful

moments in their lives. Mary Magdalen, when she sees Christ, breaks the

rich vase of alabaster that one of her seven lovers had given her, and

spills the odorous spices over his tired dusty feet, and for that one

moment’s sake sits for ever with Ruth and Beatrice in the tresses of the

snow-white rose of Paradise. All that Christ says to us by the way of a

little warning is that every moment should be beautiful, that the soul

should always be ready for the coming of the bridegroom, always waiting

for the voice of the lover, Philistinism being simply that side of man’s

nature that is not illumined by the imagination. He sees all the lovely

influences of life as modes of light: the imagination itself is the

world of light. The world is made by it, and yet the world cannot

understand it: that is because the imagination is simply a manifestation

of love, and it is love and the capacity for it that distinguishes one

human being from another.

But it is when he deals with a sinner that Christ is most romantic, in

the sense of most real. The world had always loved the saint as being

the nearest possible approach to the perfection of God. Christ, through

some divine instinct in him, seems to have always loved the sinner as

being the nearest possible approach to the perfection of man. His

primary desire was not to reform people, any more than his primary

desire was to a relieve suffering. To turn an interesting thief into a

tedious honest man was not his aim. He would have thought little of the

Prisoners’ Aid Society and other modern movements of the kind. The

conversion of a publican into a Pharisee would not have seemed to him a

great achievement. But in a manner not yet understood of the world he

regarded sin and suffering as being in themselves beautiful holy things

and modes of perfection.

It seems a very dangerous idea. It is—all great ideas are dangerous.

That it was Christ’s creed admits of no doubt. That it is the true creed

I don’t doubt myself.

Of course the sinner must repent. But why? Simply because otherwise he

would be unable to realise what he had done. The moment of repentance is

the moment of initiation. More than that: it is the means by which one

alters one’s past. The Greeks thought that impossible. They often say in

their Gnomic aphorisms, ‘Even the Gods cannot alter the past.’ Christ

showed that the commonest sinner could do it, that it was the one thing

he could do. Christ, had he been asked, would have said—I feel quite

certain about it—that the moment the prodigal son fell on his knees and

wept, he made his having wasted his substance with harlots, his

swine-herding and hungering for the husks they ate, beautiful and holy

moments in his life. It is difficult for most people to grasp the idea.

I dare say one has to go to prison to understand it. If so, it may be

worth while going to prison.

There is something so unique about Christ. Of course just as there are

false dawns before the dawn itself, and winter days so full of sudden

sunlight that they will cheat the wise crocus into squandering its gold

before its time, and make some foolish bird call to its mate to build on

barren boughs, so there were Christians before Christ. For that we

should be grateful. The unfortunate thing is that there have been none

since. I make one exception, St. Francis of Assisi. But then God had

given him at his birth the soul of a poet, as he himself when quite

young had in mystical marriage taken poverty as his bride: and with the

soul of a poet and the body of a beggar he found the way to perfection

not difficult. He understood Christ, and so he became like him. We do

not require the Liber Conformitatum to teach us that the life of St.

Francis was the true Imitatio Christi, a poem compared to which the book

of that name is merely prose.

Indeed, that is the charm about Christ, when all is said: he is just

like a work of art. He does not really teach one anything, but by being

brought into his presence one becomes something. And everybody is

predestined to his presence. Once at least in his life each man walks

with Christ to Emmaus.

As regards the other subject, the Relation of the Artistic Life to

Conduct, it will no doubt seem strange to you that I should select it.

People point to Reading Gaol and say, ‘That is where the artistic life

leads a man.’ Well, it might lead to worse places. The more mechanical

people to whom life is a shrewd speculation depending on a careful

calculation of ways and means, always know where they are going, and go

there. They start with the ideal desire of being the parish beadle, and

in whatever sphere they are placed they succeed in being the parish

beadle and no more. A man whose desire is to be something separate from

himself, to be a member of Parliament, or a successful grocer, or a

prominent solicitor, or a judge, or something equally tedious,

invariably succeeds in being what he wants to be. That is his

punishment. Those who want a mask have to wear it.

But with the dynamic forces of life, and those in whom those dynamic

forces become incarnate, it is different. People whose desire is solely

for self-realisation never know where they are going. They can’t know.

In one sense of the word it is of course necessary, as the Greek oracle

said, to know oneself: that is the first achievement of knowledge. But

to recognise that the soul of a man is unknowable, is the ultimate

achievement of wisdom. The final mystery is oneself. When one has

weighed the sun in the balance, and measured the steps of the moon, and

mapped out the seven heavens star by star, there still remains oneself.

Who can calculate the orbit of his own soul? When the son went out to

look for his father’s asses, he did not know that a man of God was

waiting for him with the very chrism of coronation, and that his own

soul was already the soul of a king.

I hope to live long enough and to produce work of such a character that

I shall be able at the end of my days to say, ‘Yes! this is just where

the artistic life leads a man!’ Two of the most perfect lives I have

come across in my own experience are the lives of Verlaine and of Prince

Kropotkin: both of them men who have passed years in prison: the first,

the one Christian poet since Dante; the other, a man with a soul of that

beautiful white Christ which seems coming out of Russia. And for the

last seven or eight months, in spite of a succession of great troubles

reaching me from the outside world almost without intermission, I have

been placed in direct contact with a new spirit working in this prison

through man and things, that has helped me beyond any possibility of

expression in words: so that while for the first year of my imprisonment

I did nothing else, and can remember doing nothing else, but wring my

hands in impotent despair, and say, ‘What an ending, what an appalling

ending!’ now I try to say to myself, and sometimes when I am not

torturing myself do really and sincerely say, ‘What a beginning, what a

wonderful beginning!’ It may really be so. It may become so. If it does

I shall owe much to this new personality that has altered every man’s

life in this place.

You may realise it when I say that had I been released last May, as I

tried to be, I would have left this place loathing it and every official

in it with a bitterness of hatred that would have poisoned my life. I

have had a year longer of imprisonment, but humanity has been in the

prison along with us all, and now when I go out I shall always remember

great kindnesses that I have received here from almost everybody, and on

the day of my release I shall give many thanks to many people, and ask

to be remembered by them in turn.

The prison style is absolutely and entirely wrong. I would give anything

to be able to alter it when I go out. I intend to try. But there is

nothing in the world so wrong but that the spirit of humanity, which is

the spirit of love, the spirit of the Christ who is not in churches, may

make it, if not right, at least possible to be borne without too much

bitterness of heart.

I know also that much is waiting for me outside that is very delightful,

from what St. Francis of Assisi calls ‘my brother the wind, and my

sister the rain,’ lovely things both of them, down to the shop-windows

and sunsets of great cities. If I made a list of all that still remains

to me, I don’t know where I should stop: for, indeed, God made the world

just as much for me as for any one else. Perhaps I may go out with

something that I had not got before. I need not tell you that to me

reformations in morals are as meaningless and vulgar as Reformations in

theology. But while to propose to be a better man is a piece of

unscientific cant, to have become a deeper man is the privilege of those

who have suffered. And such I think I have become.

If after I am free a friend of mine gave a feast, and did not invite me

to it, I should not mind a bit. I can be perfectly happy by myself. With

freedom, flowers, books, and the moon, who could not be perfectly happy?

Besides, feasts are not for me any more. I have given too many to care

about them. That side of life is over for me, very fortunately, I dare

say. But if after I am free a friend of mine had a sorrow and refused to

allow me to share it, I should feel it most bitterly. If he shut the

doors of the house of mourning against me, I would come back again and

again and beg to be admitted, so that I might share in what I was

entitled to share in. If he thought me unworthy, unfit to weep with him,

I should feel it as the most poignant humiliation, as the most terrible

mode in which disgrace could be inflicted on me. But that could not be.

I have a right to share in sorrow, and he who can look at the loveliness

of the world and share its sorrow, and realise something of the wonder

of both, is in immediate contact with divine things, and has got as near

to God’s secret as any one can get.

Perhaps there may come into my art also, no less than into my life, a

still deeper note, one of greater unity of passion, and directness of

impulse. Not width but intensity is the true aim of modern art. We are

no longer in art concerned with the type. It is with the exception that

we have to do. I cannot put my sufferings into any form they took, I

need hardly say. Art only begins where Imitation ends, but something

must come into my work, of fuller memory of words perhaps, of richer

cadences, of more curious effects, of simpler architectural order, of

some aesthetic quality at any rate.

When Marsyas was ‘torn from the scabbard of his limbs’—della vagina

della membre sue, to use one of Dante’s most terrible Tacitean

phrases—he had no more song, the Greek said. Apollo had been victor. The

lyre had vanquished the reed. But perhaps the Greeks were mistaken. I

hear in much modern Art the cry of Marsyas. It is bitter in Baudelaire,

sweet and plaintive in Lamartine, mystic in Verlaine. It is in the

deferred resolutions of Chopin’s music. It is in the discontent that

haunts Burne-Jones’s women. Even Matthew Arnold, whose song of Callicles

tells of ‘the triumph of the sweet persuasive lyre,’ and the ‘famous

final victory,’ in such a clear note of lyrical beauty, has not a little

of it; in the troubled undertone of doubt and distress that haunts his

verses, neither Goethe nor Wordsworth could help him, though he followed

each in turn, and when he seeks to mourn for Thyrsis or to sing of the

Scholar Gipsy, it is the reed that he has to take for the rendering of

his strain. But whether or not the Phrygian Faun was silent, I cannot

be. Expression is as necessary to me as leaf and blossoms are to the

black branches of the trees that show themselves above the prison walls

and are so restless in the wind. Between my art and the world there is

now a wide gulf, but between art and myself there is none. I hope at

least that there is none.

To each of us different fates are meted out. My lot has been one of

public infamy, of long imprisonment, of misery, of ruin, of disgrace,

but I am not worthy of it—not yet, at any rate. I remember that I used

to say that I thought I could bear a real tragedy if it came to me with

purple pall and a mask of noble sorrow, but that the dreadful thing

about modernity was that it put tragedy into the raiment of comedy, so

that the great realities seemed commonplace or grotesque or lacking in

style. It is quite true about modernity. It has probably always been

true about actual life. It is said that all martyrdoms seemed mean to

the looker on. The nineteenth century is no exception to the rule.

Everything about my tragedy has been hideous, mean, repellent, lacking

in style; our very dress makes us grotesque. We are the zanies of

sorrow. We are clowns whose hearts are broken. We are specially designed

to appeal to the sense of humour. On November 13^(th), 1895, I was

brought down here from London. From two o’clock till half-past two on

that day I had to stand on the centre platform of Clapham Junction in

convict dress, and handcuffed, for the world to look at. I had been

taken out of the hospital ward without a moment’s notice being given to

me. Of all possible objects I was the most grotesque. When people saw me

they laughed. Each train as it came up swelled the audience. Nothing

could exceed their amusement. That was, of course, before they knew who

I was. As soon as they had been informed they laughed still more. For

half an hour I stood there in the grey November rain surrounded by a

jeering mob.

For a year after that was done to me I wept every day at the same hour

and for the same space of time. That is not such a tragic thing as

possibly it sounds to you. To those who are in prison tears are a part

of every day’s experience. A day in prison on which one does not weep is

a day on which one’s heart is hard, not a day on which one’s heart is

happy.

Well, now I am really beginning to feel more regret for the people who

laughed than for myself. Of course when they saw me I was not on my

pedestal, I was in the pillory. But it is a very unimaginative nature

that only cares for people on their pedestals. A pedestal may be a very

unreal thing. A pillory is a terrific reality. They should have known

also how to interpret sorrow better. I have said that behind sorrow

there is always sorrow. It were wiser still to say that behind sorrow

there is always a soul. And to mock at a soul in pain is a dreadful

thing. In the strangely simple economy of the world people only get what

they give, and to those who have not enough imagination to penetrate the

mere outward of things, and feel pity, what pity can be given save that

of scorn?

I write this account of the mode of my being transferred here simply

that it should be realised how hard it has been for me to get anything

out of my punishment but bitterness and despair. I have, however, to do

it, and now and then I have moments of submission and acceptance. All

the spring may be hidden in the single bud, and the low ground nest of

the lark may hold the joy that is to herald the feet of many rose-red

dawns. So perhaps whatever beauty of life still remains to me is

contained in some moment of surrender, abasement, and humiliation. I

can, at any rate, merely proceed on the lines of my own development,

and, accepting all that has happened to me, make myself worthy of it.

People used to say of me that I was too individualistic. I must be far

more of an individualist than ever I was. I must get far more out of

myself than ever I got, and ask far less of the world than ever I asked.

Indeed, my ruin came not from too great individualism of life, but from

too little. The one disgraceful, unpardonable, and to all time

contemptible action of my life was to allow myself to appeal to society

for help and protection. To have made such an appeal would have been

from the individualist point of view bad enough, but what excuse can

there ever be put forward for having made it? Of course once I had put

into motion the forces of society, society turned on me and said, ‘Have

you been living all this time in defiance of my laws, and do you now

appeal to those laws for protection? You shall have those laws exercised

to the full. You shall abide by what you have appealed to.’ The result

is I am in gaol. Certainly no man ever fell so ignobly, and by such

ignoble instruments, as I did.

The Philistine element in life is not the failure to understand art.

Charming people, such as fishermen, shepherds, ploughboys, peasants and

the like, know nothing about art, and are the very salt of the earth. He

is the Philistine who upholds and aids the heavy, cumbrous, blind,

mechanical forces of society, and who does not recognise dynamic force

when he meets it either in a man or a movement.

People thought it dreadful of me to have entertained at dinner the evil

things of life, and to have found pleasure in their company. But then,

from the point of view through which I, as an artist in life, approach

them they were delightfully suggestive and stimulating. The danger was

half the excitement.... My business as an artist was with Ariel. I set

myself to wrestle with Caliban....

A great friend of mine—a friend of ten years’ standing—came to see me

some time ago, and told me that he did not believe a single word of what

was said against me, and wished me to know that he considered me quite

innocent, and the victim of a hideous plot. I burst into tears at what

he said, and told him that while there was much amongst the definite

charges that was quite untrue and transferred to me by revolting malice,

still that my life had been full of perverse pleasures, and that unless

he accepted that as a fact about me and realised it to the full I could

not possibly be friends with him any more, or ever be in his company. It

was a terrible shock to him, but we are friends, and I have not got his

friendship on false pretences.

Emotional forces, as I say somewhere in Intentions, are as limited in

extent and duration as the forces of physical energy. The little cup

that is made to hold so much can hold so much and no more, though all

the purple vats of Burgundy be filled with wine to the brim, and the

treaders stand knee-deep in the gathered grapes of the stony vineyards

of Spain. There is no error more common than that of thinking that those

who are the causes or occasions of great tragedies share in the feelings

suitable to the tragic mood: no error more fatal than expecting it of

them. The martyr in his ‘shirt of flame’ may be looking on the face of

God, but to him who is piling the faggots or loosening the logs for the

blast the whole scene is no more than the slaying of an ox is to the

butcher, or the felling of a tree to the charcoal burner in the forest,

or the fall of a flower to one who is mowing down the grass with a

scythe. Great passions are for the great of soul, and great events can

be seen only by those who are on a level with them.

* * * *

I know of nothing in all drama more incomparable from the point of view

of art, nothing more suggestive in its subtlety of observation, than

Shakespeare’s drawing of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. They are Hamlet’s

college friends. They have been his companions. They bring with them

memories of pleasant days together. At the moment when they come across

him in the play he is staggering under the weight of a burden

intolerable to one of his temperament. The dead have come armed out of

the grave to impose on him a mission at once too great and too mean for

him. He is a dreamer, and he is called upon to act. He has the nature of

the poet, and he is asked to grapple with the common complexity of cause

and effect, with life in its practical realisation, of which he knows

nothing, not with life in its ideal essence, of which he knows so much.

He has no conception of what to do, and his folly is to feign folly.

Brutus used madness as a cloak to conceal the sword of his purpose, the

dagger of his will, but the Hamlet madness is a mere mask for the hiding

of weakness. In the making of fancies and jests he sees a chance of

delay. He keeps playing with action as an artist plays with a theory. He

makes himself the spy of his proper actions, and listening to his own

words knows them to be but ‘words, words, words.’ Instead of trying to

be the hero of his own history, he seeks to be the spectator of his own

tragedy. He disbelieves in everything, including himself, and yet his

doubt helps him not, as it comes not from scepticism but from a divided

will.

Of all this Guildenstern and Rosencrantz realise nothing. They bow and

smirk and smile, and what the one says the other echoes with sickliest

intonation. When, at last, by means of the play within the play, and the

puppets in their dalliance, Hamlet ‘catches the conscience’ of the King,

and drives the wretched man in terror from his throne, Guildenstern and

Rosencrantz see no more in his conduct than a rather painful breach of

Court etiquette. That is as far as they can attain to in ‘the

contemplation of the spectacle of life with appropriate emotions.’ They

are close to his very secret and know nothing of it. Nor would there be

any use in telling them. They are the little cups that can hold so much

and no more. Towards the close it is suggested that, caught in a cunning

spring set for another, they have met, or may meet, with a violent and

sudden death. But a tragic ending of this kind, though touched by

Hamlet’s humour with something of the surprise and justice of comedy, is

really not for such as they. They never die. Horatio, who in order to

‘report Hamlet and his cause aright to the unsatisfied,’

‘Absents him from felicity a while,

And in this harsh world draws his breath in pain,’

dies, but Guildenstern and Rosencrantz are as immortal as Angelo and

Tartuffe, and should rank with them. They are what modern life has

contributed to the antique ideal of friendship. He who writes a new De

Amicitia must find a niche for them, and praise them in Tusculan prose.

They are types fixed for all time. To censure them would show ‘a lack of

appreciation.’ They are merely out of their sphere: that is all. In

sublimity of soul there is no contagion. High thoughts and high emotions

are by their very existence isolated.

* * * *

I am to be released, if all goes well with me, towards the end of May,

and hope to go at once to some little sea-side village abroad with R---

and M---.

The sea, as Euripides says in one of his plays about Iphigeneia, washes

away the stains and wounds of the world.

I hope to be at least a month with my friends, and to gain peace and

balance, and a less troubled heart, and a sweeter mood. I have a strange

longing for the great simple primeval things, such as the sea, to me no

less of a mother than the Earth. It seems to me that we all look at

Nature too much, and live with her too little. I discern great sanity in

the Greek attitude. They never chattered about sunsets, or discussed

whether the shadows on the grass were really mauve or not. But they saw

that the sea was for the swimmer, and the sand for the feet of the

runner. They loved the trees for the shadow that they cast, and the

forest for its silence at noon. The vineyard-dresser wreathed his hair

with ivy that he might keep off the rays of the sun as he stooped over

the young shoots, and for the artist and the athlete, the two types that

Greece gave us, they plaited with garlands the leaves of the bitter

laurel and of the wild parsley, which else had been of no service to

men.

We call ours a utilitarian age, and we do not know the uses of any

single thing. We have forgotten that water can cleanse, and fire purify,

and that the Earth is mother to us all. As a consequence our art is of

the moon and plays with shadows, while Greek art is of the sun and deals

directly with things. I feel sure that in elemental forces there is

purification, and I want to go back to them and live in their presence.

Of course to one so modern as I am, ‘Enfant de mon siècle,’ merely to

look at the world will be always lovely. I tremble with pleasure when I

think that on the very day of my leaving prison both the laburnum and

the lilac will be blooming in the gardens, and that I shall see the wind

stir into restless beauty the swaying gold of the one, and make the

other toss the pale purple of its plumes, so that all the air shall be

Arabia for me. Linnaeus fell on his knees and wept for joy when he saw

for the first time the long heath of some English upland made yellow

with the tawny aromatic brooms of the common furze; and I know that for

me, to whom flowers are part of desire, there are tears waiting in the

petals of some rose. It has always been so with me from my boyhood.

There is not a single colour hidden away in the chalice of a flower, or

the curve of a shell, to which, by some subtle sympathy with the very

soul of things, my nature does not answer. Like Gautier, I have always

been one of those ‘pour qui le monde visible existe.’

Still, I am conscious now that behind all this beauty, satisfying though

it may be, there is some spirit hidden of which the painted forms and

shapes are but modes of manifestation, and it is with this spirit that I

desire to become in harmony. I have grown tired of the articulate

utterances of men and things. The Mystical in Art, the Mystical in Life,

the Mystical in Nature this is what I am looking for. It is absolutely

necessary for me to find it somewhere.

All trials are trials for one’s life, just as all sentences are

sentences of death; and three times have I been tried. The first time I

left the box to be arrested, the second time to be led back to the house

of detention, the third time to pass into a prison for two years.

Society, as we have constituted it, will have no place for me, has none

to offer; but Nature, whose sweet rains fall on unjust and just alike,

will have clefts in the rocks where I may hide, and secret valleys in

whose silence I may weep undisturbed. She will hang the night with stars

so that I may walk abroad in the darkness without stumbling, and send

the wind over my footprints so that none may track me to my hurt: she

will cleanse me in great waters, and with bitter herbs make me whole.