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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
13th； 1895； I was brought down here from