No More Learning

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 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.