Theodore Watts-Dunton: Poet, Novelist, Critic

“It was not merely upon Romany subjects that Groome found points of sympathy at ‘The Pines’ during that first luncheon; there was that other subject before mentioned, Edward FitzGerald and Omar Khayyàm. We, a handful of Omarians of those antediluvian days, were perhaps all the more intense in our cult because we believed it to be esoteric. And here was a guest who had been brought into actual personal contact with the wonderful old ‘Fitz.’ As a child of eight he had seen him, talked with him, been patted on the head by him. Groome’s father, the Archdeacon of Suffolk, was one of FitzGerald’s most intimate friends. This was at once a delightful and a powerful link between Frank Groome and those at the luncheon table; and when he heard, as he soon did, the toast to ‘Omar Khayyàm,’ none drank that toast with more gusto than he. The fact is, as the Romanies say, true friendship, like true love, is apt to begin at first sight.”

This is the poem alluded to: it is entitled, ‘Toast to Omar Khayyàm: An East Anglian echo-chorus inscribed to old Omarian Friends in memory of happy days by Ouse and Cam’: —

ChorusIn this red wine, where memory’s eyes seem glowing,And days when wines were bright by Ouse and Cam,And Norfolk’s foaming nectar glittered, showingWhat beard of gold John Barleycorn was growing,We drink to thee, right heir of Nature’s knowing,Omar Khayyàm!IStar-gazer, who canst read, when Night is strowingHer scriptured orbs on Time’s wide oriflamme,Nature’s proud blazon: ‘Who shall bless or damn?Life, Death, and Doom are all of my bestowing!’Chorus: Omar Khayyàm!IIPoet, whose stream of balm and music, flowingThrough Persian gardens, widened till it swam —A fragrant tide no bank of Time shall dam —Through Suffolk meads, where gorse and may were blowing, —Chorus: Omar Khayyàm!IIIWho blent thy song with sound of cattle lowing,And caw of rooks that perch on ewe and ram,And hymn of lark, and bleat of orphan lamb,And swish of scythe in Bredfield’s dewy mowing?Chorus: Omar Khayyàm!IV’Twas Fitz, ‘Old Fitz,’ whose knowledge, farther goingThan lore of Omar, ‘Wisdom’s starry Cham,’Made richer still thine opulent epigram:Sowed seed from seed of thine immortal sowing. —Chorus: Omar Khayyàm!VIn this red wine, where Memory’s eyes seem glowing,And days when wines were bright by Ouse and Cam,And Norfolk’s foaming nectar glittered, showingWhat beard of gold John Barleycorn was growing,We drink to thee till, hark! the cock is crowing!Omar Khayyàm!

It was many years after this – it was as a member of another Omar Khayyàm Club of much greater celebrity than the little brotherhood of Ouse and Cam – not large enough to be called a club – that Mr. Watts-Dunton wrote the following well-known sonnet: —

PRAYER TO THE WINDS

On planting at the head of FitzGerald’s grave two rose-trees whose ancestors had scattered their petals over the tomb of Omar Khayyàm.

“My tomb shall be on a spot where the north wind may strow roses upon it.”

Omar Khayyàm to Kwájah Nizami.Hear us, ye winds! From where the north-wind strowsBlossoms that crown ‘the King of Wisdom’s’ tomb,The trees here planted bring remembered bloom,Dreaming in seed of Love’s ancestral rose,To meadows where a braver north-wind blowsO’er greener grass, o’er hedge-rose, may, and broom,And all that make East England’s field-perfumeDearer than any fragrance Persia knows.Hear us, ye winds, North, East, and West, and South!This granite covers him whose golden mouthMade wiser ev’n the Word of Wisdom’s King:Blow softly over Omar’s Western heraldTill roses rich of Omar’s dust shall springFrom richer dust of Suffolk’s rare FitzGerald.

I must now quote another of Mr. Watts-Dunton’s East Anglian poems, partly because it depicts the weird charm of the Norfolk coast, and partly because it illustrates that sympathy between the poet and the lower animals which I have already noted. I have another reason: not long ago, that good East Anglian, Mr. Rider Haggard interested us all by telling how telepathy seemed to have the power of operating between a dog and its beloved master in certain rare and extraordinary cases. When the poem appeared in the ‘Saturday Review’ (December 20, 1902), it was described as ‘part of a forthcoming romance.’ It records a case of telepathy between man and dog quite as wonderful as that narrated by Mr. Rider Haggard: —

CAUGHT IN THE EBBING TIDEThe mightiest Titan’s stroke could not withstandAn ebbing tide like this. These swirls denoteHow wind and tide conspire. I can but floatTo the open sea and strike no more for land.Farewell, brown cliffs, farewell, beloved sandHer feet have pressed – farewell, dear little boatWhere Gelert, 9 calmly sitting on my coat,Unconscious of my peril, gazes bland!All dangers grip me save the deadliest, fear:Yet these air-pictures of the past that glide —These death-mirages o’er the heaving tide —Showing two lovers in an alcove clear,Will break my heart. I see them and I hearAs there they sit at morning, side by side.The First VisionWith Raxton elms behind – in front the sea,   Sitting in rosy light in that alcove,   They hear the first lark rise o’er Raxton Grove;‘What should I do with fame, dear heart?’ says he.‘You talk of fame, poetic fame, to me   Whose crown is not of laurel but of love—   To me who would not give this little gloveOn this dear hand for Shakspeare’s dower in fee.While, rising red and kindling every billow,   The sun’s shield shines ’neath many a golden spear,To lean with you against this leafy pillow,   To murmur words of love in this loved ear—To feel you bending like a bending willow,   This is to be a poet—this, my dear!’O God, to die and leave her – die and leaveThe heaven so lately won! – And then, to knowWhat misery will be hers – what lonely woe! —To see the bright eyes weep, to see her grieveWill make me a coward as I sink, and cleaveTo life though Destiny has bid me go.How shall I bear the pictures that will glowAbove the glowing billows as they heave?One picture fades, and now above the sprayAnother shines: ah, do I know the bowersWhere that sweet woman stands – the woodland flowers,In that bright wreath of grass and new-mown hay —That birthday wreath I wove when earthly hoursWore angel-wings, – till portents brought dismay?The Second VisionProud of her wreath as laureate of his laurel,   She smiles on him—on him, the prouder giver,   As there they stand beside the sunlit riverWhere petals flush with rose the grass and sorrel:The chirping reed-birds, in their play or quarrel,   Make musical the stream where lilies quiver—   Ah! suddenly he feels her slim waist shiver:She speaks: her lips grow grey—her lips of coral!‘From out my wreath two heart-shaped seeds are swaying,   The seeds of which that gypsy girl has spoken—   ’Tis fairy grass, alas! the lover’s token.’She lifts her fingers to her forehead, saying,   ‘Touch the twin hearts.’  Says he, ‘’Tis idle playing’:   He touches them; they fall—fall bruised and broken.* * * * *Shall I turn coward here who sailed with DeathThrough many a tempest on mine own North Sea,And quail like him of old who bowed the knee —Faithless – to billows of Genesereth?Did I turn coward when my very breathFroze on my lips that Alpine night when heStood glimmering there, the Skeleton, with me,While avalanches rolled from peaks beneath?Each billow bears me nearer to the vergeOf realms where she is not – where love must wait. —If Gelert, there, could hear, no need to urgeThat friend, so faithful, true, affectionate,To come and help me, or to share my fate.Ah! surely I see him springing through the surge.[The dog, plunging into the tide and strikingtowards him with immense strength, reacheshim and swims round him.]Oh, Gelert, strong of wind and strong of pawHere gazing like your namesake, ‘Snowdon’s Hound,’When great Llewelyn’s child could not be found,And all the warriors stood in speechless awe —Mute as your namesake when his master sawThe cradle tossed – the rushes red around —With never a word, but only a whimpering soundTo tell what meant the blood on lip and jaw.In such a strait, to aid this gaze so fond,Should I, brave friend, have needed other speechThan this dear whimper? Is there not a bondStronger than words that binds us each to each? —But Death has caught us both. ’Tis far beyondThe strength of man or dog to win the beach.Through tangle-weed – through coils of slippery kelpDecking your shaggy forehead, those brave eyesShine true – shine deep of love’s divine surmiseAs hers who gave you – then a Titan whelp!I think you know my danger and would help!See how I point to yonder smack that liesAt anchor – Go! His countenance replies.Hope’s music rings in Gelert’s eager yelp![The dog swims swiftly away down the tide.Now, life and love and death swim out with him!If he should reach the smack, the men will guessThe dog has left his master in distress.You taught him in these very waves to swim —‘The prince of pups,’ you said, ‘for wind and limb’ —And now those lessons, darling, come to bless.Envoy(The day after the rescue: Gelert and I walking along the sand.)’Twas in no glittering tourney’s mimic strife, —’Twas in that bloody fight in Raxton Grove,While hungry ravens croaked from boughs above,And frightened blackbirds shrilled the warning fife —’Twas there, in days when Friendship still was rife,Mine ancestor who threw the challenge-gloveConquered and found his foe a soul to love,Found friendship – Life’s great second crown of life.So I this morning love our North Sea moreBecause he fought me well, because these wavesNow weaving sunbows for us by the shoreStrove with me, tossed me in those emerald cavesThat yawned above my head like conscious graves —I love him as I never loved before.

In these days when so much is written about the intelligence of the lower animals, when ‘Hans,’ the ‘thinking horse,’ is ‘interviewed’ by eminent scientists, the exploit of the Second Gelert is not without interest. I may, perhaps, mention a strange experience of my own. The late Betts Bey, a well-known figure in St. Peter’s Port, Guernsey, had a fine black retriever, named Caro. During a long summer holiday which we spent in Guernsey, Caro became greatly attached to a friend, and Betts Bey presented him to her. He was a magnificent fellow, valiant as a lion, and a splendid diver and swimmer. He often plunged off the parapet of the bridge which spans the Serpentine. Indeed, he would have dived from any height. His intelligence was surprising. If we wished to make him understand that he was not to accompany us, we had only to say, ‘Caro, we are going to church!’ As soon as he heard the word ‘church’ his barks would cease, his tail would drop, and he would look mournfully resigned. One evening, as I was writing in my room, Caro began to scratch outside the door, uttering those strange ‘woof-woofs’ which were his canine language. I let him in, but he would not rest. He stood gazing at me with an intense expression, and, turning towards the door, waited impatiently. For some time I took no notice of his dumb appeal, but his excitement increased, and suddenly a vague sense of ill seemed to pass from him into my mind. Drawn half-consciously I rose, and at once with a strange half-human whine Caro dashed upstairs. I followed him. He ran into a bedroom, and there in the dark I found my friend lying unconscious. It is well-nigh certain that Caro thus saved my friend’s life.

Chapter VIII

LONDON

Between Mr. Watts-Dunton and the brother who came next to him, before mentioned, there was a very great affection, although the difference between them, mentally and physically, was quite noticeable. They were articled to their father on the same day and admitted solicitors on the same day, a very unusual thing with solicitors and their sons. Mr. Watts-Dunton afterwards passed a short term in one of the great conveyancing offices in London in order to become proficient in conveyancing. His brother did the same in another office in Bedford Row; but he afterwards practised for himself. Mr. A. E. Watts soon had a considerable practice as family solicitor and conveyancer. Mr. Hake identifies him with Cyril Aylwin, but before I quote Mr. Hake’s interesting account of him, I will give the vivid description of Cyril in ‘Aylwin’: —

“Juvenile curls clustered thick and short beneath his wideawake. He had at first struck me as being not much more than a lad, till, as he gave me that rapid, searching glance in passing, I perceived the little crow’s feet round his eyes, and he then struck me immediately as being probably on the verge of thirty-five. His figure was slim and thin, his waist almost girlish in its fall. I should have considered him small, had not the unusually deep, loud, manly, and sonorous voice with which he had accosted Sinfi conveyed an impression of size and weight such as even big men do not often produce. This deep voice, coupled with that gaunt kind of cheek which we associate with the most demure people, produced an effect of sedateness.. but in the one glance I had got from those watchful, sagacious, twinkling eyes, there was an expression quite peculiar to them, quite inscrutable, quite indescribable.”

Cyril Aylwin was at first thought to be a portrait of Whistler, which is not quite so outrageously absurd as the wild conjecture that William Morris was the original of Wilderspin. Mr. Hake says: —

“I am especially able to speak of this character, who has been inquired about more than any other in the book. I knew him, I think, even before I knew Rossetti and Morris, or any of that group. He was a brother of Mr. Watts-Dunton’s – Mr. Alfred Eugene Watts. He lived at Sydenham, and died suddenly, either in 1870 or 1871, very shortly after I had met him at a wedding party. Among the set in which I moved at that time he had a great reputation as a wit and humorist. His style of humour always struck me as being more American than English. While bringing out humorous things that would set a dinner table in a roar, he would himself maintain a perfectly unmoved countenance. And it was said of him, as ‘Wilderspin’ says of ‘Cyril Aylwin,’ that he was never known to laugh.” 10

After a time Mr. Watts-Dunton joined his brother, and the two practised together in London. They also lived together at Sydenham. Some time after this, however, Mr. Watts-Dunton determined to abandon the law for literature. The brothers migrated to Sydenham, because at that time Mr. Watts-Dunton pursued music with an avidity and interest which threatened for a time to interfere with those literary energies which it was now his intention to exercise. At that time the orchestral concerts at the Crystal Palace under Manns, given every morning and every afternoon, were a great attraction to music lovers, and Mr. Watts-Dunton, who lived close by, rarely missed either the morning or the afternoon concert. It was in this way that he became steeped in German music; and afterwards, when he became intimate with Dr. F. Hueffer, the musical critic of the ‘Times,’ and the exponent of Wagner in Great Britain, he became a thorough Wagnerian.

It was during this time, and through the extraordinary social attractions of his brother, that Mr. Watts-Dunton began to move very much in London life, and saw a great deal of what is called London society. After his brother’s death he took chambers in Great James Street, close to Mr. Swinburne, with whom he had already become intimate. And according to Mr. Hake, in his paper in ‘T. P.’s Weekly’ above quoted from, it was here that he wrote ‘Aylwin.’ I have already alluded to his record of this most interesting event: —

“I have just read,” he says, “with the greatest interest the article in your number of Sept. 18, 1903, called ‘How Authors Work Best.’ But the following sentence in it set me reflecting: ‘Flaubert took ten years to write and repolish “Madame Bovary,” Watts-Dunton twenty years to write, recast, and conclude “Aylwin.”’ The statement about ‘Aylwin’ has often been made, and in these days of hasty production it may well be taken by the author as a compliment; but it is as entirely apocryphal as that about Scott’s brother having written the Waverley Novels, and as that about Bramwell Brontë having written ‘Wuthering Heights.’ As to ‘Aylwin,’ I happen to be in a peculiarly authoritative position to speak upon the genesis of this very popular book. If any one were to peruse the original manuscript of the story he would find it in four different handwritings – my late father’s, and two of my brothers’, but principally in mine.

Yet I can aver that it was not written by us, and also that its composition did not take twenty years to achieve. It was dictated to us.”

Dr. Gordon Hake is mainly known as the ‘parable poet,’ but as a fact he was a physician of extraordinary talent, who had practised first at Bury St. Edmunds and afterwards at Spring Gardens, until he partly retired to be private physician to the late Lady Ripon. After her death he left practice altogether in order to devote himself to literature, for which he had very great equipments. As ‘Aylwin’ touched upon certain subtle nervous phases it must have been a great advantage to the author to dictate these portions of the story to so skilled and experienced a friend. The rare kind of cerebral exaltation into which Henry Aylwin passed after his appalling experience in the Cove, in which the entire nervous system was disturbed, was not what is known as brain fever. The record of it in ‘Aylwin’ is, I understand, a literal account of a rare and wonderful case brought under the professional notice of Dr. Hake.

As physician to Rossetti, a few years after the death of his beloved wife, Dr. Hake’s services must have been priceless to the poet-painter; for, as is only too well known, Rossetti’s grief for the death of his wife had for some time a devastating effect upon his mind. It was one of the causes of that terrible insomnia to relieve himself from which he resorted to chloral, though later on the attacks upon him by certain foes intensified the distressing ailment. The insomnia produced fits of melancholia, an ailment, according to the skilled opinion of Dr. Hake, more difficult than all others to deal with; for when the nervous system has sunk to a certain state of depression, the mind roams over the universe, as it were, in quest of imaginary causes for the depression. This accounts for the ‘cock and bull’ stories that were somewhat rife immediately after Rossetti’s death about his having expressed remorse on account of his ill-treatment of his wife. No one of his intimates took the least notice of these wild and whirling words. For he would express remorse on account of the most fantastic things when the fits of melancholia were upon him; and when these fits were past he would smile at the foolish things he had said. I get this knowledge from a very high authority, Dr. Hake’s son – Mr. Thomas St. E. Hake, before mentioned – who knew Rossetti intimately from 1871 until his death, having lived under the same roof with him at Cheyne Walk, Bognor and Kelmscott. After Rossetti’s most serious attack of melancholia, his relations and friends persuaded him to stay with Dr. Hake at Roehampton, and it was there that the terrible crisis of his illness was passed.

It is interesting to know that in the original form of ‘Aylwin’ the important part taken in the development of the story by D’Arcy was taken by Dr. Hake, under the name of Gordon, and that afterwards, when all sorts of ungenerous things were written about Rossetti, D’Arcy was substituted for Gordon in order to give the author an opportunity of bringing out and showing the world the absolute nobility and charm of Rossetti’s character.

Among the many varieties of life which Mr. Watts-Dunton saw at this time was life in the slums; and this was long before the once fashionable pastime of ‘slumming’ was invented. The following lines in Dr. Hake’s ‘New Day’ allude to the deep interest that Mr. Watts-Dunton has always shown in the poor – shown years before the writers who now deal with the slums had written a line. Artistically, they are not fair specimens of Dr. Gordon Hake’s verses, but nevertheless it is interesting to quote them here: —

Know you a widow’s home? an orphanage?A place of shelter for the crippled poor?Did ever limbless men your care engageWhom you assisted of your larger store?Know you the young who are to early die —At their frail form sinks not your heart within?Know you the old who paralytic lieWhile you the freshness of your life begin?Know you the great pain-bearers who long carryThe bullet in the breast that does not kill?And those who in the house of madness tarry,Beyond the blest relief of human skill?These have you visited, all these assisted,In the high ranks of charity enlisted.

That Mr. Watts-Dunton has retained his interest in the poor is shown by the sonnet, ‘Father Christmas in Famine Street,’ which was originally printed as ‘an appeal’ on Christmas Eve in the ‘Athenæum’: —

When Father Christmas went down Famine StreetHe saw two little sisters: one was tryingTo lift the other, pallid, wasted, dying,Within an arch, beyond the slush and sleet.From out the glazing eyes a glimmer sweetLeapt, as in answer to the other’s sighing,While came a murmur, ‘Don’t ’ee keep on crying —I wants to die: you’ll get my share to eat.’Her knell was tolled by joy-bells of the cityHymning the birth of Jesus, Lord of Pity,Lover of children, Shepherd of Compassion.Said Father Christmas, while his eyes grew dim,‘They do His bidding – if in thrifty fashion:They let the little children go to Him.’

With this sonnet should be placed that entitled, ‘Dickens Returns on Christmas Day’: —

A ragged girl in Drury Lane was heard to exclaim: ‘Dickens dead? Then will Father Christmas die too?’ – June 9, 1870.

‘Dickens is dead!’ Beneath that grievous cryLondon seemed shivering in the summer heat;Strangers took up the tale like friends that meet:‘Dickens is dead!’ said they, and hurried by;Street children stopped their games – they knew not why,But some new night seemed darkening down the street.A girl in rags, staying her wayworn feet,Cried, ‘Dickens dead? Will Father Christmas die?’City he loved, take courage on thy way!He loves thee still, in all thy joys and fears.Though he whose smile made bright thine eyes of grey —Though he whose voice, uttering thy burthened years,Made laughters bubble through thy sea of tears —Is gone, Dickens returns on Christmas Day!

Let me say here, parenthetically, that ‘The Pines’ is so far out of date that for twenty-five years it has been famous for its sympathy with the Christmas sentiment which now seems to be fading, as this sonnet shows: —

THE CHRISTMAS TREE AT ‘THE PINES.’Life still hath one romance that naught can bury —Not Time himself, who coffins Life’s romances —For still will Christmas gild the year’s mischances,If Childhood comes, as here, to make him merry —To kiss with lips more ruddy than the cherry —To smile with eyes outshining by their glancesThe Christmas tree – to dance with fairy dancesAnd crown his hoary brow with leaf and berry.And as to us, dear friend, the carols sungAre fresh as ever. Bright is yonder boughOf mistletoe as that which shone and swungWhen you and I and Friendship made a vowThat Childhood’s Christmas still should seal each brow —Friendship’s, and yours, and mine – and keep us young.

I may also quote from ‘Prophetic Pictures at Venice’ this romantic description of the Rosicrucian Christmas: —

(The morning light falls on the Rosicrucian panel-picture called ‘The Rosy Scar,’ depicting Christian galley-slaves on board an Algerine galley, watching, on Christmas Eve, for the promised appearance of Rosenkreutz, as a ‘rosy phantom.’ The Lover reads aloud the descriptive verses on the frame.)

While Night’s dark horses waited for the wind,He stood – he shone – where Sunset’s fiery glaivesFlickered behind the clouds; then, o’er the waves,He came to them, Faith’s remnant sorrow-thinned.The Paynim sailors clustering, tawny-skinned,Cried, ‘Who is he that comes to Christian slaves?Nor water-sprite nor jinni of sunset caves,The rosy phantom stands nor winged nor finned.’All night he stood till shone the Christmas star;Slowly the Rosy Cross, streak after streak,Flushed the grey sky – flushed sea and sail and spar,Flushed, blessing every slave’s woe-wasted cheek.Then did great Rosenkreutz, the Dew-King speak:‘Sufferers, take heart! Christ lends the Rosy Scar.’

Chapter IX

GEORGE BORROW

It was not until 1872 that Mr. Watts-Dunton was introduced to Borrow by Dr. Gordon Hake, Borrow’s most intimate friend.