Chapter VI (2)

Thus the atheistic youth was met at every turn by a scepticism more complete than his own, so that the very weapons of the fight were changed in his grasp to swords of paper. Certainly the church is not right, he would argue, but certainly not the anti-church either. Men are not such fools as to be wholly in the wrong, nor yet are they so placed as to be ever wholly in the right. Somewhere, in mid air between the disputants, like hovering Victory in some design of a Greek battle, the truth hangs undiscerned. And in the meanwhile what matter these uncertainties? Right is very obvious; a great consent of the best of mankind, a loud voice within us (whether of God, or whether by inheritance, and in that case still from God), guide and command us in the path of duty. He saw life very simple; he did not love refinements; he was a friend to much conformity in unessentials. For (he would argue) it is in this life, as it stands about us, that we are given our problem; the manners of the day are the colours of our palette; they condition, they constrain us; and a man must be very sure he is in the right, must (in a favourite phrase of his) be "either very wise or very vain," to break with any general consent in ethics. I remember taking his advice upon some point of conduct. "Now," he said, "how do you suppose Christ would have advised you?" and when I had answered that He would not have counselled me anything unkind or cowardly, "No," he said, with one of his shrewd strokes at the weakness of his hearer, "nor anything amusing." Later in life, he made less certain in the field of ethics. "The old story of the knowledge of good and evil is a very true one," I find him writing; only (he goes on) "the effect of the original dose is much worn out, leaving Adam's descendants with the knowledge that there is such a thing--but uncertain where." His growing sense of this ambiguity made him less swift to condemn, but no less stimulating in counsel. "You grant yourself certain freedoms. Very well," he would say, "I want to see you pay for them some other way. You positively cannot do this: then there positively must be something else that you can do, and I want to see you find that out and do it." Fleeming would never suffer you to think that you were living, if there were not, somewhere in your life, some touch of heroism, to do or to endure.

This was his rarest quality. Far on in middle age, when men begin to lie down with the bestial goddesses, Comfort and Respectability, the strings of his nature still sounded as high a note as a young man's. He loved the harsh voice of duty like a call to battle. He loved courage, enterprise, brave natures, a brave word, an ugly virtue; everything that lifts us above the table where we eat or the bed we sleep upon. This with no touch of the motive-monger or the ascetic. He loved his virtues to be practical, his heroes to be great eaters of beef; he loved the jovial Heracles, loved the astute Odysseus; not the Robespierres and Wesleys. A fine buoyant sense of life and of man's unequal character ran through all his thoughts. He could not tolerate the spirit of the pickthank; being what we are, he wished us to see others with a generous eye of admiration, not with the smallness of the seeker after faults. If there shone anywhere a virtue, no matter how incongruously set, it was upon the virtue we must fix our eyes. I remember having found much entertainment in Voltaire's "Sauel," and telling him what seemed to me the drollest touches. He heard me out, as usual when displeased, and then opened fire on me with red-hot shot. To belittle a noble story was easy; it was not literature, it was not art, it was not morality; there was no sustenance in such a form of jesting, there was (in his favourite phrase) "no nitrogenous food" in such literature. And then he proceeded to show what a fine fellow David was; and what a hard knot he was in about Bathsheba, so that (the initial wrong committed) honour might well hesitate in the choice of conduct; and what owls those people were who marvelled because an Eastern tyrant had killed Uriah, instead of marvelling that he had not killed the prophet also. "Now if Voltaire had helped me to feel that," said he, "I could have seen some fun in it." He loved the comedy which shows a hero human, and yet leaves him a hero; and the laughter which does not lessen love.

It was this taste for what is fine in humankind that ruled his choice in books. These should all strike a high note, whether brave or tender, and smack of the open air. The noble and simple presentation of things noble and simple, that was the "nitrogenous food" of which he spoke so much, which he sought so eagerly, enjoyed so royally. He wrote to an author, the first part of whose story he had seen with sympathy, hoping that it might continue in the same vein. "That this may be so," he wrote, "I long with the longing of David for the water of Bethlehem. But no man need die for the water a poet can give, and all can drink it to the end of time, and their thirst be quenched and the pool never dry--and the thirst and the water are both blessed." It was in the Greeks particularly that he found this blessed water; he loved "a fresh air" which he found "about the Greek things even in translations"; he loved their freedom from the mawkish and the rancid. The tale of David in the Bible, the "Odyssey," Sophocles, AEschylus, Shakespeare, Scott; old Dumas in his chivalrous note; Dickens rather than Thackeray, and the "Tale of Two Cities" out of Dickens: such were some of his preferences. To Ariosto and Boccaccio he was always faithful; "Burnt Njal" was a late favourite; and he found at least a passing entertainment in the "Arcadia" and the "Grand Cyrus." George Eliot he outgrew, finding her latterly only sawdust in the mouth; but her influence, while it lasted, was great, and must have gone some way to form his mind. He was easily set on edge, however, by didactic writing; and held that books should teach no other lesson but what "real life would teach, were it as vividly presented." Again, it was the thing made that took him, the drama in the book; to the book itself, to any merit of the making, he was long strangely blind. He would prefer the "Agamemnon" in the prose of Mr. Buckley, ay, to Keats. But he was his mother's son, learning to the last. He told me one day that literature was not a trade; that it was no craft; that the professed author was merely an amateur with a door-plate. "Very well," said I, "the first time you get a proof, I will demonstrate that it is as much a trade as bricklaying, and that you do not know it." By the very next post a proof came. I opened it with fear; for he was, indeed, a formidable amateur; always wrote brightly, because he always thought trenchantly; and sometimes wrote brilliantly, as the worst of whistlers may sometimes stumble on a perfect intonation. But it was all for the best in the interests of his education; and I was able, over that proof, to give him a quarter of an hour such as Fleeming loved both to give and to receive. His subsequent training passed out of my hands into those of our common friend, W. E. Henley. "Henley and I," he wrote, "have fairly good times wigging one another for not doing better. I wig him because he won't try to write a real play, and he wigs me because I can't try to write English." When I next saw him he was full of his new acquisitions. "And yet I have lost something too," he said regretfully. "Up to now Scott seemed to me quite perfect, he was all I wanted. Since I have been learning this confounded thing, I took up one of the novels, and a great deal of it is both careless and clumsy."

V

He spoke four languages with freedom, not even English with any marked propriety. What he uttered was not so much well said, as excellently acted: so we may hear every day the inexpressive language of a poorly written drama assume character and colour in the hands of a good player. No man had more of the _vis comica_ in private life; he played no character on the stage as he could play himself among his friends. It was one of his special charms; now when the voice is silent and the face still, it makes it impossible to do justice to his power in conversation. He was a delightful companion to such as can bear bracing weather; not to the very vain; not to the owlishly wise, who cannot have their dogmas canvassed; not to the painfully refined, whose sentiments become articles of faith. The spirit in which he could write that he was "much revived by having an opportunity of abusing Whistler to a knot of his special admirers" is a spirit apt to be misconstrued. He was not a dogmatist, even about Whistler. "The house is full of pretty things," he wrote, when on a visit; "but Mrs. ----'s taste in pretty things has one very bad fault: it is not my taste." And that was the true attitude of his mind; but these eternal differences it was his joy to thresh out and wrangle over by the hour. It was no wonder if he loved the Greeks; he was in many ways a Greek himself; he should have been a sophist and met Socrates; he would have loved Socrates, and done battle with him staunchly and manfully owned his defeat; and the dialogue, arranged by Plato, would have shone even in Plato's gallery. He seemed in talk aggressive, petulant, full of a singular energy; as vain, you would have said, as a peacock, until you trod on his toes, and then you saw that he was at least clear of all the sicklier elements of vanity. Soundly rang his laugh at any jest against himself. He wished to be taken, as he took others, for what was good in him without dissimulation of the evil, for what was wise in him without concealment of the childish. He hated a draped virtue, and despised a wit on its own defence. And he drew (if I may so express myself) a human and humorous portrait of himself with all his defects and qualities, as he thus enjoyed in talk the robust sports of the intelligence; giving and taking manfully, always without pretence, always without paradox, always with exuberant pleasure; speaking wisely of what he knew, foolishly of what he knew not; a teacher, a learner, but still combative; picking holes in what was said even to the length of captiousness, yet aware of all that was said rightly; jubilant in victory, delighted by defeat: a Greek sophist, a British schoolboy.

Among the legends of what was once a very pleasant spot, the old Savile Club, not then divorced from Savile Row, there are many memories of Fleeming. He was not popular at first, being known simply as "the man who dines here and goes up to Scotland"; but he grew at last, I think, the most generally liked of all the members. To those who truly knew and loved him, who had tasted the real sweetness of his nature, Fleeming's porcupine ways had always been a matter of keen regret. They introduced him to their own friends with fear; sometimes recalled the step with mortification. It was not possible to look on with patience while a man so lovable thwarted love at every step. But the course of time and the ripening of his nature brought a cure. It was at the Savile that he first remarked a change; it soon spread beyond the walls of the club. Presently I find him writing: "Will you kindly explain what has happened to me? All my life I have talked a good deal, with the almost unfailing result of making people sick of the sound of my tongue. It appeared to me that I had various things to say, and I had no malevolent feelings, but nevertheless the result was that expressed above. Well, lately some change has happened. If I talk to a person one day, they must have me the next. Faces light up when they see me. 'Ah, I say, come here'--'come and dine with me.' It's the most preposterous thing I ever experienced. It is curiously pleasant. You have enjoyed it all your life, and therefore cannot conceive how bewildering a burst of it is for the first time at forty-nine." And this late sunshine of popularity still further softened him. He was a bit of a porcupine to the last, still shedding darts; or rather he was to the end a bit of a schoolboy, and must still throw stones; but the essential toleration that underlay his disputatiousness, and the kindness that made of him a tender sick-nurse and a generous helper, shone more conspicuously through. A new pleasure had come to him; and as with all sound natures, he was bettered by the pleasure.

I can best show Fleeming in this later stage by quoting from a vivid and interesting letter of M. Emile Trelat's. Here, admirably expressed, is how he appeared to a friend of another nation, whom he encountered only late in life. M. Trelat will pardon me if I correct, even before I quote him; but what the Frenchman supposed to flow from some particular bitterness against France, was only Fleeming's usual address. Had M. Trelat been Italian, Italy would have fared as ill; and yet Italy was Fleeming's favourite country.

Vous savez comment j'ai connu Fleeming Jenkin! C'etait en Mai 1878.
Nous etions tous deux membres du jury de l'Exposition Universelle. On
n'avait rien fait qui vaille a la premiere seance de notre classe, qui
avait eu lieu le matin. Tout le monde avait parle et reparle pour ne
rien dire. Cela durait depuis huit heures; il etait midi. Je demandai
la parole pour une motion d'ordre, et je proposal que la seance fut
levee a la condition que chaque membre francais _emportat_ a dejeuner
un jure etranger. Jenkin applaudit. "Je vous emmene dejeuner," lui
criai-je. "Je veux bien." ... Nous partimes; en chemin nous vous
rencontrions; il vous presente, et nous allons dejeuner tous trois
aupres du Trocadero.

Et, depuis ce temps, nous avons ete de vieux amis. Non seulement nous
passions nos journees au jury, ou nous etions toujours ensemble,
cote-a-cote. Mais nos habitudes s'etaient faites telles que, non
contents de dejeuner en face l'un de l'autre, je le ramenais diner
presque tous les jours chez moi. Cela dura une quinzaine: puis il fut
rappele en Angleterre. Mais il revint, et nous fimes encore une bonne
etape de vie intellectuelle, morale et philosophique. Je crois qu'il
me rendait deja tout ce que j'eprouvais de sympathie et d'estime, et
que je ne fus pas pour rien dans son retour a Paris.

Chose singuliere! nous nous etions attaches l'un a l'autre par les
sous-entendus bien plus que par la matiere de nos conversations. A
vrai dire, nous etions presque toujours en discussion; et il nous
arrivait de nous rire au nez l'un et l'autre pendant des heures, tant
nous nous etonnions reciproquement de la diversite de nos points de
vue. Je le trouvais si anglais, et il me trouvait si francais! Il
etait si franchement revolte de certaines choses qu'il voyait chez
nous, et je comprenais si mal certaines choses qui se passaient chez
vous! Rien de plus interessant que ces contacts qui etaient des
contrastes, et que ces rencontres d'idees qui etaient des choses; rien
de si attachant que les echappees de coeur ou d'esprit auxquelles ces
petits conflits donnaient a tout moment cours. C'est dans ces
conditions que, pendant son sejour a Paris en 1878, je conduisis un
peu partout mon nouvel ami. Nous allames chez Madame Edmond Adam, ou
il vit passer beaucoup d'hommes politiques avec lesquels il causa.
Mais c'est chez les ministres qu'il fut interesse. Le moment etait,
d'ailleurs, curieux en France. Je me rappelle que, lorsque je le
presentai au Ministre du Commerce, il fit cette spirituelle repartie:
"C'est la seconde fois que je viens en France sous la Republique. La
premiere fois, c'etait en 1848, elle s'etait coiffee de travers: je
suis bien heureux de saluer aujourd'hui Votre Excellence, quand elle a
mis son chapeau droit." Une fois je le menai voir couronner la Rosiere
de Nanterre. Il y suivit les ceremonies civiles et religieuses; il y
assista au banquet donne par le maire; il y vit notre de Lesseps, au
quel il porta un toast. Le soir, nous revinmes tard a Paris; il
faisait chaud; nous etions un peu fatigues; nous entrames dans un des
rares cafes encore ouverts. Il devint silencieux.--"N'etes-vous pas
content de votre journee?" lui dis-je.--"O, si! mais je reflechis, et
je me dis que vous etes un peuple gai--tous ces braves gens etaient
gais aujourd'hui. C'est une vertu, la gaiete, et vous l'avez en
France, cette vertu!" Il me disait cela melancoliquement; et c'etait
la premiere fois que je lui entendais faire une louange adressee a la
France.... Mais il ne faut pas que vous voyiez la une plainte de ma
part. Je serais un ingrat si je me plaignais; car il me disait
souvent: "Quel bon Francais vous faites!" Et il m'aimait a cause de
cela, quoi qu'il semblat n'aimer pas la France. C'etait la un trait de
son originalite. Il est vrai qu'il s'en tirait en disant que je ne
ressemblai pas a mes compatriotes, ce a quoi il ne connaissait
rien!--Tout cela etait fort curieux; car moi-meme, je l'aimais
quoiqu'il en eut a mon pays!

En 1879 il amena son fils Austin a Paris. J'attirai celui-ci. Il
dejeunait avec moi deux fois par semaine. Je lui montrai ce qu'etait
l'intimite francaise en le tutoyant paternellement. Cela resserra
beaucoup nos liens d'intimite avec Jenkin.... Je fis inviter mon ami
au congres de l'_Association francaise pour l'avancement des
sciences_, qui se tenait a Rheims en 1880. Il y vint. J'eus le
plaisir de lui donner la parole dans la section du genie civil et
militaire, que je presidais. Il y fit une tres interessante
communication, qui me montrait une fois de plus l'originalite de ses
vues et la surete de sa science. C'est a l'issue de ce congres que je
passai lui faire visite a Rochefort, ou je le trouvai installe en
famille et ou je presentai pour la premiere fois mes hommages a son
eminente compagne. Je le vis la sous un jour nouveau et touchant pour
moi Madame Jenkin, qu'il entourait si galamment, et ses deux jeunes
fils donnaient plus de relief a sa personne. J'emportai des quelques
heures que je passai a cote de lui dans ce charmant paysage un
souvenir emu.

J'etais alle en Angleterre en 1882 sans pouvoir gagner Edimbourg. J'y
retournai en 1883 avec la commission d'assainissement de la ville de
Paris, dont je faisais partie. Jenkin me rejoignit. Je le fis entendre
par mes collegues; car il etait fondateur d'une societe de salubrite.
Il eut un grand succes parmi nous. Mais ce voyage me restera toujours
en memoire parce que c'est la que se fixa definitivement notre forte
amitie. Il m'invita un jour a diner a son club et au moment de me
faire asseoir a cote de lui, il me retint et me dit: "Je voudrais vous
demander de m'accorder quelque chose. C'est mon sentiment que nos
relations ne peuvent pas se bien continuer si vous ne me donnez pas la
permission de vous tutoyer. Voulez-vous que nous nous tutoyions?" Je
lui pris les mains et je lui dis qu'une pareille proposition venant
d'un Anglais, et d'un Anglais de sa haute distinction, c'etait une
victoire, dont je serais fier toute ma vie. Et nous commencions a user
de cette nouvelle forme dans nos rapports. Vous savez avec quelle
finesse il parlait le francais; comme il en connaissait tous les
tours, comme il jouait avec ses difficultes, et meme avec ses petites
gamineries. Je crois qu'il a ete heureux de pratiquer avec moi ce
tutoiement, qui ne s'adapte pas a l'anglais, et qui est si francais.
Je ne puis vous peindre l'etendue et la variete de nos conversations
de la soiree. Mais ce que je puis vous dire, c'est que, sous la
caresse du _tu_, nos idees se sont elevees. Nous avions toujours
beaucoup ri ensemble; mais nous n'avions jamais laisse des banalites
s'introduire dans nos echanges de pensees. Ce soir-la, notre horizon
intellectuel s'est elargi, et nous y avons pousse des reconnaissances
profondes et lointaines. Apres avoir vivement cause a table, nous
avons longuement cause au salon; et nous nous separions le soir a
Trafalgar Square, apres avoir longe les trottoirs, stationne aux coins
des rues et deux fois rebrousse chemin en nous reconduisant l'un
l'autre. Il etait pres d'une heure du matin! Mais quelle belle passe
d'argumentation, quels beaux echanges de sentiments, quelles fortes
confidences patriotiques nous avions fournies! J'ai compris ce soir-la
que Jenkin ne detestait pas la France, et je lui serrai fort les mains
en l'embrassant. Nous nous quittions aussi amis qu'on puisse l'etre;
et notre affection s'etait par lui etendue et comprise dans un _tu_
francais.

FOOTNOTES:

[26] Robert Lawson Tait (1845-1899).--ED.

[27] William Young Sellar (1825-1890).--ED.

[28] Not reprinted in this edition.--ED.