[Footnote 3: The Wild Swans at Coole. By W.B. Yeats.(Macmillan.)]
The poet's high and passionate4 argument must be sought elsewhere, and precisely5 in his expression of his convictions about the world. And here, on the poet's word and the evidence of our search, we shall find phantasmagoria, ghostly symbols of a truth which cannot be otherwise conveyed, at least by Mr Yeats. To this, in itself, we make no demur6. The poet, if he is a true poet, is driven to approach the highest reality he can apprehend7. He cannot transcribe8 it simply because he does not possess the necessary apparatus9 of knowledge, and because if he did possess it his passion would flag. It is not often that Spinoza can disengage himself to write as he does at the beginning of the third book of the Ethics10, nor could Lucretius often kindle11 so great a fire in his soul as that which made his material incandescent12 in ?neadum genetrix. Therefore the poet turns to myth as a foundation upon which he can explicate his imagination. He may take his myth from legend or familiar history, or he may create one for himself anew, but the function it fulfils is always the same. It supplies the elements with which he can build the structure of his parable13, upon which he can make it elaborate enough to convey the multitudinous reactions of his soul to the world.
But between myths and phantasmagoria there is a great gulf14. The structural15 possibilities of the myth depend upon its intelligibility16. The child knows upon what drama, played in what world, the curtain will rise when he hears the trumpet-note: 'Of man's first disobedience….' And, even when the poet turns from legend and history to create his own myth, he must make one whose validity is visible, if he is not to be condemned17 to the sterility18 of a coterie19. The lawless and fantastic shapes of his own imagination need, even for their own perfect embodiment, the discipline of the common perception. The phantoms20 of the individual brain, left to their own waywardness, lose all solidity and become like primary forms of life, instead of the penultimate forms they should be. For the poet himself must move securely among his visions; they must be not less certain and steadfast21 than men are. To anchor them he needs intelligible22 myth. Nothing less than a supremely23 great genius can save him if he ventures into the vast without a landmark24 visible to other eyes than his own. Blake had a supremely great genius and was saved in part. The masculine vigour25 of his passion gave stability to the figures of his imagination. They are heroes because they are made to speak like heroes. Even in Blake's most recondite26 work there is always the moment when the clouds are parted and we recognise the austere27 and awful countenances28 of gods. The phantasmagoria of the dreamer have been mastered by the sheer creative will of the poet. Like Jacob, he wrestled29 until the going down of the sun with his angel and would not let him go.
The effort which such momentary30 victories demand is almost superhuman; yet to possess the power to exert it is the sole condition upon which a poet may plunge31 into the world of phantasms. Mr Yeats has too little of the power to vindicate32 himself from the charge of idle dreaming. He knows the problem; perhaps he has also known the struggle. But the very terms in which he suggests it to us subtly convey a sense of impotence:—
Hands, do what you're bid;
Bring the balloon of the mind
That bellies33 and drags in the wind
Into its narrow shed.
The languor34 and ineffectuality of the image tell us clearly how the poet has failed in his larger task; its exactness, its precise expression of an ineffectuality made conscious and condoned35, bears equal witness to the poet's minor36 probity37. He remains38 an artist by determination, even though he returns downcast and defeated from the great quest of poetry. We were inclined at first, seeing those four lines enthroned in majestic39 isolation40 on a page, to find in them evidence of an untoward41 conceit42. Subsequently they have seemed to reveal a splendid honesty. Although it has little mysterious and haunting beauty, The Wild Swans at Coole is indeed a swan song. It is eloquent43 of final defeat; the following of a lonely path has ended in the poet's sinking exhausted44 in a wilderness45 of gray. Not even the regret is passionate; it is pitiful.
'I am worn out with dreams,
A weather-worn, marble triton
Among the streams;
And all day long I look
Upon this lady's beauty
As though I had found in book
A pictured beauty,
Pleased to have filled the eyes
Or the discerning ears,
Delighted to be but wise,
For men improve with the years;
And yet, and yet
Is this my dream, or the truth?
O would that we had met
When I had my burning youth;
But I grow old among dreams,
A weather-worn, marble triton
Among the streams.'
It is pitiful because, even now in spite of all his honesty the poet mistakes the cause of his sorrow. He is worn out not with dreams, but with the vain effort to master them and submit them to his own creative energy. He has not subdued46 them nor built a new world from them; he has merely followed them like will-o'-the-wisps away from the world he knew. Now, possessing neither world, he sits by the edge of a barren road that vanishes into a no-man's land, where is no future, and whence there is no way back to the past.
'My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan's poor;
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.'
It may be that Mr Yeats has succumbed47 to the malady48 of a nation. We do not know whether such things are possible; we must consider him only in and for himself. From this angle we can regard him only as a poet whose creative vigour has failed him when he had to make the highest demands upon it. His sojourn49 in the world of the imagination, far from enriching his vision, has made it infinitely50 tenuous51. Of this impoverishment52, as of all else that has overtaken him, he is agonisedly aware.
'I would find by the edge of that water
The collar-bone of a hare,
Worn thin by the lapping of the water,
And pierce it through with a gimlet, and stare
At the old bitter world where they marry in churches,
And laugh over the untroubled water
At all who marry in churches,
Through the white thin bone of a hare.'
Nothing there remains of the old bitter world which for all its bitterness is a full world also; but nothing remains of the sweet world of imagination. Mr Yeats has made the tragic53 mistake of thinking that to contemplate54 it was sufficient. Had he been a great poet he would have made it his own, by forcing it into the fetters55 of speech. By re-creating it, he would have made it permanent; he would have built landmarks56 to guide him always back to where the effort of his last discovery had ended. But now there remains nothing but a handful of the symbols with which he was content:—
'A Sphinx with woman breast and lion paw,
A Buddha57, hand at rest,
Hand lifted up that blest;
And right between these two a girl at play.'
These are no more than the dry bones in the valley of Ezekiel, and, alas58! there is no prophetic fervour to make them live.
Whether Mr Yeats, by some grim fatality59, mistook his phantasmagoria for the product of the creative imagination, or whether (as we prefer to believe) he made an effort to discipline them to his poetic60 purpose and failed, we cannot certainly say. Of this, however, we are certain, that somehow, somewhere, there has been disaster. He is empty, now. He has the apparatus of enchantment61, but no potency62 in his soul. He is forced to fall back upon the artistic63 honesty which has never forsaken64 him. That it is an insufficient65 reserve let this passage show:—
'For those that love the world serve it in action,
Grow rich, popular, and full of influence,
And should they paint or write still it is action:
The struggle of the fly in marmalade.
The rhetorician would deceive his neighbours,
The sentimentalist himself; while art
Is but a vision of reality….'
Mr Yeats is neither rhetorician nor sentimentalist. He is by structure and impulse an artist. But structure and impulse are not enough. Passionate apprehension66 must be added to them. Because this is lacking in Mr Yeats those lines, concerned though they are with things he holds most dear, are prose and not poetry.
[APRIL, 1919.
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1 vernacular | |
adj.地方的,用地方语写成的;n.白话;行话;本国语;动植物的俗名 | |
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2 hospitable | |
adj.好客的;宽容的;有利的,适宜的 | |
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3 essentially | |
adv.本质上,实质上,基本上 | |
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4 passionate | |
adj.热情的,热烈的,激昂的,易动情的,易怒的,性情暴躁的 | |
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5 precisely | |
adv.恰好,正好,精确地,细致地 | |
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6 demur | |
v.表示异议,反对 | |
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7 apprehend | |
vt.理解,领悟,逮捕,拘捕,忧虑 | |
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8 transcribe | |
v.抄写,誉写;改编(乐曲);复制,转录 | |
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9 apparatus | |
n.装置,器械;器具,设备 | |
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10 ethics | |
n.伦理学;伦理观,道德标准 | |
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11 kindle | |
v.点燃,着火 | |
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12 incandescent | |
adj.遇热发光的, 白炽的,感情强烈的 | |
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13 parable | |
n.寓言,比喻 | |
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14 gulf | |
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15 structural | |
adj.构造的,组织的,建筑(用)的 | |
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16 intelligibility | |
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17 condemned | |
adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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18 sterility | |
n.不生育,不结果,贫瘠,消毒,无菌 | |
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19 coterie | |
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20 phantoms | |
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21 steadfast | |
adj.固定的,不变的,不动摇的;忠实的;坚贞不移的 | |
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22 intelligible | |
adj.可理解的,明白易懂的,清楚的 | |
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23 supremely | |
adv.无上地,崇高地 | |
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24 landmark | |
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25 vigour | |
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26 recondite | |
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27 austere | |
adj.艰苦的;朴素的,朴实无华的;严峻的 | |
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28 countenances | |
n.面容( countenance的名词复数 );表情;镇静;道义支持 | |
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29 wrestled | |
v.(与某人)搏斗( wrestle的过去式和过去分词 );扭成一团;扭打;(与…)摔跤 | |
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30 momentary | |
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31 plunge | |
v.跳入,(使)投入,(使)陷入;猛冲 | |
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32 vindicate | |
v.为…辩护或辩解,辩明;证明…正确 | |
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33 bellies | |
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34 languor | |
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35 condoned | |
v.容忍,宽恕,原谅( condone的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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36 minor | |
adj.较小(少)的,较次要的;n.辅修学科;vi.辅修 | |
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37 probity | |
n.刚直;廉洁,正直 | |
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38 remains | |
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39 majestic | |
adj.雄伟的,壮丽的,庄严的,威严的,崇高的 | |
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40 isolation | |
n.隔离,孤立,分解,分离 | |
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41 untoward | |
adj.不利的,不幸的,困难重重的 | |
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42 conceit | |
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43 eloquent | |
adj.雄辩的,口才流利的;明白显示出的 | |
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44 exhausted | |
adj.极其疲惫的,精疲力尽的 | |
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45 wilderness | |
n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等,荒漠 | |
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46 subdued | |
adj. 屈服的,柔和的,减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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47 succumbed | |
不再抵抗(诱惑、疾病、攻击等)( succumb的过去式和过去分词 ); 屈从; 被压垮; 死 | |
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48 malady | |
n.病,疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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49 sojourn | |
v./n.旅居,寄居;逗留 | |
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50 infinitely | |
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51 tenuous | |
adj.细薄的,稀薄的,空洞的 | |
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52 impoverishment | |
n.贫穷,穷困;贫化 | |
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53 tragic | |
adj.悲剧的,悲剧性的,悲惨的 | |
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54 contemplate | |
vt.盘算,计议;周密考虑;注视,凝视 | |
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55 fetters | |
n.脚镣( fetter的名词复数 );束缚v.给…上脚镣,束缚( fetter的第三人称单数 ) | |
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56 landmarks | |
n.陆标( landmark的名词复数 );目标;(标志重要阶段的)里程碑 ~ (in sth);有历史意义的建筑物(或遗址) | |
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57 Buddha | |
n.佛;佛像;佛陀 | |
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58 alas | |
int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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59 fatality | |
n.不幸,灾祸,天命 | |
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60 poetic | |
adj.富有诗意的,有诗人气质的,善于抒情的 | |
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61 enchantment | |
n.迷惑,妖术,魅力 | |
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62 potency | |
n. 效力,潜能 | |
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63 artistic | |
adj.艺术(家)的,美术(家)的;善于艺术创作的 | |
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64 Forsaken | |
adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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65 insufficient | |
adj.(for,of)不足的,不够的 | |
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66 apprehension | |
n.理解,领悟;逮捕,拘捕;忧虑 | |
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