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You are buying Solution Manual. A Solution Manual is step by step
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Table of Contents

I. OBJECTS AND C++.

1. Arrays, Pointers, and Structures.

2. Objects and Classes.

3. Templates.

4. Inheritance.

5. Design Patterns.

II. ALGORITHMS AND BUILDING BLOCKS.

6. Algorithm Analysis.

7. The Standard Template Library.

8. Recursion.

9. Sorting Algorithms.

10. Randomization.

III. APPLICATIONS.

11. Fun and Games.

12. Stacks and Compilers.

13. Utilities.

14. Simulation.

15. Graphs and Paths.

IV. IMPLEMENTATIONS.

16. Stacks and Queues.

17. Linked Lists.

18. Trees.

19. Binary Search Trees.

20. Hash Tables.

21. A Priority Queue: The Binary Heap.

V. ADVANCED DATA STRUCTURES.

22. Splay Trees.

23. Merging Priority Queues.

24. The Disjoint Set Class.

Appendix A: Miscellaneous C++ Details

Appendix B: Operators.

Appendix C: Some Library Routines.

Appendix D: Primitive Arrays in C++

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Verlaine, Mallarmé, Villiers; in the pictures of Gustave Moreau, of
Odilon Redon. He delights in the beauty of strange, unnatural
flowers, in the melodic combination of scents, in the imagined
harmonies of the sense of taste. And at last, exhausted by these
spiritual and sensory debauches in the delights of the artificial, he is
left (as we close the book) with a brief, doubtful choice before him—
madness or death, or else a return to nature, to the normal life.
Since À Rebours, Huysmans has written one other remarkable book,
Là-Bas, a study in the hysteria and mystical corruption of
contemporary Black Magic. But it is on that one exceptional
achievement, À Rebours, that his fame will rest; it is there that he
has expressed not merely himself, but an epoch. And he has done so
in a style which carries the modern experiments upon language to
their furthest development. Formed upon Goncourt and Flaubert, it
has sought for novelty, l'image peinte, the exactitude of color, the
forcible precision of epithet, wherever words, images, or epithets are
to be found. Barbaric in its profusion, violent in its emphasis,
wearying in its splendor, it is—especially in regard to things seen—
extraordinarily expressive, with all the shades of a painter's palette.
Elaborately and deliberately perverse, it is in its very perversity that
Huysmans' work—so fascinating, so repellent, so instinctively
artificial—comes to represent, as the work of no other writer can be
said to do, the main tendencies, the chief results, of the Decadent
movement in literature.

THE ROSSETTIS

William Michael Rossetti, who has just died, survived his brother,
Dante Gabriel Rossetti, by thirty-seven years, dying at the age of
eighty-nine. Not really a man of letters, in the essential sense, his
verse, as Gabriel said, "Always going back on the old track," he had
a certain talent of his own; for he edited an excellent edition of
Blake's Poems, and a creditable edition of Shelley, the first critical
edition of his poems.
He was the first Englishman who ever dared to print a Selection from
Whitman's Leaves of Grass,—in 1868; and, in spite of having to
exclude such passages as he considered indecent, the whole book
was a valuable contribution to our literature.
There is no question that Michael was not invaluable to Gabriel;
indeed, during the whole of the tragic and wonderful life of that man
of supreme genius; not only because he dedicated his Poems of
1870 to one "who had given them the first brotherly hearing;" not
only because, had not Michael been with him at the British Museum
on the ever-memorable and unforgettable date of April 30, 1847, he
had never bought the imperishable MS. Book of Blake, borrowing for
this purchase ten shillings from his brother; but also because when
Rossetti, after his wife's death, had his manuscript volume of poems
exhumed in October, 1869, he did the right thing, both in his
impetuous act in burying them beside his dead wife and in his
silence with his brother—who was really aware of the event—so that
his own tortured nerves might have some respite.
Still, I have never forgotten how passionately Eleanore Duse said to
me, in 1900:

Rossetti's eyes desire some feverish thing, but the mouth and
chin hesitate in pursuit. All Rossetti is in that story of his MS.
buried in his wife's coffin. He could do it, he could repent of it;
but he should have gone and taken it back himself: he sent his
friends.

In one of Dante Gabriel Rossetti's invaluable notes on Poetry, he tells

us that to him "the leading point about Coleridge's work is its human
love." That Rossetti, whose face indicated voluptuousness brooding
thoughtfully over destiny, was intensely sensitive, is true; and this
made him a sort of medium to forces seen and unseen. Yet, I think,
he wanted in life more than most men of such genius as he had
wanted. For, as Watts-Dunton said: "He was the slave of his
imagination—an imagination of a power and dominance such as I
have never seen equalled. Of his vividness, no artistic expression of
his can give any notion. He had not the smallest command over it."
That is one of the reasons why, with all his affection for his brother
Michael, the chasm between them was immense—a chasm no
dragon-created bridge could ever span; Gabriel had in him, perhaps,
too much of "chasm-fire": his genius was too flame-fledged for
earth's eternity, to have ever had one wing of it broken by an
enemy's shaft.
No modern poet ever had anything like the same grasp upon
whatever is essential in poetry that Rossetti had; for all that he
wrote or said about Art has in it an absolute rightness of judgment;
and, with these, as absolutely, an intellectual sanity. Here is one
principle of artistic creation stated with instantaneous certainty:
"Conception, fundamental brain work, that is what makes the
difference in all art. Work your metal as much as you like, but first
take care that the gold was worth working." But it is, strangely
enough, that at the beginning of a review of Hake's Parables and
Tales he says the final, the inevitable words on creation and on what
lies in the artist's mind before the act of creation:

The first and highest is that where the work has been all
mentally "cartooned," as it were, beforehand by a process
intensely conscious, but patient and silent—an occult evolution
of life: then follows the glory of wielding words, and we see the
hand of Dante, as the hand of Michelangelo—or almost as that
quickening hand which Michelangelo has dared to embody—
sweep from left to right, fiery and final.

In 1862, Rossetti took possession of his famous house, 10 Cheyne

Walk, Chelsea, where he lived to the end of his life, and whose joint
occupants were, for a certain length of time, George Meredith,
Swinburne and William Michael Rossetti, who left the house in 1874,
the year in which he married Lucy Madox Brown.
That four men of individualities so utterly different, and, in some
senses, aggressive, or at least assertive, should have been able to
live together in closeness of continuous intimacy, from which there
was hardly an escape, was barely conceivable. Yet it was in this
house that Swinburne wrote many of his Poems Ballads, part of his
book on Blake and his masterpiece, Atalanta in Calydon. There
Meredith finished his masterpiece in the matter of tragic and
passionate verse, Modern Love. There is nothing like it in the whole
of English poetry, nor did he ever achieve so magnificent a
vivisection of the heart in verse as in these pages—in which he
created a wonderful style, acid, stinging, bitter-sweet, poignant—
where these self-torturing and cruel lovers weave the amazing web
of their disillusions as they struggle, open-eyed, against the
blindness of passion.
The poem laughs while it cries.
Swinburne, who was, I think, on the whole, less susceptible in
regard to abusive attacks on his books than Meredith or Rossetti,
vindicates himself, and superbly, in the pamphlet I have before me:
Notes on Poems and Reviews (1866). He has been accused of
indecency and immorality and perversity; and is amazed to find that
Anactoria "has excited, among the chaste and candid critics of the
day, or hour, or minute, a more vehement reputation, a more
virtuous horror, a more passionate appeal, than any other of my
writing. I am evidently not virtuous enough to understand them. I
thank Heaven that I am not. Ma corruption rougirait de leur pudeur."
In regard to Laus Veneris, I turn for a moment to W. M. Rossetti's
Swinburne's Poems and Ballads: A criticism (1866) which, on the
whole, is uncommonly well written, to one of those passages where
he betrays a kind of Puritanism in his Italian blood; saying that the
opening lines were, apart from any question of sentiment, much
overdone. "That is a situation (and there are many such in
Swinburne's writings) which we would much rather see touched off
with the reticence of a Tennyson: he would probably have given one
epithet, or, at the utmost, one line, to it, and it would at least equally
have haunted the memory." I turn from this to Swinburne on
Tennyson, as for instance: "At times, of course, his song was then as
sweet as ever it has sounded since; but he could never make sure of
singing right for more than a few minutes or stanzas." And—what is
certainly true—that Vivien's impurity is eclipsed by her incredible and
incomparable vulgarity. "She is such a sordid creature as plucks men
passing by the sleeve."
Now the actual origin of Laus Veneris came about when Swinburne,
with Rossetti, bought the first edition of Fitzgerald's wonderful
version of Omar Khayyam. "We invested," Swinburne writes, "in
hardly less than six-penny-worth apiece, and on returning to the stall
next day, for more, found that we had sent up the market to the
sinfully extravagant price of two-pence, an imposition which evoked
from Rossetti a fervent and impressive remonstrance." Swinburne
went down to stay with Meredith in the country with the priceless
book; and, before lunch, they read, alternately, stanza after stanza.
The result was that, after lunch, Swinburne went to his room and
came down to Meredith's study with his invariable blue paper and
wrote there and then thirteen stanzas of Veneris, that end with the
lines:
Till when the spool is finished, lo I see
His web, reeled off, curls and goes out like steam.
His only invention was the certainly cunning one of inserting a rhyme
after the second line of each stanza, which is not in the version.
Swinburne's re-creation of the immortal legend of Venus and her
Knight, certainly—though certainly unknown to W. M. Rossetti—owes
also much of its origin from Swinburne's inordinate admiration of Les
Fleurs du Mal, by Baudelaire. Its origin, in a certain sense only; that
is of the influence of one poet on the other. For, as he says:

It was not till my poem was completed that I received from the
hands of its author the admirable pamphlet of Charles
Baudelaire on Wagner's Tannhauser. If anyone desires to see,
expressed in better words than I can command, the conception
of the mediæval Venus which it was my aim to put into verse,
let him turn to the magnificent passage in which Baudelaire
 describes the fallen goddess, grown diabolic among eyes that
would not accept her as divine.

I need not reiterate the extraordinary influence that Baudelaire

always had on Swinburne; seen most of all in Poems and Ballads and
recurring at intervals in later volumes of his verse. Both had in their
genius, a certain abnormality, a certain perversity, a certain love of
depravity in the highest sense of the word.
Swinburne, who had a fashion of overpraising many writers, such as
Hugo, so that his prose is often extravagant and the criticism as
unbalanced as the praise, dedicated his finest book, "William Blake,"
to W. M. Rossetti, in words whose almost strained sense of humility
—a way really in which he often showed the intensity of his pride—
makes one wonder how he could have said: "I can but bring you
brass for the gold you send me; but between equals and friends
there can be no question of barter. Like Diomed, I take what I am
given and offer what I have." What Swinburne had—his genius—he
never gave away lavishly; here he is much too lavish. "There is a joy
in praising" might have been written for him, and he communicates
to us, as few writers do, his own sense of joy in beauty. It is quite
possible to be annoyed by many of the things he has said, not only
about literature, but also about religion, and morals and politics. But
he has never said anything on any of these subjects which is not
generous, and high-minded, and, at least for the moment,
passionately and absolutely sincere.
It is almost cruel to have to test one sentence of the man of talent
with one sentence of the man of genius. I chose these from the
Notes on the Royal Academy Exhibition they wrote together in 1868,
which I have before me, in the form of a printed pamphlet. "If
everybody tells me that the picture of A, of which this pamphlet says
nothing, merits criticism, or that the picture of B, praised for color,
claims praise on the score of drawing also, I shall have no difficulty
in admitting the probable correctness of these remarks; but, if he
adds that I am blamable for the omissions, I shall feel entitled to
reply that A's picture and B's draughtsmanship were not and indeed
never were in the bond."
How honestly that is written and how prosaically, "Pale as from
poison, with the blood drawn back from her very lips, agonized in
face and limbs with the labor and the fierce contention of old love
with new, of a daughter's love with a bride's, the fatal figure of
Medea pauses a little on the funereal verge of the wood of death, in
act to pour a blood-like liquid into the soft opal-coloured hollow of a
shell." How princely that praise of Sandys rings in one's ears, lyrical
prose that quickens the blood! But the greater marvel to me is that
Swinburne in his Miscellanies, of 1866, should have quoted two
sentences of Rossetti on Shakespeare's Sonnets and ended by
saying: "These words themselves deserve to put on immortality:
there are none truer or nobler, wiser or more memorable in the
whole historic range of highest criticism." I can only imagine it as
that of an arrow in flight: only, it loses the mark.
It was when Christina Rossetti was living at 30 Torrington Square
that I spent several entrancing hours with her. She had still traces of
her Italian beauty; but all the loveliness had gone out of her, so
subtly and so delicately painted by Gabriel when she was young. The
moment she entered, dressed simply and severely, she bowed,
almost curtsied, with that old-fashioned charm that since her time
has gone mostly out of the world. Her face lit up when she spoke of
Gabriel: for between them was always love and admiration. His
genius, to her, both as a poet and a painter, invariably received her
elaborate and unstinted praise.
She told me that Gabriel had said to her: "The Convent Threshold is
a very splendid piece of feminine ascetic passion; and, to me, one of
your greatest poems is that on France after the Siege—To-Day for
me." And that Swinburne specially loved Passing away, saith the
world, passing away. It always seems to me that as she had read
Leopardi and Baudelaire, the thought of death had for her the same
fascination; only it is not the fascination of attraction, as with the
one, nor repulsion, as with the other, but of interest, sad but
scarcely unquiet interest in what the dead are doing underground, in
their memories, if memory they have, of the world they have left.
Yet this fact is of curious interest, knowing the purity of her
imagination, that when Swinburne sent her his Atalanta in Calydon
she crossed out in ink one line:
"The supreme evil, God."
Swinburne himself told me of his amazement and amusement when
he happened to turn to this page while he was looking through the
copy he had sent her.
It was one of Gabriel Rossetti's glories to paint luxurious women,
surrounded by every form of luxury. And some of them are set to
pose in Eastern garments, with caskets in their hands and flames
about them, looking out with unsearchable eyes. His colors, before
they began to have, like his forms, an exaggeration, a blurred vision
which gave him the need of repainting, of depriving his figures of
life, were as if charmed into their own places; they took on at times
some strange and stealthy and startling ardors of paint, with a
subtle fury.
By his fiery imagination, his restless energy, he created a world:
curious, astonishing, at first sight; strange, morbid, and subtly
beautiful. Everything he made was chiefly for his own pleasure; he
had a contempt for the outside world, and his life was so given up to
beauty, in search for it and in finding of it, that one can but say not
only that his life was passion consumed by passion, as his nerves
became more and more his tyrants (tyrants, indeed, these were,
more formidable and more alluring and more tempting than even the
nerves confess), but also that, to put it in the words of Walter Pater:
"To him life is a crisis at every moment."
There was in him, as in many artists, the lust of the eyes. And as
others feasted their lust on elemental things, as in Turner's Rain,
Steam and Speed, as in Whistler's Valparaiso, as in the Olympia of
Manet, as in a Décors de Ballet of Degas, so did Rossetti upon other
regions than theirs. He had neither the evasive and instinctive genius
of Whistler, nor Turner's tremendous sweep of vision, nor the
creative and fiercely imaginative genius of Manet. But he had his
own way of feasting on forms and visions more sensuous, more
nervously passionate, more occult, perhaps, than theirs.
Yet, as his intentions overpower him, as he becomes the slave and
no longer the master of his dreams, his pictures become no longer
symbolic. They become idols. Venus, growing more and more Asiatic
as the moon's crescent begins to glitter above her head, and her
name changes from Aphrodite into Astarte, loses all the freshness of
the waves from which she was born, and her own sorcery hardens
into a wooden image painted to be the object of savage worship.
Dreams are no longer content to be turned into waking realities,
taking the color of the daylight, that they may be visible to our eyes,
but they remain lunar, spectral, a dark and unintelligible menace.

CONFESSIONS AND COMMENTS

I met George Moore, during a feverish winter I spent in Paris in

1890, at the house of Doctor John Chapman, 46 Avenue Kleber; who
at one time, before he settled there, had been the Proprietor and
then Editor of The Westminster Review. In his review appeared in
1886 Pater's wonderful and fascinating essay on Coleridge; in 1887
his penetrating and revealing essay on Wincklemann. "He is the last
fruit of the Renaissance, and explains in a striking way its motives
and tendencies."
At that time I had heard a good deal of Moore; I had read very few
of his novels; these I had found to be entertaining, realistic, and
decadent; and certainly founded on modern French fiction. He made
little or no impression on me on that occasion; he was Irish and
amusing. Our conversation was probably on Paris and France and
French prose. He gave me his address, King's Bench Walk, Inner
Temple, and asked me to call on him after my return to London.
I was born, "like a fiend hid in a cloud," cruel, nervous, excitable,
passionate, restless, never quite human, never quite normal and,
from the fact that I have never known what it was to have a home,
as most children know it, my life has been in many ways a
wonderful, in certain ways a tragic one: an existence, indeed, so
inexplicable even to myself, that I can not fathom it. If I have been a
vagabond, and have never been able to root myself in any one place
in the world, it is because I have no early memories of any one sky
or soil. It has freed me from many prejudices in giving me its own
unresting kind of freedom; but it has cut me off from whatever is
stable, of long growth in the world.
When I came up to London, in 1889, I was fortunate enough to take
one room in a narrow street, named Fountain Court. In 1821 Blake
left South Molton Street for Fountain Court, where he remained for
the rest of his life. The side window looked down through an
opening between the houses, showing the river and the hills
beyond; Blake worked at a table facing the window. At that time I
had only seen the Temple; so that when I entered it for the first time
in my life, to call on Moore, I was seized by a sudden fascination
which never left me. I questioned him as to the chances I might
have of finding rooms there; he wisely advised me to look at the
outside of the window of the barber's shop, where notices of vacant
flats were put up. Finally I saw: "Fountain Court: rooms to let." I
immediately made all the necessary inquiries; and found myself in
March, 1871, entire possessor of the top flat, which had a stone
balcony from which I looked down on a wide open court, with a
stone fountain in the middle. I lived there for ten years. My most
intimate friends were, first and foremost, Yeats, then Moore: all
three of us being of Celtic origin.
My intercourse with Moore was mostly at night; that is, when I was
not wandering in foreign countries or absorbed in much more animal
and passionate affairs. I dedicated to him Studies in Two Literatures
1897; the dedication was written in Rome, which begins: "My dear
Moore, Do you remember, at the time when we were both living in
the Temple, and our talks used to begin with midnight, and go on
until the first glimmerings of dawn shivered among the trees, yours
and mine; do you remember how often we have discussed, well, I
suppose, everything which I speak of in these studies in the two
literatures which we both chiefly care about." It ends: "I think of our
conversations now in Rome, where, as in those old times in the
Temple, I still look out of my window on a fountain in a square; only,
here, I have the Pantheon to look at, on the other side of my
fountain."
George Moore, whose Pagan Poems were a mixture of atrociously
rhymed sensations, abnormal and monstrous, decadent and
depraved, not without a sense of luxury and of color, and yet
nothing more than feverish fancies and delirious dreams, has in
some way fashioned a French sonnet which is an evident imitation of
Mallarmé's. Only, between these writers is, as it were, an abyss. It
has been Mallarmé's distinction to have always aspired after an
impossible liberation of the soul of literature from what is fretting
and constraining in "the body of that death" which is the mere
literature of words. Finally come his "last period"—after the jewels of
Hérodiade, which scattered and recaptured sudden fire,—in which
his spirit wandered in an opaque darkness; as for instance, in the
sonnet, made miraculously out of the repetition of two rhymes
—"onyx lampadophore"—or, by preference, one that begins:
Une dentelle s'abolit.
Here, then, is Moore's sonnet to Edouard Dujardin.
La chair est bonne de l'alose
Plus fine que celle du bar,
Mais la Loire est loin et je n'ose
Abandonner Pierre Abélard.

Je suis un esclave de l'art;

La sage Héloise se pose
 Sans robe, sans coiffe et sans fard,
Et j'oublie aisément l'alose.

Mais je vois la claire maison—

Arbres, pelouses et statue.
Du jardin, j'entend ta leçon:

Raison qui sauve, foi qui tue,

Autels éclabousses du son
Que verse une idole abattue.
I find in Moore's Confessions these sentences: "A year passed; a
year of art and dissipation—one part art, two parts dissipation. And
we thought there was something very thrilling in leaving the Rue de
la Gaieté, returning to my home to dress, and presenting our
spotless selves to the élite. And we succeeded very well, as indeed
all young men do who waltz perfectly and avoid making love to the
wrong woman." I should have preferred to read those sentences in
French rather than in English; they are essentially Parisian and of the
grands Boulevards; only, the end of the last sentence must have
been suggested from some cynical phrase written by Balzac. Add to
this the egoism of the Irishman: after that, what more do we need
in the way of comparisons?
That Balzac is the greatest, the most profound, thinker in French
literature after Blaise Pascal, is certain. Only, he had a more creative
genius than any novelist, a genius unsurpassable and unsurpassed;
in proof of which—if such a proof were actually required—I give
these sentences of Baudelaire translated by Swinburne. "To me it
had always seemed that it was his chief merit to be a visionary, and
a passionate visionary; all his characters are gifted with the ardours
of life which animated himself. In a word, every one in Balzac, down
to the very scullions, has genius. Every mind is a weapon loaded to
the muzzle with will. It is actually Balzac himself." Somewhere, he
compares Shakespeare with Balzac; and adds: "Balzac asserts, and
Balzac cannot blunder or lie. He has that wonderful wisdom, never
at fault on its own ground, which made him not simply the chief of
dramatic story, but also the great master of morals."
No critic could for one instant apply to any of George Moore's novels
the phrase of "grand spiritual realism." A realist he always has been;
a realist, who, having founded himself on French novelists, has
really, in certain senses, brought something utterly new into English
fiction. Luckily, he is Irish; luckily, he lived the best years of his youth
in Paris. His prose shows the intense labor with which he produced
every chapter of every novel; in fact, there is too much of the
laborious mind in all his books. He was right in saying in Avowals:
"Real literature is concerned with description of life and thoughts of
life rather than with acts. He must write about the whole of life and
not about parts of life, and he must write truth and not lies." The
first sentence expresses the writer's sense of his own prose in his
novels: and yet there is always a lot of vivid action in them. Only the
greatest novelists have written about the whole of life: Balzac,
Tolstoi, Cervantes, for instance; but the fact is that Balzac is always
good to reread, but not Tolstoi: I couple two giants. Goriot, Valérie
Marneffe, Pons, Landsch are called up before us after the same
manner as Othello or Don Quixote; Balzac stakes all on one creation,
exactly as Shakespeare stakes all in one creation.
Writing on Joseph Conrad, I referred to one of his tricks—which
seem inextricable tricks of art—which he learned from Balzac: the
method, which he uses in Youth, of doubling or trebling the interest
by setting action within action, as certain pictures are set within
certain frames. It is astonishing to find the influence Balzac had on
Conrad, partly when suspense is scarcely concerned with action,
partly in his involved manner of relating events. In Balzac I often
find that some of his tales, like Conrad's, grow downwards out of an
episode at the end; in some the end is told first, the beginning next
—which was a method Poe often used—and last of all in the middle;
for instance, in Honorine.
Writing of Zola I said:
 Zola has defined art, very aptly, as nature seen through a
temperament. The art of Zola is nature seen through a formula.
He observes, indeed, with astonishing closeness, but he
observes in support of preconceived ideas. And so powerful is
his imagination that he has created a whole world which has no
existence anywhere but in his own brain, and he has placed
there imaginary beings, so much more logical than life, in the
midst of surroundings which are themselves so real as to lend
almost a semblance of reality to the embodied formulas who
inhabit them.

As I have said that George Moore might be supposed to be a lineal

descendant of Zola, it seems to me that in many ways his method is
almost the same as Zola's; only, they have different theories; both
observe with immense persistence; but their manner of observation,
after all, is only that of the man in the street; while, on the contrary,
the Goncourts create with their nerves, with their sensations, with
their noting of the sensations, with the complex curiosities of a
delicately depraved instinct. The strange woman in La Faustin is one
of Goncourt's most fascinating creations: Germinie Lacerteux, his
most sordidly depraved animal; and in the Preface to that novel, in
1864, they were right in saying: "Aujourd'hui que le Roman s'élargit
et grandit, qu'il commence à être la grande forme sérieuse,
passionnée, vivante, de l'Étude littéraire et de enquête sociale, qu'il
devient, par l'analyse et par la recherche psychologique, l'Histoire
morale contemporaine." They were the first, I believe, to invent an
entirely new form, a breaking-up of the plain, straightforward
narrative into chapters, which are generally disconnected, and
sometimes no more than six sentences: as, for instance, in that
perverse, decadent, delicately depraved study of the stages in the
education of the young Parisian girl, Chérie (for all its "immodesty")
was an admirable thing, and a model for all such studies. Only, when
I have to choose, after Balzac, the most wonderfully created woman
in any novel, the vision of Emma Bovary starts before me—a
woman, as I have said somewhere (with none of the passionate
certainty of Charles Baudelaire) who is half vulgar and half
hysterical, incapable of a fine passion; her trivial desires, her futile
aspirations after second-hand pleasures and second-hand ideals,
give to Flaubert all that he wants: the opportunity to create beauty
out of reality.
I have always had a great admiration of Camille Lemonnier, who
brought something rare, exotic and furiously animal into Flemish
prose; as in his masterpiece, Un Mâle, where he reveals in an
astonishing fashion those peasants who are so brutal, yet so subtly
and rudely apprehended, in their instincts: these peasants who are
the most elemental of human beings. He has none of Hardy's
sinister and dejected vision of life; who often seems closer to the
earth than to men and women, and who sees women and men out
of the eyes of wild creatures; whose peasants have been compared
with Shakespeare's. Lemonnier's women and men have in them
something mysterious, dramatic, tragic: in their loves and hatreds, in
their crimes and joys, they have something of the mysterious force
which germinates in the furrows which they turn.
Pater, who hated every form of noise and of extravagance, who
disliked whatever seemed to him either sordid or morbid, guarded
himself from all these and from many other things by the wary
humor that protects the sensitive. So, in his reviews of Wilde and of
Moore, he is always very much on his guard as to the manner of
expounding his individual opinions; saying of Wilde that his Dorian
Gray "may fairly claim to go with that of Edgar Poe, and with some
good French work of the same kind, done—probably—in more or
less conscious imitation of it." So in praising Moore's clever book, he
refers to his "French intuitiveness and gaillardise;" saying that he is
"a very animating guide to the things he loves, and in particular to
the modern painting of France," that (here he uses his wary humor)
"these chapters have, by their very conviction, their perverse
conviction, a way of arousing the general reader, lost perhaps in the
sleep of conventional ideas," that, to and with "the reader may now
judge fairly of Moore's manner of writing; may think perhaps there is
something in it of the manner of the artists he writes of."
One of the most original pictures of Degas is L'Absinthe, which
represents Desboutins in the café of the Nouvelle Athènes seated
beside a woman. Moore says "Desboutins always came to the café
alone, as did Manet, Degas, Darentz. Desboutins is thinking of his
dry points; the woman is incapable of thought. If questioned about
her life she would probably answer, Je suis à la coule." To my mind
Degas gives in this picture, in a more modern way than Manet, an
equal vision of reality. Desboutins, the Bohemian painter, sits there
in a mood of grim dissatisfaction; he is just as living as the depraved
woman who sits beside him—before the glass of absinthe that shines
like an enormous and sea-green jewel—with eyes in which much of
her shameful earthiness is betrayed, without malice, without pity.
I open at random, the pages of Confessions of a Young Man where
there is a reference to the café of the Nouvelle Athènes, Place
Pigalle; where the writer confesses more of himself than on any
other page of his book.

I am a student of ball rooms, bar rooms, streets and alcoves. I

have read very little; but all I read I can turn to account, and all
I read I remember. To read freely, extensively, has always been
my ambition, and my utter inability to study has always been to
me a subject of grave inquietude,—study, as contrasted with a
general and haphazard gathering of ideas taken in flight. But in
me, the impulse is so original to frequent the haunts of men
that it is irresistible, conversation is the breath of my nostrils, I
watch the movement of life, and my ideas spring from it
uncalled for, as buds from branches. Contact with the world is in
me the generating force; without it what invention I have is thin
and sterile, and it grows thinner rapidly, until it dies away
utterly, as it did in the composition of my unfortunate Roses of
Midnight.

I turn from those sentences to Casanova, whose Memoirs are one of

the most wonderful autobiographies in the world; who, always
passionate after sensations, confesses, in his confessions, the most
shameless things that have ever been written: one to whom woman
was, indeed, the most important thing in the world, but to whom
nothing in the world was indifferent. He was, as he professes,
always in love—at least, with something. Being of origin Venetian
and Spanish, he had none of the cold blooded libertinism of Valmont
in Les Liaisons Dangereuses of Laclos. Baudelaire, in two of his
sweeping Paradoxes, said of this book: "Ce livre, s'il brûle, ne peut
brûler qu'à la manière de la glace. Tous les livres sont immoraux."
Casanova, himself, is the primitive type of the Immoralist, in certain
senses of the abnormal Immoralist. His latest reincarnation is an
André Gide's L'Immoraliste; a book perverse and unpassionate.
Now, let us return to the modern writer's Confessions. Whether
Moore has read the whole of Casanova or not, there are curiously
similar touches in both these writers; as, for instance, in the word
"alcoves, streets, ballrooms." Instead of the modern "barrooms" use
the word cafés. One essential difference is that Casanova had a
passion for books: the more essential one is, that Casanova was
born to be a vagabond and a Wanderer over almost the whole of
Europe, that he had tasted all the forbidden fruits of the earth, and
that he had sinned with all his body—leaving, naturally, the soul out
of the question.
Every great artist has tasted the sweet poison of the Forbidden Fruit.
The Serpent, the most "subtile" of all the Beasts, gave an apple he
had gathered from the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil to
Eve; she having eaten it and having given one to Adam, both saw
they were naked, and, with nakedness, Sin entered into the World.
Now, what was stolen from the Garden of God has, ever since, been
the one temptation which it is almost impossible to resist. For
instance Shakespeare stole from Marlowe, Milton stole from
Shakespeare, Keats stole from Virgil, Swinburne stole from
Baudelaire and Crashaw, Browning stole from Donne; as for Wagner,
having stolen a motet from Vittorio which he used, almost note for
note in Parsifal, also from Palestrina and his school, and from Berlioz
and from Liszt, it is impossible to say what he did not steal. Oscar
Wilde stripped, as far as he could, all the fruit he could gather from
the orchards of half a dozen French novelists; besides those of Poe
and of Pater. Gabrielle d'Annunzio has stolen as thoroughly as Wilde;
in fact, the whole contents of certain short stories. As for George
Moore, he has been guilty of as many thefts as these; only he has
concealed his thefts with more stealth. Henry James said to some
one of my acquaintance: "Moore has an absolute genius for picking
other men's brains." That saying is as final as it is fundamental.
Rossetti said: "There ought to be always, double of oneself, the self-
critic, who should be one always with the poet." The legend of the
Doppelgänger haunted him; the result of which is How They Met
Themselves, where two lovers wandering in a wood come on their
doubles, apparitions who, casting their perilous eyes on them
sidewise, vanish. It is mysterious and menacing. Pater uses the
same symbol: three knights as they hear the night-hawk, are
confronted by their own images, but with blood, all three of them,
fresh upon the brow, or in the mouth. "It were well to draw the
sword, be one's enemy carnal or spiritual; even devils, as all men
know, taking flight at its white glitter through the air. Out flashed the
brave youths' swords, still with mimic counter-motion, upon nothing
—upon the empty darkness before them." These revenants are
ghost-like and flame-like: they are the symbols of good and evil; the
symbols of the haunting of one uneasy conscience. Balzac, Blake,
Hawthorne, saw them in visions; the moderns, such as Maupassant
and Moore, must always ignore them.
The novel and the prose play are the two great imaginative forms
which prose has invented for itself. Prose is the language of what we
call real life, and it is only in prose that an illusion of external reality
can be given. And, in any case, the prose play, the novel, come into
being as exceptions and are invented by men who can not write
plays in verse. Only in the novel and the prose play does prose
become free to create, free to develop to the utmost limits of its
vitality. Perhaps the highest merit of prose consists in this, that it
allows us to think in words. But art, in verse, being strictly and
supremely on art, begins by transforming. Indeed, there is no form
of art which is not an attempt to capture life, to create life over
again.
The rhythm of poetry is musical; the rhythm of prose is
physiological. For this reason Ibsen's prose is like that of a diagram
in Euclid; it is the rhythm of logic, and it produces in us the purely
mental exaltation of a problem solved. Swinburne, writing on Wilkie
Collins's Armadale, declares that the heroine who dies of her own
will by her own crime, had an American or a Frenchman introduced
her, no acclamation would have been too vehement to express their
gratitude! "But neither Feuillet nor Hawthorne could have composed
and constructed such a story; the ingenuity spent on it may possibly
be perverse, but is certainly superb." As I have never read one line
of Feuillet I am no judge of his merit as a novelist. Hawthorne had a
magical imagination, a passion for "handling sin" purely; he was
haunted by what is obscure and abnormal in that illusive region
which exists on the confines of evil and good; his opinion of woman
was that she "was plucked out of a mystery, and had its roots still
clinging to her." Sin and the Soul, those are the problems he has
always before him; Sin, as our punishment; the Soul, in its essence,
mist-like and intangible. He uses his belief in witchcraft with
admirable effect, the dim mystery which clings about haunted
houses, the fantastic gambols of the soul itself, under what seems
like the devil's own promptings.
In the whole of Moore's prose there is no such magic, no such
mystery, no such diabolism; he is not so lacking in imagination as in
style. He has always been, with impressive inaccuracy, described as
the English Zola; at the outset of his career he gained a certain
notoriety not unlike Zola's; his novels are not based on theories, as
some of Zola's are. Moore always knew how to make a cunning plot,
to make some of his compositions masterly, and how to construct his
characters—which, to a certain extent, are living people, really
existent, as their surroundings. As I say further on: "Compare with
any of Zola's novels the amazingly clever novel of Moore, A
Mummer's Wife, which goes with several other novels which are—
well—manqués, in spite of their ability, their independence, their
unquestionable merits of various kinds." The style always drags
more than the action. Vivid, sensual, not sensuous, often perverse,
never passionate; written with a curious sense of wickedness, of
immorality, of vice; extraordinary at times in some of the scenes he
evokes in one or several chapters; always with the French element;
his prose exotic, morbid, cruel, as cruel as this catsuit of the
passions, has in it a certain scorn and contempt of mediocrities,
which can be delivered with the force of a sledge-hammer that
strikes an anvil and shoots forth sparks.

II

George Moore has been described, with impressive inaccuracy, as

the English Zola. At what was practically the outset of his career he
gained a certain notoriety; which did him good, by calling public
attention to an unknown name; it did him harm, by attaching to that
name a certain stigma. In a certainly remote year, but a year we all
of us remember, there were strange signs in the literary Zodiac.
There had been a distinctly new growth in the short story, and along
with the short story ("poisonous honey stolen from France") came a
new license in dealing imaginatively with life, almost permitting the
Englishman to contend with the writers of other nations on their own
ground; permitting him, that is to say, to represent life as it really is.
Foreign influences, certainly, had begun to have more and more
effect upon the making of such literature as is produced in England
nowadays; we had a certain acceptance of Ibsen, a popular personal
welcome of Zola, and literary homage paid to Verlaine. What do
these facts really mean? It is certain that they mean something.
The visit of Zola, for instance—how impossible that would have been
a little while ago! A little while ago we were opening the prison
doors for the publishers who had ventured to bring out translations
of Nana and La Terre; now we open the doors of the Guildhall for
the author of Nana and La Terre; and the same pens, with the same
jubilance, chronicle both incidents. To the spectator of the comedy
of life all this is merely amusing; but to the actor in the tragic
comedy of letters it means a whole new repertoire. Not so very
many years ago George Moore was the only novelist in England who
insisted on the novelist's right to be true to life, even when life is
unpleasant and immoral; and he was attacked on all sides.
The visit of Paul Verlaine, too—unofficial, unadvertised, as it was—
seemed to be significant of much. In the first place, it showed, as in
the case of Zola, a readiness on the part of some not unimportant
section of the public to overlook either personal or literary scandal
connected with a man of letters who has done really remarkable
work. But the interest of Verlaine's visit was much more purely
literary than that of Zola; his reception was in no sense a concession
to success, but entirely a tribute to the genius of a poet.
I find that William Watson published only one tiny volume of verse,
the barren burlesque of The Eloping Angels, which should never
have been printed, and a book of prose, Excursions in Criticism, the
criticism and the style being alike as immature and unbalanced as
his verse is generally mature and accomplished; while Mr. Le
Gallienne has forsaken the domesticity of the muse, to officiate, in
The Religion of a Literary Man, as the Canon Farrar of the younger
generation. The most really poetic of the younger poets, W. B. Yeats,
who has yet to be "discovered" by the average critic and the average
reader, has this year published a new volume of verse, The Countess
Kathleen, as well as a book of prose stories, The Celtic Twilight, and,
in conjunction with Edwin J. Ellis, a laborious study in the mysticism
of William Blake. Yeats' work, alone among recent work in verse, has
the imaginative quality of vision; it has the true Celtic charm and
mystery; and while such admirable verse as Watson's, such glowing
verse as Thompson's, are both superior, on purely technical grounds,
to Yeats', neither has the spontaneous outflow of the somewhat
untrained singing-voice of the younger poet.
Another writer of verse who has not yet been estimated at his
proper value, John Davidson, has also published a new book of
poems, Fleet Street Eclogues, and a book of prose, A Random
Itinerary. It is difficult to do justice to Davidson, for he never does
justice to himself. His verse is always vivid and striking; at its best it
has a delightful quality of fantastic humor and quaint extravagance;
but it is singularly uneven, and never, in my opinion, at its best in
purely modern subjects. The Random Itinerary is a whole series of
happy accidents; but there are gaps in the series. Davidson strikes
one as a man who might do almost anything; why, then, does he not
do it?
Now, these paradoxical digressions have brought me back to the
question of Zola and Moore, and of the realistic novel. Moore's were
based on no theories; Zola's on certain theories, really a view of
humanity which he adopted as a formula: "Nature seen through a
temperament;" a definition supposed to be his definition of all art;
which it most certainly is not. Yet nothing, certainly, could be more
exact and expressive as a definition of the art of Huysmans.
Zola has made up his mind that he will say everything without
omitting a single item; so that his vision is the vision of the mediocre
man; and his way of finding out in a slang dictionary that a filthy
idea can be expressed by an ingeniously filthy phrase in Argot, is by
no means desirable. Every one knows two sentences in that
supreme masterpiece, Madame Bovary, how that detail, brought in
without the slightest emphasis of the husband turning his back at
the very instant when his wife dies, is a detail of immense
psychological value; it indicates to us, at the very beginning of the
book, just the character of the man about whom we are to read so
much. Zola would have taken at least two pages to say that, and,
after all, he would not have said it.
Compare with any of Zola's novels the amazingly clever novel of
Moore, A Mummer's Wife, which goes with several other novels
which are—well—manqués, in spite of their ability, their
independence, their unquestionable merits of various kinds. A
Mummers Wife is admirably put together, admirably planned and
shaped; the whole composition of the book is masterly. The style
may drag, but not the action; the construction of a sentence may be
uncertain, but not the construction of a character. The actor and his
wife are really living people; we see them in their surroundings, and
we see every detail of those surroundings. Here, of course, he would
never have made Zola's stupid mistake; but can one imagine for a
moment—I certainly can not—the writer of this novel writing,
creating, (if I may dare use the word) two such sentences of
Flaubert, which I quote in their original? "Huit jours après, comme
elle étendait du linge dans sa cour, elle fut prise d'un crachement de
sang, et le lendemain, tandis que Charles avait le dos tourné pour
fermer le rideau de la fenêtre, elle dit: 'Ah! Mon Dieu!' poussa un
soupir et s'évanouit. Ella était morte."
George Moore's Modern Painting is full of injustices, brutality and
ignorances; but it is full also of the most generous justice, the most
discriminating sympathy, and the genuine knowledge of the painter.
It is hastily thought out, hastily written; but here, in these vivid,
direct, unscrupulously logical pages, you will find some of the secrets
of the art of painting, let out, so to speak, by an intelligence all
sensation, which has soaked them up without knowing it. Yet,
having begun by trying to paint, and having failed in painting, and so
set himself to the arduous task of being a prose-writer, he is often,
in spite of his painter's accuracy as to "values" and "technique" and
so on, unreliable.
For, being neither creative as a novelist nor as a critic, he has
nothing, as a matter of course, of two among many essential
qualities: vision and divination. Take, for instance, a few pages
anywhere in L'Art Romanesque of Baudelaire, or from his prose on
Delacroix, on Constantine Guys, on Wagner, on Daumier, on Whistler,
on Flaubert, and on Balzac—where he is always supreme and
consummate, "fiery and final"—and place these beside any chosen
pages of Moore's prose on either Balzac or on Whistler, and you will
see all the difference in the world: as I have said above, between
the creative and the uncreative criticism.
Had Walter Pater devoted himself exclusively to art criticism, there is
no doubt that, in a sense, he would have been a great art critic.
There are essays scattered throughout his work, as in the Botticelli
where he first introduces Botticelli to the modern world, as in the
Leonardo da Vinci—in which the simplest words take color from each
other by the cunning accident of their placing in the sentences, the
subtle spiritual fire kindling from word to word creates a
masterpiece, a miracle in which all is inspiration, all is certainty, all is
evocation, and which, in the famous page on La Gioconda, rises to
the height of actually lyrical prose—in which the essential principles
of the art of painting are divined and interpreted with extraordinary
subtlety. In the same sense all that Whistler has written about
painting deserves to be taken seriously, and read with
understanding. Written in French, and signed by Baudelaire, his
truths, and paradoxes reflecting truths, would have been realized for
what they are. He fought for himself, and spared no form of
stupidity: for, in Whistler, apart from his malice, his poisonous
angers, taste was carried to the point of genius, and became
creative.
George Moore's literary career has been singularly interesting; his
character as a writer is very curious. A man who respects his art,
who is devoted to literature, who has a French eye for form, he
seems condemned to produce work which is always spotted with
imperfection. All his life he has been seeking a style, and he has not
yet found one. At times he drops into style as if by accident, and
then he drops style as if by design. He has a passionate delight in
the beauty of good prose; he has an ear for the magic of phrases;
his words catch at times a troubled expressive charm; yet he has
never attained ease in writing, and he is capable of astounding
incorrectness—the incorrectness of a man who knows better, who is
not careless and yet who can not help himself. Yet the author of A
Mummer's Wife, of The Confessions of a Young Man, of Impressions
and Opinions, has more narrowly escaped being a great writer than
even he himself, perhaps, is aware.

FRANCIS THOMPSON
 I

If Crashaw, Shelley, Donne, Marvell, Patmore and some other poets

had not existed, Francis Thompson would be a poet of remarkable
novelty. Not that originality, in the strictest sense, is always essential
to the making of a poet. There have been poets who have so
absolutely lived in another age, whose whole soul has been so
completely absorbed by a fashion of writing, perhaps a single writer,
belonging to an earlier century, that their work has been an actual
reincarnation of this particular time or writer. Chatterton, for
instance, remains one of the finest of English poets, entirely on
account of poems which were so deliberately imitative as to have
been passed off as transcripts from old manuscripts. Again, it is
possible to be deftly and legitimately eclectic, as was Milton, for
example. Milton had, in an extraordinary degree, the gift of
assimilating all that he found, all that he borrowed. Often, indeed,
he improved his borrowed goods; but always he worked them into
the pattern of his own stuff, he made them part of himself; and
wisdom is justified of her children. Now Thompson, though he
affects certain periods, is not so absorbed in any one as to have
found his soul by losing it; nor is he a dainty borrower from all,
taking his good things wheresoever he finds them. Rather, he has
been impressed by certain styles, in themselves incompatible, indeed
implying the negation of one another—that of Crashaw, for instance,
and that of Patmore—and he has deliberately mixed them, against
the very nature of things. Thus his work, with all its splendors, has
the impress of no individuality; it is a splendor of rags and patches, a
very masque of anarchy. A new poet announces himself by his new
way of seeing things, his new way of feeling things; Thompson
comes to us a cloudy visionary, a rapturous sentimentalist, in whom
emotion means colored words, and sight the opportunity for a
bedazzlement.
The opening section of the book Love in Dian's Lap is an experiment
in Platonic love. The experiment is in itself interesting, though here
perhaps a little too deliberate; in its bloodless ecstasy it recalls