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Drupal 6 JavaScript and jQuery 1st Edition Matt
Butcher Digital Instant Download
Author(s): Matt Butcher
ISBN(s): 9781847196163, 1847196160
Edition: 1
File Details: PDF, 3.51 MB
Year: 2009
Language: english
Drupal 6 JavaScript and jQuery

Putting jQuery, AJAX, and JavaScript effects into your

Drupal 6 modules and themes

Matt Butcher

BIRMINGHAM - MUMBAI

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Drupal 6 JavaScript and jQuery

Copyright © 2009 Packt Publishing

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval
system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior written
permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embedded in
critical articles or reviews.

Every effort has been made in the preparation of this book to ensure the accuracy of
the information presented. However, the information contained in this book is sold
without warranty, either express or implied. Neither the author, Packt Publishing,
nor its dealers or distributors will be held liable for any damages caused or alleged
to be caused directly or indirectly by this book.

Packt Publishing has endeavored to provide trademark information about all the
companies and products mentioned in this book by the appropriate use of capitals.
However, Packt Publishing cannot guarantee the accuracy of this information.

First published: February 2009

Production Reference: 1180209

Published by Packt Publishing Ltd.

32 Lincoln Road
Olton
Birmingham, B27 6PA, UK.

ISBN 978-1-847196-16-3

www.packtpub.com

Cover Image by Damian Carvill (damianc@packtpub.com)

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 Credits

Author Production Editorial

Manager
Matt Butcher
Abhijeet Deobhakta

Reviewers
Editorial Team Leader
Dave Myburgh
Akshara Aware
Paul Lovvik

Project Team Leader

Senior Acquisition Editor
Lata Basantani
Douglas Paterson

Project Coordinator
Development Editor
Leena Purkait
Swapna V. Verlekar

Proofreader
Technical Editor
Joel T. Johnson
Amey Kanse

Production Coordinator
Copy Editor
Rajni R. Thorat
Sneha Kulkarni

Cover Work
Indexer
Rajni R. Thorat
Hemangini Bari

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 About the author

Matt Butcher is a Drupal programmer for Palantir.net. He is a member of the

Emerging Technologies Lab at Loyola University Chicago, where he is currently
finishing a Ph.D. in philosophy. He has written five books for Packt Publishing,
including Learning Drupal 6 Module Development, Mastering OpenLDAP, Managing
and Customizing OpenCms 6, and Developing Websites with OpenCms. He has also
contributed articles to various web sites and scholarly journals. He is an active
contributor in several Open Source projects.

Thanks to Gábor Hojtsy and Ariel Hitron for helping with the
sections on the JavaScript translation system. Greg Knaddison
and a few others organized DrupalCamp Colorado, which was the
test bed for many of the ideas and examples in the book. Douglas
Paterson and Leena Purkait not only managed the process of putting
this book together, but also worked with me to make this book
the pilot for the RAW program. Thanks also to the DrupalCamp
Chicago crowd, who provided feedback on the later chapters. John
Forsythe was instrumental in getting the early chapters prepared
for the RAW release. Dave Myburgh and Paul Lovvik provided
copious comments on the book. Larry Garfield, Nate Striedinger,
Ken Rickard, Greg Dunlap, John Wilkins, Sam Boyer, and the rest
of the Palantir team, have (wittingly or unwittingly) been great
sources of information and inspiration. Thanks also to Scott Dexter
and Samir Chopra, whose work has continued to fortify my belief in
FOSS ethics. Katherine, Anna, Claire, and Angie had to give up the
occasional Sunday afternoon activities so that I could write this book.
To them, I indubitably owe the greatest debt of gratitude.

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 About the reviewers

Dave Myburgh has been involved with computers even before the Web existed.
He studied to be a molecular biologist, but discovered that he liked working with
computers more than bacteria. He had his own computer business in South Africa
(where he grew up), which involved technical support and sales. He even created
a few static web sites for clients during that time.

He went back to science for a few years when he first came to Canada, and then
got sucked into the world of Drupal when a friend wanted a site for a local historical
society. Since then, he has once again started his own company that now builds
web sites exclusively in Drupal (he doesn't "do static" anymore). There is no lack
of work in the Drupal world, and he now balances his time between work and
family. He has also reviewed several Drupal books, including Drupal 5 Themes
and Drupal 6 Themes.

I would like to thank my family for being so supportive of me

and what I do. Working from home can be a mixed blessing
sometimes, but having the opportunity to watch my son grow
up makes it all worthwhile.

Paul Lovvik is a Principal Engineer at Acquia and a contributor of Drupal. He

received his B.S. in Computer Science from California State University. He has spent
the last 15 years developing software at various technology companies, including
Parallax Graphics, Sun Microsystems, and Openwave Systems. He has experience
with developing in C, C++, Java, JavaScript, and PHP.

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This material is copyright and is licensed for the sole use by Richard Ostheimer on 18th June 2009
2205 hilda ave., , missoula, , 59801
 Table of Contents
Preface 1
Chapter 1: Drupal and JavaScript 7
Do you speak...? 8
PHP 9
SQL 10
HTML 11
CSS 12
XML 13
JavaScript 14
Drupal's architecture 15
The Drupal Core 16
The Theme Engine 18
Modules 18
Users, nodes, and blocks 19
Users 19
Blocks 20
Nodes 22
Drupal JavaScript development tools 23
A good editor 24
Firebug 24
The Drupal Devel package 26
Summary 28
Chapter 2: Working with JavaScript in Drupal 29
How Drupal handles JavaScript 30
Where Drupal JavaScript comes from? 31
Project overview: printer-friendly page content 32
The printer script 33

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Table of Contents

Drupal coding standards 34

Stylistic differences between PHP and JavaScript 35
The first lines 36
The print() function 38
Creating a theme 43
Full themes and subthemes 44
Creating a theme: first steps 45
Creating a theme directory 45
Creating the .info file 47
Adding files to the theme 48
The CSS file 52
Adding JavaScript to a theme 52
Overriding a template 52
Adding the script file 57
Summary 58
Chapter 3: jQuery: Do More with Drupal 59
jQuery: the write less, do more library 59
A first jQuery script 62
Getting jQuery 62
Starting with a basic HTML document 62
Querying with jQuery (and the Firebug console) 63
Bye bye, jQuery(); hello $() 67
Doing more with jQuery 68
Using jQuery in Drupal 71
Don't do it yourself! 73
Project: rotating sticky node teasers 73
The StickyRotate functions 76
The init() function 78
The periodicRefresh() function 86
Adding an event handler with jQuery 89
A brief look backward 91
Summary 92
Chapter 4: Drupal Behaviors 93
The drupal.js library 93
Drupal JavaScript behaviors 95
Defining a behavior to handle repeatable events 96
Telling Drupal to attach behaviors 98
Context and behaviors: bug potential 99
Project: collapsing blocks 102
Utilities 107
Checking capabilities with Drupal.jsEnabled 107
The Drupal.checkPlain() function (and the jQuery alternative) 108
The Drupal.parseJson() function 111

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 Table of Contents

The Drupal.encodeURIComponent() function 112

The Drupal.getSelection() function 113
Project: a simple text editor 113
The main behavior 118
Step 1: find text areas that need processing 119
Step 2: add event handlers 119
Step 3: attach the button bar 120
Summary 126
Chapter 5: Lost in Translations 127
Translations and drupal.js 128
Translation and languages 128
Turning on translation support 129
Getting and installing translations 129
Configuring languages 130
Adding the language 130
Configuring languages 131
Using the translation functions 133
The Drupal.t() function 134
The Drupal.formatPlural() function 136
Adding a translated string 138
Project: weekend countdown 139
Translating the project's strings 144
Changing a translation file 153
Summary 154
Chapter 6: JavaScript Theming 155
Theming in PHP, theming in JavaScript 155
The Drupal.theme() function 159
Project: menus and blocks 161
Adding a block with a menu in it 162
Theming a block 164
Theming a menu 168
The JavaScript theming module 174
Theming tables 175
Sending notifications to the user 178
Adding links 179
Project: templates for JavaScript 180
The node template 181
From a template to a system: what next? 183
A template system 184
Theming with templates 187
Using the template system 192

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Table of Contents

A word of warning 194

Summary 196
Chapter 7: AJAX and Drupal Web Services 197
AJAX, JSON, XHR, AHAH, and Web 2.0 198
Web application and Web 2.0 198
The position of AJAX in Web 2.0 199
Getting technical 200
Move over, XML 201
Project: web clips with RSS and AJAX 204
Really Simple Syndication (RSS) 205
The project goals 206
Creating the web clips tool 207
The WebClips behavior 209
The WebClips.showItem() function 217
Project: real-time comment notifications 219
Displaying comments as notifications 219
Installing Views and Views Datasource 220
Creating a JSON view 221
The comment watcher 226
The comment watcher behavior 230
The CommentWatcher.check() function 231
Theming the comment notification 235
Managing cookies 237
Summary 240
Chapter 8: Building a Module 241
How modules work 241
The module structure 242
The directory 243
The .info file 243
The .module file 243
Where do modules go? 243
Project: creating a JavaScript loader module 244
Creating the module directory 245
A JavaScript sample 246
The module's .info file 247
A custom addition 248
The .module file 248
The jsloader_help() function 249
The jsloader_init() function 252
Project: the editor revisited 256
First step: creating the module 256
The CSS file 258
The bettereditor.module file 258
[ iv ]

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 Table of Contents

The bettereditor.js script 268

The editor() behavior 272
The insertTag() function 277
The addTag() theme 278
The button() theme function 284
The buttonBar() theme function 285
A last question 285
Summary 286
Chapter 9: Integrating and Extending 287
Project: autocompletion and search 287
The theory 288
Our plan 289
First step: creating the taxonomy 289
The new module 291
The search autocomplete JavaScript 294
Project: jQuery UI 299
What is jQuery UI? 299
Getting jQuery UI 300
The accordion module 301
The .info and .module files 302
The accordion JavaScript 303
Project: writing a jQuery plug-in 309
The plug-in code 310
A brief introduction to closures 312
The divWrap() function 315
Summary 318
Index 319

[v]

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This material is copyright and is licensed for the sole use by Richard Ostheimer on 18th June 2009
2205 hilda ave., , missoula, , 59801
 Preface
JavaScript: It's not just for calculators and image rollovers.

Drupal 6 is loaded with new features, not all of which are necessarily implemented
in PHP. This unique book, for web designers and developers, will guide you through
what can be done with JavaScript (and especially with jQuery) in Drupal 6.

With the combination of the powerhouse jQuery library, with its own robust set of
JavaScript tools, Drupal 6 comes with a pre-packaged killer JavaScript environment.
Cross-platform by nature, it provides all of the tools necessary to create powerful
AJAX-enabled scripts, gorgeous visual effects, and view-enhancing behaviors.
In addition, Drupal developers have ported some of its most powerful PHP tools
(like a theming engine and support for localization and language translation) to
JavaScript, making it possible to write simple scripts, where once only complex PHP
code could be used.

This book gives you the keys to the toolbox, showing you how to use Drupal's
JavaScript libraries to make your modules and themes more dynamic, interactive,
and responsive, and add effects to make your Drupal site explode into life!

If you've dipped your toe in the water of theme or module development with Drupal
6, this is the book that will make the look and behavior of your work something
special. With it's project-based approach, this book is carefully constructed to guide
you from how JavaScript fits into the overall Drupal architecture, to making you
a master of the jQuery library in the world of Drupal themes and modules.

What this book covers

Chapter 1 focuses on various languages and technologies used in Drupal. We will
have a high-level overview of the Drupal architecture followed by an examination
of some key Drupal concepts such as users, blocks, and nodes. From there, we will
move on to developers tools and learn about a few utilities that can expedite Drupal
JavaScript development.

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Preface

Chapter 2 covers the basics on how JavaScript can be used within Drupal 6. We will
begin by exploring how JavaScript is included in Drupal pages, and then create our
first script for Drupal.

Chapter 3 focuses on jQuery. Initially, we will look at jQuery independently of

Drupal, and then we will take a closer look at how jQuery is integrated with Drupal.

Chapter 4 focuses on Drupal Behaviors and the major utility functions provided by
drupal.js, which provides functions for behaviors, translation, theming, as well as
other utility functions.

Chapter 5 focuses on the translation system in Drupal, and the JavaScript tools
that are used in conjunction with that system. We will look at installing and
configuring multiple languages using JavaScript functions, and then extracting
and translating strings.

Chapter 6 focuses on the JavaScript theming system. We will look at the JavaScript
theming module, and examine some of the themes and user interface tools that it
provides. We will implement our own template system based on HTML, CSS,
and JavaScript.

Chapter 7 focuses on the AJAX family of tools. We will learn to use jQuery's
built-in AJAX support to get content from Drupal, and also use JSON (JavaScript
Object Notation) as a JavaScript-friendly way of sending data from Drupal.

Chapter 8 focuses on module development. We will discuss how modules work,

and will learn how to create modules and use them for adding JavaScript features.
We will also learn to make our JavaScript available to other modules.

Chapter 9 focuses on advanced topics. We will look at integrating existing Drupal

JavaScript tools with our own site design, and then we will see how to extend the
JavaScript libraries with the jQuery UI library. We will also extend jQuery's library
with our own functions, building a jQuery plug-in in the process.

Who this book is for

This book is for web designers and developers who want to add JavaScript elements
to Drupal themes or modules to create more flexible and responsive user interfaces.

You are expected to know about the basic operation of Drupal, and be familiar with
the concept of theming and modules in Drupal. No experience with creating themes
or modules is required.

[2]

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 Preface

You will also need to know the basics of client-side web development. This includes
HTML, CSS, but you should also have a rudimentary grasp of JavaScript syntax.
Familiarity with PHP programming will be an advantage, since we will be writing
PHPTemplate files and (at the end) creating Drupal modules. However, PHP is
covered thoroughly enough that even the PHP neophyte will not find the text
too demanding. The book also covers the jQuery JavaScript library and its use in
Drupal, but no knowledge of jQuery is expected. You will learn everything you
need in this book.

Conventions
In this book, you will find a number of styles of text that distinguish between
different kinds of information. Here are some examples of these styles, and an
explanation of their meaning.

Code words in text are shown as follows, "We can include other contexts through the
use of the include directive."

A block of code will be set as follows:

Drupal.behaviors.countParagraphs = function (context) {
if ($('#lots', context).size() > 0) {
return;
}
else if ($('p', context).size() > 5) {
$('body').append('<p id="lots">Lots of Text!</p>');
}
};

When we wish to draw your attention to a particular part of a code block, the
relevant lines or items will be made bold:
if(sel.id == txtareaID && sel.start != sel.end) {
txtareaEle.value = SimpleEditor.insertTag(
sel.start,
sel.end,
$(this).hasClass('bold') ? 'strong' : 'em',
txtareaEle.value
);
sel.start = sel.end = -1;
}

New terms and important words are introduced in a bold-type font. Words that you
see on the screen, in menus or dialog boxes for example, appear in our text like this:
"clicking the Next button moves you to the next screen".

[3]

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Preface

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 Preface

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[5]

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This material is copyright and is licensed for the sole use by Richard Ostheimer on 18th June 2009
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 Drupal and JavaScript
If you're anything like me, you're reading this first paragraph with two questions
in mind: Is this book going to cover the topics I need? And, is this book any good?
(Again, if you're anything like me you're groaning already that the author has
lapsed into indulgent first-person navel-gazing.)

Regarding the second question, I'm obviously not the person whose opinion you'll
want. But here's the answer to the first question: The aim of this book is to provide
a practical, hands-on approach to using the JavaScript scripting language to extend
and customize the Drupal 6 Content Management System (CMS).

Drupal 6 offers JavaScript tools designed to enable developers to turn Drupal sites
into Web 2.0 platforms. That's why this book exists. We're going to see how to use
Drupal's JavaScript support to assemble the building blocks needed to enhance
the client-side experience. Tools such as jQuery, language translation, and AJAX
support—all included in Drupal's core—provide powerful features that we will
explore. While we won't be developing word processors or webmail applications,
we will be developing widgets and tools that can be assembled in many different
ways to enrich the user's experience. Most importantly, we'll be doing this in a
practical and hands-on way.

What do I mean by ‘practical and hands-on'? I mean that every chapter after this one
will be organized around one or more projects. While preparing my previous book,
"Learning Drupal 6 Module Development", Packt Publishing, 978-1847194442, I came to
appreciate the power of Drupal's well-integrated JavaScript libraries. In this book,
we will use those libraries in conjunction with other Drupal technologies to create
functional pieces of code that you can use. Or even better yet, use them as a starting
point to create something even more well-suited to meet your own needs. We won't
be agonizing over the details of every function, nor will we spend a lot of time
looking at the theory. Instead, the pace will be crisp as we work on code, learn
how it works, and how it can be used.

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Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
felt that the rhythm of dancing is a kind of arrested music, which
Degas has certainly given us, as in the feet that poise, the silent
waves of wandering sound of the dancer's moving melody, and her
magic. A man of singular, but not universal, genius, Degas, his work
being done, leaves behind him a sense of intense regret; for he
created a new art in painting, that is to say, in painting the sex he
adored, without pity and without malice.

ON HAMLET AND HAMLETS

I have seen many Hamlets. I have seen romantic, tragic, passionate,

morbid, enigmatical, over-subtle and over-exceptional Hamlets, the
very bells on the cap of "Fortune's fool." And as almost every actor
has acted this part, every one of them gives a different
interpretation: that is to say, from the time of Shakespeare to our
own age. One knows that Shakespeare, besides other of the
dramatists, acted at least one part, which seems to have surprised
his audience: the Ghost in Hamlet. And as Shakespeare put more of
his inner self into Hamlet's mouth than into the mouth of any of his
other characters, it is not to be forgotten that perhaps the most
wonderful prose in our language is spoken by Hamlet in that famous
scene with the Players. Take, for instance, this speech:

I have of late—but wherefore I know not—lost all my mirth,

foregone all custom of exercise; and indeed it goes so heavily
with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to
me a sterile promontory, that most excellent canopy, the air,
look you, this brave over-hanging firmament, this majestical
roof fretted with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to
me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapors. What a
piece of work is a man! How noble in reason! how infinite in
faculty! in form and moving how express and admirable: in
action how like an angel! in appearance how like a god! The
beauty of the world! the paragon of animals! And yet to me,
 what is this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me: no, nor
woman neither, though by your smiling you seem to say so.

If any prose is immortal, this is; and creative also, and imaginative,
and lyrical: it has vision, and it has the sense of the immense
contrast between "this majestical roof" and "this quintessence of
dust" to which we are all reduced at the end.
I have always felt that a play of Shakespeare, seen on the stage,
should give one the impression of assisting at "a solemn music." The
rhythm of Shakespeare's art is not fundamentally different from that
of Beethoven, and Romeo and Juliet is a suite, Hamlet a symphony.
To act either of these plays with whatever qualities of another kind,
and to fail in producing this musical rhythm from beginning to end,
is to fail in the very foundation. It has been said that Shakespeare
will sacrifice his drama to his poetry, and even Hamlet has been
quoted against him. But let Hamlet be rightly acted, and whatever
has seemed mere meditation will be realized as a part of that
thought which makes or waits on action. The outlines of the tragedy
are crude, irresistible melodrama, still irresistible to the gallery; and
the greatness of the play, though it comes to us by means of its
poetry, comes to us legitimately as a growth out of melodrama.
I have often asked myself this question, when I have sat in the stalls
watching a play, and having to write about it: is the success of this
piece due to the playwright's skill or to the skill of the actors? Nor is
any question more difficult to answer than this; which Lamb
certainly does his best to answer in one of his underlined sentences,
in regard to the actor. "He must be thinking all the while of his
appearance, because he knows that all the while the spectators are
judging of it." And again when he says: "In fact, the things aimed at
in theatrical representations are to arrest the spectator's eye upon
the form and the gesture, and to give a more favorable hearing to
what is spoken: it is not what the character is, but how he looks; not
what he says, but how he speaks it." Was anything more
fundamentally true ever said on what the actor ought to do? Lamb
answered it again, in his instinctive fashion of aiming his arrow
straight at the mark, when he said of a performance of Shakespeare
in which there were two great actors, that "it seemed to embody
and realize conceptions which had hitherto assumed no distinct
shape," but that "when the novelty is past, we find to our cost that
instead of realizing an idea, we have only materialized and brought
down a fine vision to the standard of flesh and blood."
Every artist who has the sense of the sublime knows that the pure
genius is essentially silent, and that his revelation has in it more of
vision than of reality. For when he deigns to appear, he is
constrained, under penalty of extinction, to lessen himself so as to
pass into the Inaccessible. He creates; if he fails in creation, he is of
necessity condemned to the utter darkness. He is the ordinator of
chaos: he calls and disposes of the blind elements; and when we are
uplifted in our admiration before some sublime work, it is not that he
creates an idea in us: it is that, under the divine influence of the
man of genius, this idea, which was in us, obscure to itself, is
reawakened.
I am confronted now with Villiers de l'Isle Adam in his conjectures in
regard to certain questions—never yet settled—in Hamlet. A modern
man of taste might ask what Shakespeare would have answered if
the actor who played Hamlet's part were to interrogate the Specter
"escaped from hideous Night" as to whether he had seen God's face,
whether he wanted to be concerned with, not the eternal mysteries,
but with what he had seen in hell and what he hated seeing on
earth; and, if he had come only to utter absurdities, really, why need
he have died at all?
The Ghost, by the mere fact of being there, seems, at first sight, an
absurdity; but if he has really seen God and the Absolute and if he
has entered into them—which is impossible—the sublimity of his
words might seem to be superfluous; and yet the incoherencies that
he utters are all the more terrifying because of their
incomprehensibility. "The secret of the Absolute cannot be expressed
with syntax, and therefore one cannot ask the ghost to produce
more than an impression." The Specter, for Shakespeare, is not a
human being: he is obsession. Had he wanted Hamlet really to
perceive the ghost and had he thought this dramatic effect ought to
seize on the imagination of the audience, it was because he was
certain that every one of them, in the ghost perceived by Hamlet,
would see the familiar ghost that actually haunts himself.
Hamlet's soliloquy "To be or not to be" is a magnificent disavowal—
on the part of Shakespeare. And if one excuses the contradiction by
supposing that Hamlet tried to deliver himself from the obsession, to
doubt, one can only reply that he never doubts the Ghost itself, but
the nature of this ghost; for he says at the end of the second act:
The spirit I have seen
May be the devil: and the devil hath power
To assume a pleasing shape; yea, and perhaps,
Out of my weakness and my melancholy,
(As he is very potent with such spirits),
Abuses me to damn me.
Therefore if we compare the motive and the spirit of those sickly
phrases with those of the soliloquy, we shall realize that this has no
relation whatsoever with the superstitious character of Hamlet; even
more so, because every single word of them is in flagrant
contradiction with the entire drama.
I have no intention of discussing either Mr. Martin Hervey's
representation of Hamlet or the somber and sinister Hamlet acted by
Josef Keinz in Berlin; or the performance of Tree, or of Forbes-
Robertson; or of any one's, with the exception of that given by
Edward Sothern. He is by no means the only Hamlet, for there are
always—to quote Browning—"points in Hamlet's soul unseized by the
Germans yet." Sothern had depth in his acting; and there was
nothing fantastic in his grave, subdued, powerful, and piteous
representation, in which no symbol, no figment of a German brain,
no metaphysical Faust, loomed before us, but a man more to be
pitied and not less to be honored than any man in Elsinore. Yet
when one considers what Hamlet actually was—and there is no
getting at the depths of his mystery—one finds, for one thing, a man
too intensely restless to make up his mind on any question of
thought, of conduct, and that he does for the most part the opposite
of what he says. The pretense of madness is an almost transparent
pretense, and used often for a mere effect of malicious wit, in the
confusion of fools, or at the prompting of mere nerves. To me
Hamlet seems to be cursed with the veritable genius of inaction.
Always he is alone, even when he is in a crowd; he is the most
sensitive of all Shakespeare's creations; his nerves are jarred, when
knaves would play on him as one plays on an instrument; his blood
is feverish, infected with the dark melancholy that haunts him. Does
he love Ophelia? I see in him no passion for loving: to him passion is
an abstract thing. In any case, irresolution is baneful to him;
irresolution that loses so many chances, for which no one forgives
himself. This Swinburne denies, supposing that the signal
characteristic of Hamlet's inmost nature "is by no means irresolution
or hesitation or any form of weakness, but rather the strong conflux
of contending forces;" adding, what is certainly true, that the
compulsory expedition of Hamlet to England and his hot-headed
daring prove to us his almost unscrupulous resolution in time of
practical need. Only, when all Hamlet's plans of revenge have been
executed, with the one exception of his unnecessary death, before
he utters his last immortal words "The rest is silence," the thought of
death to him is as if a veil had been withdrawn for an instant, the
veil which renders life possible, and, for that instant, he has seen.

LEONARDO DA VINCI

What counts, certainly, for much of what is so extraordinary in the

genius of Leonardo da Vinci—who died exactly five hundred years
ago—is the fact that the noble blood he inherited (the so-called
dishonor that hangs over his birth being in his case a singular honor)
is curiously like the stain of some strange color in one of his
paintings; he being the least of all men to whom there could be
anything poisonous in the exotic flowers of evil that germinated in
Milan; where, as in Venice and in Rome, moved a changeful people
who, in the very midst of their exquisite and cruel amusements,
committed the most impossibly delicious sins, and without the
slightest stings of conscience. Savonarola, from whom, in the last
years of his life, Botticelli caught the contagion of the monk's
fanaticism, was then endeavoring to strip off one lovely veil after
another from the beauty of mortal things, rending them angrily; for
which, finally, he received the baptism of fire. Rodrigo Borgia—a
Spaniard born in Xàtiva—then Pope Alexander VI, was fortunate
enough to possess in his son, Cesare, a man of sinister genius—
cruel, passionate, ardent—who had the wonderful luck of persuading
Leonardo to wander with him in their wild journey over Central Italy
in 1502, as his chief engineer, and as inspector of strongholds. Not
even the living pages of Machiavelli can give us more than a glimpse
of what those conversations between two such flame-like creatures
must have been; yet, we are aware of Cesare being condemned by
an evil fate, as evil as Nero's, to be slain at the age of thirty-one,
and of Leonardo, guided by his good genius, living to the age of
sixty-seven.
The science of the Renaissance was divided, as it were, by a
thousand refractions of things seen and unseen; so that when
Leonardo, poring over his crucibles, desires no alchemist's
achievement, but the achievement of the impossible, his vision is
concentrated into infinite experiences, known solely to himself;
exactly as when, in his retirement in the villa of the Melzi, his
imagination is stirred feverishly as he writes detached notes, as he
dashes off rapid drawings; and always not for other men's pleasure,
but simply for his own; careless, as I think few men of genius have
ever been, of anything but the moment's work, the instant's
inspiration. And, what is also certain is that Da Vinci like
Shakespeare created, ambiguously for all the rest of the world, flesh
that is flesh and not flesh, bodies that are bodies and not bodies, by
something inexplicable in their genius; something nervous,
magnetic, overwhelming; and, to such an extent, that if one chooses
to call to mind the greatest men of genius who have existed, this
painter and this dramatist must take their places beside Aeschylus
and beside Balzac.
Of Leonardo da Vinci, Pater has said: "Curiosity and the desire of
beauty—these are the two elementary forces in his genius; curiosity
often in conflict with the desire of beauty, but generating in union
with it, a type of subtle and curious grace." Certainly the desire of
perfection is, in Da Vinci, organic; so much so that there remains in
him always the desire, as well as the aim, of attaining nothing less
than finality, which he achieves more finally than any of the other
Italian painters; and, mixed with all these, is that mystery which is
only one part of his magic.
Is all this mystery and beauty, then, only style, and acquired style?
Fortunate time, when style had become of such subtlety that it
affects us, to-day, as if it were actually a part of the soul! But was
there not, in Leonardo, a special quality, which goes some way to
account for this? Does it not happen to us, as we look at one of his
mysterious faces, to seem to distinguish, in the eyes reluctant to let
out their secret, some glimpse, not of the soul of Monna Lisa, nor of
the Virgin of the Rocks, but of our own retreating, elusive, not yet
recognized soul? Just so, I fancy, Leonardo may have revealed their
own souls to Luini and to Solario, and in such a way that for those
men it was no longer possible to see themselves without something
of a new atmosphere about them, the atmosphere of those which
Leonardo had drawn to him out of the wisdom of secret and eternal
things. With men like Leonardo style is, really, the soul, and their
influence on others the influence of those who have discovered a
little more of the unknown, adding, as it were, new faculties to the
human soul.
Raphael, I have said elsewhere, could "correct" Michelangelo, could
make Michelangelo jealous; Raphael, who said of him that he "treats
the Pope as the King of France himself would not dare to treat him,"
that he goes along the streets of Rome "like an executioner;"
Raphael who for the remaining years of his life paces the same
streets with that grim artist; of Raphael, may it not be asked: who in
the Vatican has not turned away from the stanza a little weary, as
one turns aside out of streets or rooms thronged with men and
women, happy, vigorous, and strangers: and has not gone back to
the Sistine Chapel, and looked at the ceiling on which Michelangelo
has painted a world that is not this world, men and women as
magnificent as our dreams, and has not replunged into that abyss
with a great sense of relief, with a supreme satisfaction?
Is this feeling of a kind of revulsion, before so many of his pictures,
really justifiable? Is it, I ask myself, reasonable to complain, as I was
obliged to complain in Rome, that his women have no strangeness in
their beauty: that they do not brood over mysteries, like Monna
Lisa? Might it not be equally reasonable to complain of the calm,
unthinking faces of Greek statues, in which the very disturbance of
thought—not of emotion—is blotted out, as it might be among
beings too divine for any meaner energy than that of mere
existence, "ideal spectators" of all that moves and is restless?

II

Two men of genius, in our own generation, have revealed for all time
the always inexplicable magic of Leonardo da Vinci: Walter Pater in
his prose and Dante Gabriel Rossetti in his sonnet. It is impossible
not to quote this lyrical prose.

The presence that thus so strangely rose beside the waters is

expressive of what in the ways of a thousand years men had
come to desire. Here is the head upon which all "the ends of the
world are come," and the eyelids are a little weary. It is a
beauty wrought out from within upon the flesh, the deposit,
little cell by cell, of strange thoughts and fantastic reveries and
exquisite passions. All the thoughts and experience of the world
have been etched and moulded there in that which they have of
power to refine and make expressive the outward form, the
 animalism of peace, the lust of Rome, the reverie of the Middle
Ages with its spiritual ambition and imaginative loves, the return
of the Pagan world, the sins of the Borgias. She is older than
the rocks among which she sits; like the vampire, she has been
dead many times, and learned the secrets of the grave; and has
been a diver in deep seas, and keeps their fallen day about her;
and trafficked for strange webs with Eastern merchants; and, as
Leda, was the mother of Helen of Troy, and, as Saint Anne, the
mother of Mary; and all this has been to her but as the sound of
lyres and flutes, and lives only in the delicacy with which it has
moulded the changing lineaments and tinged the eyelids and
the hands.

Rossetti, whose criticisms on poets are as direct and inevitable as his

finest verse, was always his own best critic. He who said finally:
"The life-blood of rhymed translation is this—that a good poem shall
not be turned into a bad one," was as finally right on himself, as he
was on others, in his unsurpassable revision of one of the most
imaginative sonnets ever written: "A Venetian Pastoral by Giorgione."
Certainly no poem of his shows more plainly the strength and wealth
of the workman's lavish yet studious hand. And, in this sonnet as in
the one on Leonardo, there is the absolute transfusion of a spirit that
seemed incommunicable from one master's hand to another's. Only
in the Leonardo, which I shall quote, there is none of the sovereign
oppression of absolute beauty and the nakedness of burning life that
I find in the Fête Champêtre. For in this divine picture the romantic
spirit is born, and with it modern art. Here we see Whistler and the
Japanese: a picture content to be no more than a picture: "an
instant made eternity," a moment of color, of atmosphere, of the
noon's intense heat, of faultless circumstance. It is a pause in music,
and life itself waits, while men and women are for a moment happy
and content and without desire; these, content to be beautiful and
to be no more than a strain of music; to those others, who are
content to know only that the hour is music.
Here, then, is Rossetti's version of the beauty of mysterious peace
which broods over the Virgin of the Rocks.
Mother, is this the darkness of the end,
The Shadow of Death? and is that outer sea
Infinite imminent Eternity?
And does the death-pang by man's seed sustained
In Time's each instant cause thy face to bend
Its silent prayer upon the Son, while he
Blesses the dead with his hand silently
To his long day which hours no more offend?

Mother of grace, the pass is difficult,

Keen as these rocks, and the bewildered souls
Throng it like echoes, blindly shuddering through.
Thy name, O Lord, each spirit's voice extols,
Whose peace abides in the dark avenue
Amid the bitterness of things occult.
So Leonardo, who said "that figure is not good which does not
express through its gestures the passions of its soul," becomes,
more than any painter, the painter of the soul. He has created, not
only in the Gioconda, a clairvoyant smile, which is the smile of
mysterious wisdom hidden in things; he has created the motion of
great waters; he has created types of beauty so exotic that they are
fascinating only to those who are drawn into the unmirrored depths
of this dreamless mirror. He invents a new form of landscape, subtle
and sorcerous, and a whole new movement for an equestrian statue;
besides inventing—what did not this miraculous man invent!—the
first quite simple and natural treatment of the Virgin and Child. So,
as he was content to do nothing as it had been done before, he
creates in the Gioconda a new art of portrait painting; and, in her, so
disquieting, that her eyes, as they follow you persistently, seem to
ask one knows not what impenetrable and seductive question, on
which all one's happiness might depend. Mysterious and enigmatical
as she is, there is in her face none of the melancholy—which is part
of the melancholy of Venice—that allures one's senses in a famous
picture in the Accademia; where, the feast being over, and the wine
drunk, something seems to possess the woman, setting those
pensive lines about her lips, which will smile again when she has
lifted her eyelids.

III

The sinister side of Leonardo da Vinci's genius leads him to the

execution of the most prodigious caricatures ever invented; that is to
say, before the malevolent and diabolical and macabre and
malignant creations in this genre of Goya. In his Caprichos one sees
the man's immense arrogance, his destructive and constructive
genius, his rebellion—perhaps even more so than Leonardo's—
against old tradition; which he hated and violated. Dramatic,
revolutionary, visionary in his somber Spanish fashion, it seems to
me that this—one of the supreme forms of his art—is, in the same
sense as Villon's Grand Testament, his Last Testament: for in both
poet and painter the nervous magnificence seen equally in the verse
and in the painting is created, almost literally, out of their life-blood.
Only, in Leonardo, visions shape themselves into strange perversities
—not the pensive perversities of Perugino—and assume aspects of
evasive horrors, of the utmost ugliness, and are transformed into
aspects of beauty and of cruelty, as the artist wanders in the hot
streets of Florence to catch glimpses of strange hair and strange
faces, as he and they follow the sun's shadow. He seizes on them,
furiously, curiously, then he refines upon them, molding them to the
fashion of his own moods; but always with that unerring sense of
beauty which he possesses supremely—beauty, often enough, in its
remoteness from actual reality. With passion he tortures them into
passionate shapes; with cruelty he makes them grimace; abnormally
sensitive (as Rodin often enough was) he is pitiless on the people he
comes in contact with, setting ironical flames that circle round them
as in Dante's Inferno, where the two most famous lovers of all time,
Francesca and Paolo, endure the painted images of the fires of hell,
eternally unconsumed. When he seeks absolute beauty there are
times when it is beyond the world that he finds it; when he seeks
ignominy, it is a breath blowing from an invisible darkness which
brings it to his nerves. In evoking singular landscapes, he invents
the bizarre. When he is concerned with the tragic passions of
difficult souls, he drags them suddenly out of some obscure
covering, and seems, in some of his extravagances, to set them
naked before us.
As it is Pater who says that inextricably mingled with those qualities
there is an element of mockery, "so that, whether in sorrow or
scorn, he caricatures Dante even," I am reminded of certain of
Botticelli's designs for Dante's inferno, in which I find the element of
caricature; as, for instance, when the second head grows on Dante's
shoulders, looking backward; as, in the face of Beatrice, which is
changed into a tragic mask, because in the poem she refrains from
smiling, lest the radiance of the seventh heaven, drawn into her
eyes, shall shrivel Dante into ashes.
Nearest to Leonardo in the sinister quality of his genius is El Greco. I
have never forgotten his Dream of Philip II, in the Escurial, where
there is a painted hell that suggests the fierce material hells of
Hieronymus von Bosch: a huge fanged mouth wide open, the
damned seen writhing in that red cavern, a lake of flame awaiting
those beyond, where the king, dressed in black, kneels at the side. It
is almost a vision of madness, and as if this tormented brain of the
fanatic, who built these prison walls about himself, and shut himself
living into a tomb-like cell, and dead into a more tomb-like crypt,
had wrought itself into the painter's brain; who would have found
something not uncongenial to himself in this mountainous place of
dust and gray granite, in which every line is rigid, every color ashen,
in a kind of stony immobility more terrible than any other of the
images of death.
I am tempted to bring in here, by way of comparison with these two
artists, Jacques Callot, a painter of extraordinary genius, born at
Nancy, in Lorraine, in 1592; who, in many of his works, created over
again ancient dragons and devils: created them with the fury of an
invention that never rested. In his engraving of the hanged men
there is that strangeness in beauty which takes away much of the
horror of the actual thing; and in his monstrous and malignant
Fantasie, where two inhuman creatures—in all the splendor of
caricature—grind I know not what poison, in a wide-mouthed jar,
plumed and demoniacal.
La Tentation de Saint Antoine, done in 1635, is stupendous. High in
the sky is the enormous figure of a reptile-faced Satan, who vomits
out of his mouth legions of evil spirits; he is winged with ferocious
wings that extend on both sides hugely; one of his clawed hands is
chained, the right hurls out lightning. There is Chaos in this
composition; it is imaginative in the highest degree of that satanical
quality that produces monstrosities. There are clawed creatures that
swim in the air, unicorns with stealthy glances. And, with his
wonderful sense of design, the saint is seen outside his cave,
assailed by legions of naked women, winged and wanton, shameless
and shameful. And what is the aim, what is the desire of these evil
creatures? To seduce Saint Antony of the Temptations.
Another picture painted on the same subject is that of Gruneweld in
the Cologne Museum, which represents a tortured creature who has
floated sheer off the earth in his agony, his face drawn inward, as it
were, with hideous pains; near him a crew of red and green devils,
crab-like, dragon-like, who squirm and gnaw and bark and claw at
him, in an obscene whirl and fierce orgy of onslaught. Below, a
strange bar of sunset and at the side a row of dripping trees;
behind, a black sky almost crackling with color. In some of the other
monstrous pictures I saw suggestions of Beardsley; as in the child
who kisses the Virgin with thrust-out lips; in those of Meister van S.
Severin, in which I found a conception of nature as unnatural and as
rigid as that of the Japanese, but turned hideous with hard German
reality, as in the terrifying dolls who are meant to be gracious in the
Italian manner. And in this room I was obliged to sit in the midst of a
great heat, where blood drips from all the walls, where tormented
figures writhe among bright-colored tormentors; where there is a
riot of rich cloths, gold and jewels, of unnatural beasts, of castles
and meadows, in which there is nothing exquisite; only an unending
cruelty in things. The very colors cry out at one; they grimace at
you; a crucified thief bends back over the top of the cross in his
struggles; all around monsters spawn out of every rock and cavern
and there is hell fire.
To turn from these to the Cranachs in Vienna is to be in another
world of art: an art more purposely perverse, more curiously
unnatural; but, where his genius is shown at its greatest, is in an
exquisite Judith holding the head of Holofernes, which lies, open-
eyed, all its red arteries visible, painted delicately. She wears orange
and red clothes, with collars and laces, and slashed sleeves through
which many rings are seen on her fingers; she has a large red hat
placed jauntily on her head. She is all peach-blossom and soft, half-
cruel sweetness with all the wicked indifference of her long narrow
eyes, the pink mouth and dimpled chin. She is a somnambulist, and
the sword she holds is scarcely stained. There are two drops of
blood on the table on which she rests the great curled head with its
open eyes; her fingers rest on the forehead almost caressingly. She
is Monna Lisa, become German and bourgeoise, having certainly
forgotten the mysterious secret of which she still keeps the sign on
her face.
Writing in Florence on Leonardo da Vinci I used by way of
comparison two Greek marbles I had seen in London; one, the head
of an old man, which is all energy and truth—comparable only in
Greek work, with the drunken woman in Munich, and, in modern art,
with La Vieille Heaulmière of Rodin; the other, a woman's head,
which ravishes the mind. The lips and eyes have no expression by
which one can remember them; but some infinitely mysterious
expression seems to flow through them as through the eyes and lips
of a woman's head by Leonardo. And all this reminds me of certain
unforgettable impressions; and, most of all, when in Bologna I saw,
in the Museo Civico, the spoils of Etruscan sepulchres, that weighed
on me heavily; and, at the same time, I felt an odor of death, such
as I had not even felt in Pompeii; where in so frightful a step
backward of twenty centuries, the mind reels, clutching at that
somewhat pacifying thought, for at least its momentary relief. Here
were the bodies of men and women, molded for ever in the gesture
of their last moment, and these rigid corpses are as vivid in their
interrupted life as the damp corpses in the morgue. In Bologna, as I
was pursued by the sight of the hairpins of dead women, there
flashed on me this wonderful sentence of Leonardo: "Helen, when
she looked in her mirror, seeing the withered wrinkles made in her
face by old age, wept and wondered why she had twice been carried
away."
But, as I walked back at night in those desolate streets—so
essentially desolate after the warmth of Naples—on my way back to
the hotel where Byron lived, before his evil genius hurried him to an
early death, I remembered these two sentences in his letters; one,
when in Florence, he returns from a picture-gallery "drunk with
beauty"; one, where, as he sees the painted face of a learned lady,
he cries: "This is the kind of face to go mad for, because it can not
walk out of its frame." There, it seems to me, that Byron, whose
instinct was uncertain, has, by instinct, in this sentence, anticipated
a great saying of Whistler's. It was one of his aims in portrait
painting to establish a reasonable balance between the man as he
sits in the chair and the image of the man reflected back to you from
the canvas. "The one aim," he wrote, "of the unsuspecting painter is
to make his man 'stand out' from the frame—never doubting that,
on the contrary, he should, and in truth absolutely does, stand within
the frame—and at a distance behind it equal to the distance at which
the painter has seen it. The frame is, indeed, the window through
which the painter looks at his model, and nothing could be more
offensively inartistic than this brutal attempt to thrust the model on
the hither-side of this window!" He never proposed, in a picture, to
give you something which you could mistake for reality: but frankly,
a picture, a thing which was emphatically not nature, because it was
art; whereas, in Degas, the beauty is a part of truth, a beauty which
our eyes are too jaded to distinguish in the things about us.
In the Ambrosiane in Milan, beside two wonderful portraits, once
attributed to Leonardo, and coming near to being worthy of him, are
his grotesque drawings that are astonishing in their science, truth
and naked beauty. Each is a quite possible, but horrible and
abnormal, exaggeration of one or another part of the face, which
becomes bestial and indeed almost incredible, without ceasing to be
human. It is this terrible seriousness that renders them so dreadful:
old age, vice and disease made visible.
In another room there are many of his miraculously beautiful
drawings—the loveliest drawings in the world. Note, for instance, the
delicious full face drawing of a child with an enchanting pout. The
women's faces are miracles. After these all drawings, and their
method, seem obvious. The perfect love and understanding with
which he follows the outline of a lovely cheek, or of a bestial snout;
there is equal beauty, because there is equal reverence, in each.
After this the Raphael cartoon (for the Vatican School of Athens)
seems merely skilful, a piece of consummate draughtsmanship;
supremely adequate but entirely without miracle.
In one of Leonardo's drawings in Florence there is a small Madonna
and Child that peeps sidewise in half reassured terror, as a huge
griffin with bat-like wings—stupendous in invention—descends
suddenly from the air to snatch up a lion wandering near them. This
might perhaps have been one of his many designs for the famous
Medusa—Aspecta Medusa—in the Uffizi; for to quote Pater's
interpretation of this corpse-like creation, "the fascination of
corruption penetrates in every line its exquisitely finished beauty.
About the dainty lines of the cheek the bat flies unheeded. The
delicate snakes seem literally to strangle each other in terrified
struggle to escape the Medusa brain. The hue which violent death
brings with it is in the features." It is enough to compare any
grotesque or evil head in the finest of Beardsley's drawings with
Leonardo's head of Judas in the Windsor Library, or with one of
those malevolent and malignant heads full of the energy of the
beasts he represents and of insane fury which he scatters over the
pages of his sketchbook, to realize that, in Beardsley, the thing
drawn must remain ugly through all the beauty of the drawing and
must hurt.
It hurts because he desires to hurt every one except himself,
knowing, all the time, that he was more hated than loved. Sin is to
him a diabolical beauty, not always divided against itself. Always in
his work is sin—Sin conscious of sin, of an inability to escape from
itself; transfigured often into ugliness and then transfigured from
ugliness back to beauty. Having no convictions, he can when he
chooses make patterns that assume the form of moral judgments.

IV

Leonardo da Vinci's unfinished Saint Jerome, in the Vatican at Rome,

is exactly like intarsia work; the ground almost black, the men and
the lion a light brown. This particular way of painting reminds me of
the intarsia work in the halls in Santo Spirito in Bergamo by Fra
Damiano in 1520; done just one year after Leonardo died. Here, in
this supple and vigorous work in wood, I saw what could be done by
a fine artist in the handling of somewhat intractable material. The
work was broad or minute at will, with splendid masses and divisions
of color in some designs which seemed to represent the Deluge,
sharp, clear, firmly outlined in the patterns of streets and houses; full
of rich color in the setting of wood against wood, and at times
almost as delicate as a Japanese design. There was the head of John
the Baptist laid on a stone slab, which was like a drawing of
Daumier. And, in the whole composition of the design, with its two
ovals set on each side like mirrors for the central horror, there was
perfect balance. San Acre, this superb intarsia work of Fra Damiano,
seemed a criticism on Lotto, the criticism of a thing, comparatively
humble in itself, but in itself wholly satisfying, upon the failure of a
more conspicuous endeavor, which has made its own place in art, to
satisfy certain primary demands which one may logically make upon
it.
In the Jerome, as in his finished work, one sees Leonardo's
undeviating devotion to the perfect achievement of everything to
which he set his hand; and how, after a long lapse of time, in the
heat of the day, he crosses Florence to mount the scaffold, adds two
or three touches to a single figure, and returns forthwith. Never did
Michelangelo paint in such various ways as Leonardo; for, in his
frescoes in the Sistine Chapel, art ceases to approach one directly,
through this sense or that, through color, or some fancied outlook of
the soul; only, one seems to be of the same vivid and eternal world
as these meditative and joyous beings, joyous even in hell, where
the rapture of their torment broods in eyes and limbs with the same
energy as the rapture of God in creation, of the women in
disobedience.
Certainly, however, in the Jerome there is a glimpse of background in
which I find already the suggestion of the magical rocks of the Virgin
and of Monna Lisa; only it is sketched in green, and in it there are
gaunt brown rocks, which seem to open on another glimpse in
yellow. All of the outline is gaunt, both the saint and his rocky cave;
only not the lion, who is the most ample and living beast I have ever
seen attendant on any Jerome. All the lines are outlined; the painful
but not grotesque anatomy of the saint and of the sharp angles of
the rocks, are painted in dim, almost uniform, tones. Is the picture
rhetorical, like the other Saint Jeromes, or does it in some subtle
fashion escape? It seems to me to escape, retaining only the
inevitable violence of gesture and the agony of emotion in body and
face; together with an immense dignity, loneliness and obscure
suffering.
Leonardo, who was in Venice in 1500, certainly must have seen
Titian's early Annunciation in the Scuola di San Rocco; which is a
rebuke to Tintoretto's explosive Crucifixion. Before this picture it
struck me that Tintoretto is the Zola of painting. Here, in this
immense drama of paint, is a drama in which the central emotion is
lacking; Christ is no more than the robber who is being nailed to the
cross or the robber whose cross is being hoisted. Every part of the
huge and bustling scene has equal interest, equal intensity; and it is
all an interest and intensity of execution—which in its way is
stupendous. But there is no awe, no religious sense. The beauty of
detail is enormous, the energy overwhelming; but there is no
nobility, no subtlety; it is a tumultuous scene painted to cover a wall.
In the Old Pinakothek in Munich the finest piece of paint in the
Gallery is the Scourging of Christ by Titian. The modern point of
view, indeed most modern art, has come out of it—equally in Watts
and in Monticelli and in the Impressionists. We see Titian breaking
the achieved rules, at the age of ninety, inventing an art absolutely
new, a new way, a more immediate way of rendering what he sees,
with all that moving beauty of life in action: lights, colors, and not
forms merely, all in movement. The depth and splendor of a moment
are caught, with all the beauty of every accident in which color
comes or changes, and in the space of a moment. Color is no longer
set against color, each for itself, with its own calm beauty; but each
tone rushes with exquisite violence into the embrace of another
tone; there are fierce adulteries of color unheard of till now. And a
new, adorable, complete thing is born, which is to give life to all the
painting that is to come after it It seems as if paint at last had
thoroughly mastered its own language.
I have always believed that Giorgione, born in 1478, one year before
the birth of Titian, played in the development of Venetian Art a part
exactly the same as that played by Marlowe, born in the same year
as Shakespeare, in the history of tragic Drama. Shakespeare never
forgot Marlowe, Titian never forgot Giorgione; only the influence of
his predecessor on Shakespeare was a passing one; that of
Giorgione on Titian was, until he finally escaped from his influence,
immense. It is from Andrea del Verrocchio that Leonardo begins to
learn the art of painting; soon surpasses him; but, as Pater
supposes, catches from him his love of beautiful toys. Giorgione
possesses perfection without excess; Leonardo's absolute perfection
often leads him into passionate excesses. He adored hair; and
certainly hair, mostly women's hair, is the most mysterious of human
things. No one ever experimented in more amazing ways than he
did; but his experiment in attempting to invent a medium of using
oils in the painting of frescoes failed him in what might have been
his masterpiece, The Last Supper, painted on the damp wall of the
refectory, oozing with mineral salts, of the Chaedo Vinciano in Milan.
One looks at it as through a veil, which Time seems to have drawn
over it, even when it is most cracked and chipped. Or it is as if it had
soaked inward, the plaster sullenly absorbing all the color and all but
the life. It is one of the few absolute things in the world, still; here,
for once, a painter who is the subtlest of painters has done a great,
objective thing, a thing in the grand style, supreme, and yet with no
loss of subtlety. It is in a sense the measure of his greatness. It
proves that the painter of Monna Lisa means the power to do
anything.

IMPRESSIONISTIC WRITING

Impressionistic writing requires the union of several qualities; and to

possess all these qualities except one, no matter which, is to fail in
impressionistic writing. The first thing is to see, and with an eye
which sees all, and as if one's only business were to see; and then
to write, from a selecting memory, and as if one's only business
were to write. It is the interesting heresy of a particular kind of art
to seek truth before beauty; but in an impressionistic art concerned,
as the art of painting is, with the revelation, the re-creation, of a
colored and harmonious world, which (they tell us) owes its very
existence to the eyes which see it, truth is a quality which can be
attained only by him who seeks beauty before truth. The truth
impressionist may be imagined as saying: "Suppose I wish to give
you an impression of the Luxembourg Gardens, as I see them when
I look out of my window, will it help to call up in your mind the
impression of those glimmering alleys and the naked darkness of the
trees, if I begin by telling you that I can count seven cabs, half
another at one end, and a horse's head at the other, in the space
between the corner of the Odéon and the houses on the opposite
side of the street; that there are four trees and three lamp-posts on
the pavement; and that I can read the words 'Chocolat Menier,' in
white letters, on a blue ground, upon the circular black kiosk by the
side of the second lamppost? I see those things, no doubt,
unconsciously, before my eye travels as far as the railings of the
garden; but are they any essential part of my memory of the scene
afterward?"
I have turned over page after page of clever, ingenious summarizing
of separate detail in a certain book, but I have found nowhere a
page of pure beauty; all is broken, jagged, troubled, in this restless
search after the broken and jagged outlines of things. It is all little
bits of the world seen without atmosphere, and, in spite of many
passages which endeavor to draw a moral from clouds, gas, flowers
and darkness, seen without sentiment. When the writer describes to
us "the old gold and scarlet of hanging meat; the metallic green of
mature cabbages; the wavering russet of piled potatoes; the sharp
white of fly-bills, pasted all awry;" we can not doubt that he has
seen exactly what he describes, exactly as he describes it, and, to a
certain extent, we too see what he describes to us. But he does not,
as Huysmans does in the Croquis Parisiens, absolutely force the sight
of it upon us, so that we see it, perhaps with horror, but in spite of
ourselves we see it. Nor does he, when some vague encounter on
the road has called up in him a "sense of the ruthless nullity of life,
of the futile deception of effort, of bitter revolt against the extinction
of death, a yearning after faith in a vague survival beyond," convey
to us the impression which he has felt in such a way that we, too,
feel it, and feel it to be the revelation of the inner meaning of just
that landscape, just that significant moment. He has but painted a
landscape, set an inexpressive figure in the background, and
ticketed the frame with a motto which has nothing to do with the
composition.
In this book the writer has not, it seems to me, succeeded in his
intention; but I have a further fault to find with the intention itself. It
is one of the discreditable signs of the haste and heedlessness of our
time that artists are coming to content themselves, more and more,
with but sketching out their pictures, instead of devoting themselves
to the patient labor of painting them; and that they are anxious to
invent an excuse for their idleness by proclaiming the superiority of
the unfinished, instinctive first draught over the elaborated, scarcely
spontaneous work of finished art. A fine composition may, in the
most subtle and delicate sense, be slight: a picture of Whistler, for
example, a poem of Verlaine. To be slight, as Whistler, as Verlaine, is
slight, is to have refined away, by a process of ardent, often of
arduous, craftsmanship, all but what is most essential in outward
form, in intellectual substance. It is because a painter, a poet of this
kind, is able to fill every line, every word, with so intense a life, that
he can afford to dispense with that amplification, that reiterance,
which an artist of less passionate vitality must needs expend upon
the substance of his art. But it is so easy to be brief without being
concise; to leave one's work unfinished, simply because one has not
the energy to finish it! This book, like most experiments in writing
prose as if one were writing sonnets, is but a collection of notes,
whose only value is that they may some day be worked into the
substance of a story or an essay. It has not yet been proved—in
spite of the many interesting attempts which have been made,
chiefly in France, in spite of Gaspard de la Nuit, Baudelaire's Petits
Poèmes en Prose, and Mallarmé's jeweled fragments—that prose
can, quite legitimately, be written in this detached, poetic way, as if
one were writing sonnets. It seems to me that prose, just because it
is prose, and not poetry—an art of vaguer, more indeterminate form,
of more wandering cadences—can never restrict itself within those
limits which give the precision of its charm to verse, without losing
charm, precision, and all the finer qualities of its own freedom.
In France, as in England, there are two kinds of poetical reputation,
and in France these two kinds may be defined as the reputation of
the Latin Quarter and the reputation of the boulevards. In England a
writer like Francis Thompson was, after all, known to only a very
narrow circle, even though many, in that circle, looked on him as the
most really poetical poet of his generation. In France, Vielé-Griffin is
greatly admired by the younger men, quite as much, perhaps, as De
Régnier, but he is not read by the larger outside public which has, at
all events, heard of De Régnier. These fine shades of reputation are
not easily recognized by the foreigner; they have, indeed, nothing to
do with the question of actual merit; but they have, all the same,
their interest, if only as an indication of the condition and tendency
of public opinion.
If we go further, and try to compare the actual merit of the younger
French and English poets, we shall find some difficulty in coming to
any very definite conclusion. To certain enthusiasts for exotic things,
it has seemed as if the mere fact of a poem being written in French
gives it an interest which it could not have had if it had been written
in English. When the poem was written by Verlaine or by Mallarmé,
yes; but now that Verlaine and Mallarmé are gone? Well, there is still
something which gives, or seems to give, French verse an advantage
over English. The movement which began with Baudelaire, and
culminated in Verlaine, has provided, for every young man who is
now writing French verse, a very helpful kind of tradition, which
leaves him singularly free within certain definite artistic limits. It
shows him, not a fixed model, but the suggestion of innumerable
ways in which to be himself. All modern French verse is an attempt
to speak straight, and at the same time to speak beautifully. "L'art,
mes enfants, c'est d'être absolument soi-même," said Verlaine, and
all these poets who are writing vers libre, and even those who are
not writing vers libre, are content to be absolutely themselves, and
to leave externalities perhaps even too much alone. What we see in
England is exactly the contrary. We have had our traditions, and we
have worn them out, without discovering a new form for ourselves.
When we try to be personal in verse, the personal emotion has to
mold anew every means of expression, every time; and it is rarely
that we succeed in so difficult a task. For the most part we write
poems for the sake of writing poems, choosing something outside
ourselves to write about, and bringing it into permanent relation with
ourselves. Our English verse-writers offer us a ballad, a sonnet, an
eclogue; and it is a flower without a root, springing from no deep
soil in the soul. The verse is sometimes excellent verse, but it is not
a personal utterance; it is not a mood of a temperament, but
something outside a temperament. In France, it is true, we often get
the temperament and nothing else. And, in France, all these
temperaments seem stationary; they neither change nor develop;
they remain self-centered, and in time we become weary of seeing
their pale reflections of themselves. Here, we become weary of
poets who see everything in the world but themselves, and who
have no personal hold upon the universe without. Between the too
narrowly personal and a too generalized impersonality, there
remains, in France and in England, a little exquisite work, which is
poetry. Is it important, or even possible, to decide whether there is a
little more of it to be found in the books of English or of French
poets?

PARADOXES ON POETS

The great period of English poetry begins half-way through the

sixteenth century, and lasts half-way into the seventeenth. In the
poetry strictly of the sixteenth century, before the drama had
absorbed poetry into the substance of its many energies, verse is
used as speech, and becomes song by way of speech. It was the
age of youth, and rejoiced, as youth does, in scarcely tried strength
and in the choice of adventure. And it was an adventure to write.
Soldiers and voyagers, Sidney, Raleigh, led the way as on horses and
in ships. It is Raleigh, in the preface to a deeply meditated "History
of the World," who speaks gallantly of "leisure to have made myself
a fool in print." New worlds had been found beyond the sea, and
were to be had for the finding in all the regions of the mind. There
were buried worlds of the mind which had lately been dug up, lands
had been newly colonized, in Italy and in France; à kind of second
nature, it seemed to men in those days, which might be used not
less freely than nature itself. And, just as the Renaissance in Italy
was a new discovery of the mind, through a return to what had been
found out in antiquity and buried during the Middle Ages, so, in
England, poetry came to a consciousness of itself by way of what
had already been discovered by poets like Petrarch and Ronsard, and
even their later apes and mimics, Serafino or Desportes, among
those spoils. Poetry had to be reawakened, and these were the
messengers of dawn. Once awakened, the English tongue could but
sing, for a while, to borrowed tunes; yet it sang with its own voice,
and the personal accent brought a new quality into the song. Song-
writers and sonnet-writers, when they happened to be poets, found
out themselves by the way, and not least when they thought they
were doing honor to a foreign ideal.
And it was an age of music. Music, too, had come from Italy, and
had found for once a home there. Music, singing and dancing made
then, and then only, the "merry England" of the phrase. And the
words, growing out of the same soil as the tunes, took equal root.
Campion sums up for us a whole period, and the song-books have
preserved for us names, but for them unknown, of perfect craftsmen
in the two arts. Every man, by the mere feeling and fashion of the
time, took care
to write
Worthy the reading and the world's delight.
It was an age of personal utterance; and men spoke frankly, without
restraint, too nice choosing, or any of the timidities or exaggerations
of self-consciousness. The personal utterance might take any form;
whether Fulke Greville wrote "treatises" on the mind of man, or
Drayton pried into the family affairs of the fairies, or Samuel Daniel
thought out sonnets to Delia, or Lodge wantoned in cadences and
caprices of the senses. It might seem but to pass on an alien
message, in as literal a translation as it could compass of a French or
Italian poem. In the hand of a poet two things came into the
version: magic, and the personal utterance, if in no other way,
through the medium of style.
Style, to the poets of the sixteenth century, was much of what went
to the making of that broad simplicity, that magnificently obvious
eloquence, which seems to us now to have the universal quality of
the greatest poetry. The poets of the nineteenth century are no
nearer to nature, though they seem more individual because they
have made an art of extracting rare emotions, and because they
take themselves to pieces more cunningly. Drayton's great sonnet is
the epilogue, and Spenser's great poem the epithalamium, for all
lovers; but it needs another Shelley to find out love in the labyrinth
of "Epipsychidion." All that is greatest in the poetry of the sixteenth
century is open to all the world, like a wood, or Arcadia, in which no
road is fenced with prohibitions, and the flowers are all for the
picking.
And when, in the nineteenth century, poetry began again, it was to
the poets of the sixteenth century that the new poets looked back,
finding the pattern there for what they were making over again for
themselves. A few snatches from Elizabethan song-books were
enough to direct the first awakenings of song in Blake; Wordsworth
found his gnomic and rational style, as of a lofty prose, in Samuel
Daniel; Keats rifled the best sweets of Lodge's orchard; and Shelley
found in the elegies of Michael Drayton the model of his
incomparable style of familiar speech in verse, the style of the Letter
to Maris Gisborne. Every reader of modern verse will find something
contemporary in even the oldest of these poems; partly because
modern verse is directly founded on this verse of the sixteenth
century, and partly because the greatest poetry is contemporary with
all ages.
Byron is to be judged by the whole mountainous mass of his world
and not by any fragment of colored or glittering spar which one's
pick may have extricated from the precipitous hillside. His world is a
kind of natural formation, high enough to climb, and wide enough to
walk On. There is hard climbing and heavy walking, but, once there,
the air braces and the view is wide.
In making a selection from this large and uneven mass of poetry, it
is difficult to do justice to a writer who was almost never a really
good writer of verse, except in a form of what he rightly defined as
"nondescript and ever-varying rhyme." The seriocomic ottava rima of
Don Juan and The Vision of Judgment is the only meter which Byron
ever completely mastered; and it is only in those unique poems, in
which Goethe detected, for the first time in modern poetry, a
"classically elegant comic style," that Byron is wholly able to express
the new quality which he brought into English literature in a wholly
personal, or at all satisfying, way. From the first he was a new force,
but a force unconscious of direction, with all the uncouthness of
nature in convulsions. He had a strong, direct, and passionate
personality, but we find him, even in the better parts of Childe
Harold, putting rhetoric in the place of that simplicity which he was
afterward to discover by accident, as in jest; we find him,
throughout almost the whole of the poetical romances, a mere
masquerader in Eastern frippery, which is scarcely the better
because it happened to have been bought on the spot; we find him,
in his serious reflections, either quite sensible and quite obvious, or,
as in addresses to the ocean, and the like, straining on tiptoe toward
heights that can only be reached by wings. His lyric verse was
always without magic, and only now and then, and chiefly in the
lines beginning "When we two parted," was he able to turn speech
into a kind of emphatic and intense chant, into which poetry comes
as a kind of momentary suspension of the emphasis. His rendering
of actual sensation, as in parts of Mazeppa, is the nearest approach
to poetry which he made in those poems which were supposed to be
the very voice of passion. Everything that he wrote in blank verse,
and consequently the whole of the plays, is vitiated by his incapacity
to handle that meter, or indeed to distinguish it, in any vital or
audible way, from prose. Now and again personal feeling flung off
the ill-fitting and constraining clothes of rhetoric, and stood up
naked; sentiments of resentment, against his wife, or against the
world, or against himself, made poetry sometimes. Then, as it was
to be under other conditions in the later work, his flame is the
burning of much dross: excellent food for flames.
And yet, out of all this writing which is hardly literature, this poetry
which is hardly verse, there comes, even to the reader of to-day, for
whom "the grand Napoleon of the realms of rhyme" is as dead and
buried as Napoleon, some inexplicable thrill, appeal, potency; Byron
still lives, and we shall never cease to read almost his worst work,
because some warmth of his life comes through it. Almost
everything that he wrote was written for relief, and its effect on us is
due to something never actually said in it; it is a kind of wild
dramatic speech of some person in a play, whose words become
weighty, tragic and pathetic because of the fierce light thrown upon
them by a significant character and by transfiguring circumstances.
When Byron wrote to Murray, "You might as well want a midnight all
stats as rhyme all perfect," he was theorizing over his own failure to
achieve sustained excellence on any one level Luckily he carried the
theory, in his own downright way, into practise, and, in the "versified
Aurora Borealis" of the great comic poems, the defect turns into a
quality, and creates what is really a new poetical form. Byron is a
heroical Buffoon, the great jester of English poetry; and he is this
because he is the only English poet who is wholly buoyant, arrogant
and irresponsible. "I never know the word which will come next," he
boasts, in Don Juan, and for once, improvisation becomes a means
to an end, almost an end in itself. It is in the comic verse, strangely
enough, that the first real mastery over form shows itself: a genius
for rhyme which becomes a new music and decoration, as of cap
and bells on the head of sober marching verse, and a genius for
plain statement which leaves prose behind in mere fighting force,
and glorifies fighting force with a divine natural illumination.

THE END
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