Das Farbige Porträt [antikvár]

PREFACE ' ^^ o doth the woodbine the sweet honeysuckle Gently entwist'. ^This is Titama's description of the caresses of the strangest pair of lovers, surely, the eye of fancy has ever seen confined in mortal guise; and (apart from the beauty and sweetness of the 'weeds' mentioned in it) it might be applied only too harshly to the straggling and inordinately long Introduction that follows. But as with most subjects, the more closely one gropingly ponders over that of this book, the more widely it strays and clambers in every direction; though only of course within the range of one's own mind and sensibilities. And these—at least in theory—are separable counsellors. Certain knowledge, certain ideas—simple ideas too perhaps—may lie beyond the scope of our intelligence and understanding. We have not the mental equipment to cope with them. The haze of incomprehension on the child's face in Chardin's picture, 'The Lesson', is not confined to infancy. But there is a radical difference between being unable to follow a clue in a puzzle, a problem in mathematics, or a logical argument, and the incapacity to see a joke, to dream, to pity the pitiable, to recognise and confer beauty. And so with a deep affection. It would be easier even for the blind to conceive of light than for the unfeeling to conceive of love. The Encyclopaedia Britannica presents us with a compendium of the human knowledge at present available to human investigation; no article on Love, I think, will be found in it. Statements of fact, if insecure, may be refutable; not statements of the fancy, the imagination, of pure genius, of the feelings and the passions. What is worthy of belief may be codified; its acceptance must await the ardour of faith. What is evil may be stated in set terms and revealed in actions ; hatred of it has a hidden source. Nevertheless, the chief value of our earthly life rests on what and on how much we love in it; as our conception of love depends on loving and, less intrinsically, on our being loved. ' "Fool!" said my Muse to me,' cried Sidney when his whole being was intent on his lode-star Stella, ' "look in thy heart, and write." ' And in respect to what other men have written on love—Muse or no Muse—it is no less, 'Look in thy heart,' and read. From its first page, then, to its last, this book has had for its compass merely my own personal, defective and deficient idea or conception [v]