pen,pencil and poison-第6章

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afternoon；　and　thought　he　would　improve　the　occasion　by　pointing

out　that；　after　all；　crime　was　a　bad　speculation；　he　replied：

'Sir；　you　City　men　enter　on　your　speculations；　and　take　the　chances

of　them。　　Some　of　your　speculations　succeed；　some　fail。　　Mine

happen　to　have　failed；　yours　happen　to　have　succeeded。　　That　is　the

only　difference；　sir；　between　my　visitor　and　me。　　But；　sir；　I　will

tell　you　one　thing　in　which　I　have　succeeded　to　the　last。　　I　have

been　determined　through　life　to　hold　the　position　of　a　gentleman。

I　have　always　done　so。　　I　do　so　still。　　It　is　the　custom　of　this

place　that　each　of　the　inmates　of　a　cell　shall　take　his　morning's

turn　of　sweeping　it　out。　　I　occupy　a　cell　with　a　bricklayer　and　a

sweep；　but　they　never　offer　me　the　broom！'　　When　a　friend

reproached　him　with　the　murder　of　Helen　Abercrombie　he　shrugged　his

shoulders　and　said；　'Yes；　it　was　a　dreadful　thing　to　do；　but　she

had　very　thick　ankles。'



From　Newgate　he　was　brought　to　the　hulks　at　Portsmouth；　and　sent

from　there　in　the　SUSAN　to　Van　Diemen's　Land　along　with　three

hundred　other　convicts。　　The　voyage　seems　to　have　been　most

distasteful　to　him；　and　in　a　letter　written　to　a　friend　he　spoke

bitterly　about　the　ignominy　of　'the　companion　of　poets　and　artists'

being　compelled　to　associate　with　'country　bumpkins。'　　The　phrase

that　he　applies　to　his　companions　need　not　surprise　us。　　Crime　in

England　is　rarely　the　result　of　sin。　　It　is　nearly　always　the

result　of　starvation。　　There　was　probably　no　one　on　board　in　whom

he　would　have　found　a　sympathetic　listener；　or　even　a

psychologically　interesting　nature。



His　love　of　art；　however；　never　deserted　him。　　At　Hobart　Town　he

started　a　studio；　and　returned　to　sketching　and　portrait…painting；

and　his　conversation　and　manners　seem　not　to　have　lost　their　charm。

Nor　did　he　give　up　his　habit　of　poisoning；　and　there　are　two　cases

on　record　in　which　he　tried　to　make　away　with　people　who　had

offended　him。　　But　his　hand　seems　to　have　lost　its　cunning。　　Both

of　his　attempts　were　complete　failures；　and　in　1844；　being

thoroughly　dissatisfied　with　Tasmanian　society；　he　presented　a

memorial　to　the　governor　of　the　settlement；　Sir　John　Eardley

Wilmot；　praying　for　a　ticket…of…leave。　　In　it　he　speaks　of　himself

as　being　'tormented　by　ideas　struggling　for　outward　form　and

realisation；　barred　up　from　increase　of　knowledge；　and　deprived　of

the　exercise　of　profitable　or　even　of　decorous　speech。'　　His

request；　however；　was　refused；　and　the　associate　of　Coleridge

consoled　himself　by　making　those　marvellous　PARADIS　ARTIFICIELS

whose　secret　is　only　known　to　the　eaters　of　opium。　　In　1852　he　died

of　apoplexy；　his　sole　living　companion　being　a　cat；　for　which　he

had　evinced　at　extraordinary　affection。



His　crimes　seem　to　have　had　an　important　effect　upon　his　art。　　They

gave　a　strong　personality　to　his　style；　a　quality　that　his　early

work　certainly　lacked。　　In　a　note　to　the　LIFE　OF　DICKENS；　Forster

mentions　that　in　1847　Lady　Blessington　received　from　her　brother；

Major　Power；　who　held　a　military　appointment　at　Hobart　Town；　an　oil

portrait　of　a　young　lady　from　his　clever　brush；　and　it　is　said　that

'he　had　contrived　to　put　the　expression　of　his　own　wickedness　into

the　portrait　of　a　nice；　kind…hearted　girl。'　　M。　Zola；　in　one　of　his

novels；　tells　us　of　a　young　man　who；　having　committed　a　murder；

takes　to　art；　and　paints　greenish　impressionist　portraits　of

perfectly　respectable　people；　all　of　which　bear　a　curious

resemblance　to　his　victim。　　The　development　of　Mr。　Wainewright's

style　seems　to　me　far　more　subtle　and　suggestive。　　One　can　fancy　an

intense　personality　being　created　out　of　sin。



This　strange　and　fascinating　figure　that　for　a　few　years　dazzled

literary　London；　and　made　so　brilliant　a　DEBUT　in　life　and　letters；

is　undoubtedly　a　most　interesting　study。　　Mr。　W。　Carew　Hazlitt；　his

latest　biographer；　to　whom　I　am　indebted　for　many　of　the　facts

contained　in　this　memoir；　and　whose　little　book　is；　indeed；　quite

invaluable　in　its　way；　is　of　opinion　that　his　love　of　art　and

nature　was　a　mere　pretence　and　assumption；　and　others　have　denied

to　him　all　literary　power。　　This　seems　to　me　a　shallow；　or　at　least

a　mistaken；　view。　　The　fact　of　a　man　being　a　poisoner　is　nothing

against　his　prose。　　The　domestic　virtues　are　not　the　true　basis　of

art；　though　they　may　serve　as　an　excellent　advertisement　for

second…rate　artists。　　It　is　possible　that　De　Quincey　exaggerated

his　critical　powers；　and　I　cannot　help　saying　again　that　there　is

much　in　his　published　works　that　is　too　familiar；　too　common；　too

journalistic；　in　the　bad　sense　of　that　bad　word。　　Here　and　there　he

is　distinctly　vulgar　in　expression；　and　he　is　always　lacking　in　the

self…restraint　of　the　true　artist。　　But　for　some　of　his　faults　we

must　blame　the　time　in　which　he　lived；　and；　after　all；　prose　that

Charles　Lamb　thought　'capital'　has　no　small　historic　interest。

That　he　had　a　sincere　love　of　art　and　nature　seems　to　me　quite

certain。　　There　is　no　essential　incongruity　between　crime　and

culture。　　We　cannot　re…write　the　whole　of　history　for　the　purpose

of　gratifying　our　moral　sense　of　what　should　be。



Of　course；　he　is　far　too　close　to　our　own　time　for　us　to　be　able　to

form　any　purely　artistic　judgment　about　him。　　It　is　impossible　not

to　feel　a　strong　prejudice　against　a　man　who　might　have　poisoned

Lord　Tennyson；　or　Mr。　Gladstone；　or　the　Master　of　Balliol。　　But　had

the　man　worn　a　costume　and　spoken　a　language　different　from　our

own；　had　he　lived　in　imperial　Rome；　or　at　the　time　of　the　Italian

Renaissance；　or　in　Spain　in　the　seventeenth　century；　or　in　any　land

or　any　century　but　this　century　and　this　land；　we　would　be　quite

able　to　arrive　at　a　perfectly　unprejudiced　estimate　of　his　position

and　value。　　I　know　that　there　are　many　historians；　or　at　least

writers　on　historical　subjects；　who　still　think　it　necessary　to

apply　moral　judgments　to　history；　and　who　distribute　their　praise

or　blame　with　the　solemn　complacency　of　a　successful　schoolmaster。

This；　however；　is　a　foolish　habit；　and　merely　shows　that　the　moral

instinct　can　be　brought　to　such　a　pitch　of　perfection　that　it　will

make　its　appearance　wherever　it　is　not　required。　　Nobody　with　the

true　historical　sense　ever　dreams　of　blaming　Nero；　or　scolding

Tiberius；　or　censuring　Caesar　Borgia。　　These　personages　have　become

like　the　puppets　of　a　play。　　They　may　fill　us　with　terror；　or

horror；　or　wonder；　but　they　do　not　harm　us。　　They　are　not　in

immediate　relation　to　us。　　We　have　nothing　to　fear　from　them。　　They

have　passed　into　the　sphere　of　art　and　science；　and　neither　art　nor

science　knows　anything　of　moral　approval　or　disapproval。　　And　so　it

may　be　some　day　with　Charles　Lamb's　friend。　　At　present　I　feel　that

he　is　just　a　little　too　modern　to　be　treated　in　that　fine　spirit　of

disinterested　curiosity　to　which　we　owe　so　many　charming　studies　of

the　great　criminals　of　the　Italian　Renaissance　from　the　pens　of　Mr。

John　Addington　Symonds；　Miss　A。　Mary　F。　Robinson；　Miss　Vernon　Lee；

and　other　distinguished　writers。　　However；　Art　has　not　forgotten

him。　　He　is　the　hero　of　Dickens's　HUNTED　DOWN；　the　Varney　of

Bulwer's　LUCRETIA；　and　it　is　gratifying　to　note　that　fiction　has

paid　some　homage　to　one　who　was　so　powerful　with　'pen；　pencil　and

poison。'　　To　be　suggestive　for　fiction　is　to　be　of　more　importance

than　a　fact。