Oh, Swinburne, said Morris, is a rhetorician; my masters have been Keats and Chaucer for they make pictures. Does not Milton make pictures? asked my informant. No, was the answer, Dante makes pictures, but Milton, though he had a great earnest mind, expressed himself as a rhetorician. Great earnest mind,
I did not read economics, having turned socialist because of Morriss lectures and pamphlets, and I think it unlikely that Morris himself could read economics. That old dogma of mine seemed germane to the matter. If the men and women imagined by the poets were the norm, and if Morris had, in, let us say, News from Nowhere, then running through The Commonwealth, described such men and women living under their natural conditions or as they would desire to live, then those conditions themselves must be the norm, and could we but get rid of certain institutions the world would turn from eccentricity. Perhaps Morris himself justified himself in his own heart by as simple an argument, and was, as the socialist D... said to me one night walking home after some lecture, an anarchist without knowing it. Certainly I and all about me, including D... himself, were for chopping up the old king for Medeas pot. Morris had told us to have nothing to do with the parliamentary socialists, represented for men in general by the Fabian Society and Hyndmans Socialist Democratic Federation and for us in particular by D... During the period of transition mistakes must be made, and the discredit of these mistakes must be left to the bourgeoisie; and besides, when you begin to talk of this measure or that other you lose sight of the goal and see, to reverse Swinburnes description of Tiresias, light on the way but darkness on the goal. By mistakes Morris meant vexatious restrictions and compromises??If any man puts me into a labour squad, I will lie on my back and kick. That phrase very much expresses our idea of revolutionary tactics: we all intended to lie upon our back and kick. D..., pale and sedentary, did not dislike labour squads and we all hated him with the left side of our heads, while admiring him immensely with the right. He alone was invited to entertain Mrs. Morris, having many tales of his Irish uncles, more especiallyof one particular uncle who had tried to commit suicide by shutting his head into a carpet bag. At that time he was an obscure man, known only for a witty speaker at street corners and in Park demonstrations. He had, with an assumed truculence and fury, cold logic, an universal gentleness, an unruffled courtesy, and yet could never close a speech without being denounced by a journeyman hatter with an Italian name. Converted to socialism by D..., and to anarchism by himself, with swinging arm and uplifted voice this man perhaps exaggerated our scruple about parliament. I lack, said D..., the bump of reverence; whereon the wild man shouted You ave a ole. There are moments when looking back I somewhat confuse my own figure with that of the hatter, image of our hysteria, for I too became violent with the violent solemnity of a religious devotee.
Soon after I began to attend the lectures, a French class was started in the old coach?house for certain young socialists who planned a tour in France, and I joined it and was for a time a model student constantly encouraged by the compliments of the old French mistress. I told my father of the class, and he asked me to get my sisters admitted. I made difficulties and put off speaking of the matter, for I knew that the new and admirable self I was making would turn, under family eyes, into plain rag doll. How could I pretend to be industrious, and even carry dramatization to the point of learning my lessons, when my sisters were there and knew that I was nothing of the kind? But I had no argumentI could use and my sisters were admitted. They said nothing unkind, so far as I can remember, but in a week or two I was my old procrastinating idle self and had soon left the class altogether. My elder sister stayed on and became an embroideress under Miss May Morris, and the hangings round Morriss big bed at Kelmscott House, Oxfordshire, with their verses about lying happily in bed when all birds sing in the town of the tree, were from her needle though not from her design. She worked for the first few months at Kelmscott House, Hammersmith, and in my imagination Icannot always separate what I saw and heard from her report, or indeed from the report of that tribe or guild who looked up to Morris as to some worshipped mediaeval king. He had no need for other people. I doubt if their marriage or death made him sad or glad, and yet no man I have known was so well loved; you saw him producing everywhere organisation and beauty, seeming, almost in the same instant, helpless and triumphant; and people loved him as children are loved. People much in his neighbourhood became gradually occupied with him, or about his affairs, and without any wish on his part, as simple people become occupied with children. I remember a man who was proud and pleased because he had distracted Morris thoughts from an attack of gout by leading the conversation delicately to the hated name of Milton. He began at Swinburne.
You write my sort of poetry, he said and began to praise me and to promise to send his praise to The Commonwealth, the League organ, and he would have said more of a certainty had he not caught sight of a new ornamental cast?iron lamp?post and got very heated upon that subject.
sounded strange to me and I doubt not that were his questioner not a simple man, Morris had been more violent. Another day the same man started by praising Chaucer, but the gout was worse and Morris cursed Chaucer for destroying the English language with foreign words.
He had few detachable phrases and I can remember little of his speech, which many thought the best of all good talk, except that it matched his burly body and seemed within definite boundaries inexhaustible in fact and expression. He alone of all the men I have known seemed guided by some beast?like instinct and never ate strange meat. Balzac! Balzac! he said to me once, Oh, that was the man the French bourgeoisie read so much a few years ago. I can remember him at supper praising wine: Why do people say it is prosaic to be inspired by wine? Has it not been made by the sunlight and the sap? and his dispraising houses decorated by himself: Do you suppose I like that kind of house? I would like a house like a big barn, where one ate in one corner, cooked in another corner, slept in the third corner & in the fourth received ones friends; and his complaining of Ruskins objection to the underground railway: If you must have a railway the best thing you can do with it is to put it in a tube with a cork at each end. I remember too that when I asked what led up to his movement, he replied, Oh, Ruskin and Carlyle, but somebody should have been beside Carlyle and punched his head every five minutes. Though I remember little, I do not doubt that, had I continued going there on Sunday evenings, I should have caught fire from his words and turned my hand to some mediaeval work or other. Just before I had ceased to go there I had sent my Wanderings of Usheen to his daughter, hoping of course that it might meet his eyes, & soon after sending it I came upon him by chance in Holborn.
I can even remember sitting behind D... and saying some rude thing or other over his shoulder. I dont remember why I gave it up but I did quite suddenly; and I think the push may have come from a young workman who was educating himself between Morris and Karl Marx. He had planned a history of the navy and when I had spoken of the battleship of Nelsons day, had said: Oh, that was the decadence of the battleship, but if his naval interests were mediaeval, his ideas about religion were pure Karl Marx, and we were soon in perpetual argument. Then gradually the attitude towards religion of almost everybody but Morris, who avoided the subject altogether, got upon my nerves, for I broke out after some lecture or other with all the arrogance of raging youth. They attacked religion, I said, or some such words, and yet there must be a change of heart and only religion could make it. What was the use of talking about somenear revolution putting all things right, when the change must come, if come it did, with astronomical slowness, like the cooling of the sun or, it may have been, like the drying of the moon? Morris rang his chairmans bell, but I was too angry to listen, and he had to ring it a second time before I sat down. He said that night at supper: Of course I know there must be a change of heart, but it will not come as slowly as all that. I rang my bell because you were not being understood. He did not show any vexation, but I never returned after that night; and yet I did not always believe what I had said and only gradually gave up thinking of and planning for some near sudden change for the better.
