in so far as the mythology remains at all it is a
kind of happy mythology. Personally, of course,
I believe in Santa Claus; but it is the season of
forgiveness, and I will forgive others for not doing
so. But if there is anyone who does not comprehend
the defect in our world which I am civilising, I should
recommend him, for instance, to read a story by Mr.
Henry James, called “The Turn of the Screw.”
It is one of the most powerful things ever written,
and it is one of the things about which I doubt most
whether it ought ever to have been written at all.
It describes two innocent children gradually growing
at once omniscient and half-witted under the influence
of the foul ghosts of a groom and a governess.
As I say, I doubt whether Mr. Henry James ought to
have published it (no, it is not indecent, do not
buy it; it is a spiritual matter), but I think the
question so doubtful that I will give that truly great
man a chance. I will approve the thing as well
as admire it if he will write another tale just as
powerful about two children and Santa Claus.
If he will not, or cannot, then the conclusion is clear;
we can deal strongly with gloomy mystery, but not
with happy mystery; we are not rationalists, but diabolists.
. . . . .
I have thought vaguely of all this staring at a great
red fire that stands up in the room like a great red
angel. But, perhaps, you have never heard of
a red angel. But you have heard of a blue devil.
That is exactly what I mean.
The Tower
I have been standing where everybody has stood, opposite
the great Belfry Tower of Bruges, and thinking, as
every one has thought (though not, perhaps, said),
that it is built in defiance of all decencies of architecture.
It is made in deliberate disproportion to achieve
the one startling effect of height. It is a church
on stilts. But this sort of sublime deformity
is characteristic of the whole fancy and energy of
these Flemish cities. Flanders has the flattest
and most prosaic landscapes, but the most violent
and extravagant of buildings. Here Nature is
tame; it is civilisation that is untamable. Here
the fields are as flat as a paved square; but, on the
other hand, the streets and roofs are as uproarious
as a forest in a great wind. The waters of wood
and meadow slide as smoothly and meekly as if they
were in the London water-pipes. But the parish
pump is carved with all the creatures out of the wilderness.
Part of this is true, of course, of all art.
We talk of wild animals, but the wildest animal is
man. There are sounds in music that are more
ancient and awful than the cry of the strangest beast
at night. And so also there are buildings that
are shapeless in their strength, seeming to lift themselves
slowly like monsters from the primal mire, and there
are spires that seem to fly up suddenly like a startled
bird.
