“Et Tu, Brute!”
Why, O brother! did you not consult with me before printing, in the face of a ribald world, that you also misunderstand, and are capable of saying so, with vehemence and repetition.
Have I then left no man on his legs?—and have I shot down the singer in the far off, when I thought him safe at my side?
Cannot the man who wrote Atalanta—and the Ballads beautiful,—can he not be content to spend his life with his work, which should be his love,—and has for him no misleading doubt and darkness—that he should so stray about blindly in his brother’s flowerbeds and bruise himself!
Is life then so long with him, and his art so short, that he shall dawdle by the way and wander from his path, reducing his giant intellect—garrulous upon matters to him unknown, that the scoffer may rejoice and the Philistine be appeased while he takes up the parable of the mob and proclaims himself their spokesman and fellow-sufferer? O Brother! where is thy sting! O Poet! where is thy victory!
How have I offended! and how shall you in the midst of your poisoned page hurl with impunity the boomerang rebuke? “Paradox is discoloured by personality, and merriment is distorted by malevolence.”
Who are you, deserting your Muse, that you should insult my Goddess with familiarity, and the manners of approach common to the reasoners in the marketplace. “Hearken to me,” you cry, “and I will point out how this man, who has passed his life in her worship, is a tumbler and a clown of the booths—how he who has produced that which I fain must acknowledge—is a jester in the ring!”
Do we not speak the same language? Are we strangers, then, or, in our Father’s house are there so many mansions that you lose your way, my brother, and cannot recognize your kin?
Shall I be brought to the bar by my own blood, and be borne false witness against before the plebeian people? Shall I be made to stultify myself by what I never said—and shall the strength of your testimony turn upon me? “If”—“If Japanese Art is right in confining itself to what can be broidered upon the fan”... and again... “that he really believes the highest expression of his art to be realized in reproduction of the grin and glare, the smirk and leer”... and further... “the theory which condemns high art, under the penalty of being considered intelligent, to remain eternally on the grin”... and much more!
“Amateur writer!” Well should I deserve the reproach, had I ventured ever beyond the precincts of my own science—and fatal would have been the exposure, as you, with heedless boldness, have unwittingly proven.
Art tainted with philanthropy—that better Art result!—Poet and Peabody!
You have been misled—you have mistaken the pale demeanour and joined hands for an outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual earnestness. For you, these are the serious ones, and, for them, you others are the serious matter. Their joke is their work. For me—why should I refuse myself the grim joy of this grotesque tragedy—and, with them now, you all are my joke!