HENRI BECQUE
_20 Oct. '10_
Henri Becque, one of the greatest dramatists of the nineteenth century,and certainly the greatest realistic French dramatist, died at the closeof the century in all the odour of obliquity. His work is now the chiefliterary topic in Paris; it has indeed rivalled the Portuguese revolutionand the French railway strike as a subject of conversation among peoplewho talk like sheep run. This dizzy popularity has been due to anaccident, but it is, nevertheless, a triumph for Becque, who untilrecently had won the esteem only of the handful of people who think forthemselves. I should say that no first-class modern French author is moreperfectly unknown and uncared-for in England than Henri Becque. I once meta musical young woman who had never heard of Ibsen (she afterwards marrieda man with twelve thousand a year--such is life!), but I have met dozensand scores of enormously up-to-date persons who had never heard of HenriBecque. The most fantastic and the most exotic foreign plays have beenperformed in England, but I doubt if the London curtain has ever yet risenon a play of Becque's. Once in Soho, a historic and highly ceremoniousrepast took place. I entertained a personage to afternoon tea in arestaurant where afternoon tea had never been served before. Thispersonage was the President of the Incorporated Stage Society. He asked meif I knew anything about a French play called "La Parisienne." I repliedthat I had seen it oftener than any other modern play, and that it was thegreatest modern play of my acquaintance. He then inquired whether I wouldtranslate it for the Stage Society. I said I should be delighted totranslate it for the Stage Society. He expressed joy and said theCommittee would sit on the project. I never heard any more.
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Becque wrote two absolutely first-class modern realistic plays. One is "LaParisienne." The other is "Les Corbeaux." Once, when I was in Paris, I sawexposed among a million other books in front of the window of Stock's shopnear the Theatre Francais, a copy of "Les Corbeaux." Opening it, Iperceived that it was an example of the first edition (1882). I asked theprice, and to my horror the attendant hesitated and said that he would"see." I feared the price was going to be fancy. He came back and namedfour francs, adding, "It's our last copy." I paid the four francswillingly. On examining my trophy I saw that it was published by Tresse.Now Stock became Tresse's partner before he had that business to himself.I had simply bought the play at the original house of its publication. Andit had fallen to me, after some twenty-five years, to put the firstedition of "Les Corbeaux" out of print! I went home and read the play andwas somewhat disappointed with it. I thought it very fine in its directsincerity, but not on the same plane as "La Parisienne."
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Antoine, founder of the Theatre Libre, director of the Theatre Antoineduring brilliant years, and now director of the Odeon (which he has raisedfrom the dead), was always a tremendous admirer of Becque. It was throughAntoine that Paris had such magnificent performances of "La Parisienne."He had long expressed his intention of producing "Les Corbeaux," and nowhe has produced "Les Corbeaux" at the Odeon, where it has been definitelyaccepted and consecrated as a masterpiece. I could not refrain from goingto Paris specially to see it. It was years since I had been in the Odeon.Rather brighter, perhaps, in its more ephemeral decorations, but still thesame old-fashioned, roomy, cramped, provincial theatre, with pit-tierboxes like the cells of a prison! The audience was good. It was startinglygood for the Odeon. The play, too, at first seemed old-fashioned--inexternals. It has bits of soliloquies and other dodges of technique nowdemoded. But the first act was not half over before the extreme modernnessof the play forced itself upon you. Tchehkoff is not more modern. Thepicture of family life presented in the first act was simply delightful.All the bitterness was reserved for the other acts. And what superbbitterness! No one can be so cruel as Becque to a "sympathetic" character.He exposes every foolishness of the ruined widow; he never spares her foran instant; and yet one's sympathy is not alienated. This is truth. Thisis a play. I had not read the thing with sufficient imagination, with theresult that for me it "acted" much better than it had "read." Its sheerbeauty, truth, power, and wit, justified even the great length of the lastact. I thought Becque had continued to add scenes to the play after itwas essentially finished. But it was I who was mistaken, not he. The finalscene began by irritating and ended by completely capturing the public.Teissier, the principal male part, was played by M. Numes in a mannerwhich amounted to genius.
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"Les Corbeaux" was originally produced at the Theatre Francais, where itwas not a success. All Becque's recent fame is due, after Becque, toAntoine. But now that Antoine has done all the hard work, Jules Claretie,the flaccid director of the Francais, shows a natural desire to share inthe harvest. Becque left a play unfinished, "Les Polichinelles." Becque'sexecutor, M. Robaglia, handed this play to M. Henri de Noussanne tofinish--heaven knows why! M. de Noussanne has written novels entirelybereft of importance, and he is the editor of _Gil Blas_, a daily paperwhose importance it would not be easy to underestimate; and hisqualifications for finishing a play by Becque are in the highest degreemysterious. The finished play was to be produced at the Francais. Theproduction would have been what the French call a solemnity. But M.Robaglia suddenly jibbed. He declared M. de Noussanne's work to beunworthy, and he declined to permit the performance of the play. Thenfollowed a grand and complicated shindy--one of those charming Parisianliterary rows which excite the newspapers for days! In the end it wassettled that neither M. de Noussanne's version nor any other version of"Les Polichinelles" should ever be produced, but that the journal_L'Illustration_, which gives away the text of a new play as a supplementabout twice a month, should give, one week, Becque's original incompleteversion exactly as it stands, and M. de Noussanne's completed version thenext week, to the end that "the public might judge." Then Stock, thepublisher, came along and sought to prevent the publication on thestrength of a contract by which Becque had bound himself to give Stock hisnext play. (Times change, but not publishers!) However, _L'Illustration_,being wealthy and powerful, rode over M. Stock. And the amateurs of Becquehave duly had the pleasure of reading "Les Polichinelles." Just as "LesCorbeaux" was the result of experiences gained in a domestic smash-up, and"La Parisienne" the result of experiences gained in a feverish liaison,so "Les Polichinelles" is the result experiences gained on the Bourse. Itis in five acts. The first two are practically complete, and they areexceedingly fine--quite equal to the very best Becque. The other acts arefragmentary, but some of the fragments are admirable. I can think of noliving author who would be equal to the task of completing the playwithout making himself ridiculous.
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Becque was unfortunate in death as in life. At his graveside, on the dayof his funeral, his admirers said with one accord: "Every year on this daywe will gather here. His name shall be a flag for us." But for severalyears they forgot all about Becque. And when at length they did come back,with a wreath, they could not find the grave. It was necessary to questionkeepers and to consult the official register of the cemetery. In the endthe grave was rediscovered and every one recognized it, and speeches weremade, and the wreath piously deposited. The next year the admirers cameagain, with another wreath and more speeches. But some one had been beforethem. A wreath already lay on the grave; it bore this inscription: "To mydear husband defunct." Now Becque, though worried by liaisons, had livedand died a bachelor. The admirers had discoursed, the year before, at thegrave of a humble clerk. After this Paris put up a statue to Becque. Butit is only a bust. You can see it in the Avenue de Villiers.
HENRY JAMES
_27 Oct. '10_
At the beginning of this particularly active book season, reviewing thepublishers' announcements, I wrote: "There are one or two promising items,including a novel by Henry James. And yet, honestly, am I likely at thistime of day to be excited by a novel by Henry James? Shall I even read it?I know that I shall not
. Still, I shall put it on my shelves, and tell myjuniors what a miracle it is." Well, I have been surprised by the amountof resentment and anger which this honesty of mine has called forth. Oneof the politest of my correspondents, dating his letter from a city on theRhine, says: "For myself, it's really a rotten shame; every week since'Books and Persons' started have I hoped you would make some elucidatingremarks on this wonderful writer's work, and now you don't even state whyyou propose not reading him!" And so on, with the result that when "TheFiner Grain" (Methuen, 6s.) came along, I put my pride in my pocket, andread it. (By the way, it is not a novel but a collection of short stories,and I am pleased to see that it is candidly advertised as such.) I havenever been an enthusiast for Henry James, and probably I have not readmore than 25 per cent. of his entire output. The latest novel of his whichI read was "The Ambassadors," and upon that I took oath I would never tryanother. I remember that I enjoyed "The Other House"; and that "In theCage," a short novel about a post-office girl, delighted me. A few shortstories have much pleased me. Beyond this, my memories of his work arevague. My estimate of Henry James might have been summed up thus: On thecredit side:--He is a truly marvellous craftsman. By which I mean that heconstructs with exquisite, never-failing skill, and that he writes like anangel. Even at his most mannered and his most exasperating, he conveys hismeaning with more precision and clarity than perhaps any other livingwriter. He is never, never clumsy, nor dubious, even in the minutestdetails. Also he is a fine critic, of impeccable taste. Also he savourslife with eagerness, sniffing the breeze of it like a hound.... But on thedebit side:--He is tremendously lacking in emotional power. Also his senseof beauty is oversophisticated and wants originality. Also his attitudetowards the spectacle of life is at bottom conventional, timid, andundecided. Also he seldom chooses themes of first-class importance, andwhen he does choose such a theme he never fairly bites it and makes itbleed. Also his curiosity is limited. He seems to me to have beenspecially created to be admired by super-dilettanti. (I do not say that toadmire him is a proof of dilettantism.) What it all comes to is merelythat his subject-matter does not as a rule interest me. I simply state mypersonal view, and I expressly assert my admiration for the craftsman inhim and for the magnificent and consistent rectitude of his long artisticcareer. Further I will not go, though I know that bombs will now be laidat my front door by the furious faithful. As for "The Finer Grain," itleaves me as I was--cold. It is an uneven collection, and the storiesprobably belong to different periods. The first, "The Velvet Glove,"strikes me as conventional and without conviction. I should not call itsubtle, but rather obvious. I should call it finicking. In thesentence-structure mannerism is pushed to excess. All the other storiesare better. "Crafty Cornelia," for instance, is an exceedingly brilliantexercise in the art of making stone-soup. But then, I know I am in aminority among persons of taste. Some of the very best literary criticismof recent years has been aroused by admiration for Henry James. There is aman on the _Times Literary Supplement_ who, whenever he writes about HenryJames, makes me feel that I have mistaken my vocation and ought to haveentered the Indian Civil Service, or been a cattle-drover. However, Ican't help it. And I give notice that I will not reply to scurrilousletters.
ENGLISH LITERARY CRITICISM
_3 Nov. '10_
I learn that Mr. Elkin Mathews is about to publish a collected uniformedition of the works (poems and criticism) and correspondence of the lateLionel Johnson. I presume that this edition will comprise his study ofThomas Hardy. The enterprise proves that Lionel Johnson has admirerscapable of an excellent piety; and it also argues a certain continuance ofthe demand for his books. I was never deeply impressed by Lionel Johnson'scriticisms, and still less by his verse, but in the days of his activity Iwas young and difficult and hasty. Perhaps my net was too coarse for hisfineness. But, anyhow, I would give much to have a large homogeneous bodyof English literary criticism to read _at_. And I should be obliged to anyone who would point out to me where such a body of first-rate criticism isto be found. I have never been able to find it for myself. When I think ofPierre Bayle, Sainte-Beuve, and Taine, and of the keen pleasure I derivefrom the immense pasture offered by their voluminous and consistentlyadmirable works, I ask in vain where are the great English critics ofEnglish literature. Beside these French critics, the best of our own seemeither fragmentary or provincial--yes, curiously provincial. ExceptHazlitt we have, I believe, no even approximately first-class writer whodevoted his main activity to criticism. And Hazlitt, though he is veryreadable, has neither the urbaneness, nor the science, nor the learning,nor the wide grasp of life and of history that characterizes the threeabove-named. Briefly, he didn't know enough.
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Lamb would have been a first-class critic if he hadn't given the chiefpart of his life to clerkship. Lamb at any rate is not provincial. Hisperceptions are never at fault. Every sentence of Lamb proves his tasteand his powerful intelligence. Coleridge--well, Coleridge has hiscomprehensible moments, but they are few; Matthew Arnold, with study anddiscipline, might perhaps have been a great critic, only his passion forliterature was not strong enough to make him give upschool-inspecting--and there you are! Moreover, Matthew Arnold could neverhave written of women as Sainte-Beuve did. There were a lot of vastlyinteresting things that Matthew Arnold did not understand and did notwant to understand. He, too, was provincial (I regret to say)--you canfeel it throughout his letters, though his letters make very good quietreading. Churton Collins was a scholar of an extreme type; unfortunatelyhe possessed no real feeling for literature, and thus his judgment, whenit had to stand alone, cut a figure prodigiously absurd. And among livingpractitioners? Well, I have no hesitation in de-classing the wholeprofessorial squad--Bradley, Herford, Dowden, Walter Raleigh, Elton,Saintsbury. The first business of any writer, and especially of anycritical writer, is not to be mandarinic and tedious, and these lecturershave not yet learnt that first business. The best of them is GeorgeSaintsbury, but his style is such that even in Carmelite Street thesub-editors would try to correct it. Imagine the reception of such a stylein Paris! Still, Professor Saintsbury does occasionally stray out of theuniversity quadrangles, and puts on the semblance of a male human being asdistinguished from an asexual pedagogue. Professor Walter Raleigh isimproving. Professor Elton has never fallen to the depths of sterile andpretentious banality which are the natural and customary level of theremaining three.... You think I am letting my pen run away with me? Not atall. That is nothing to what I could say if I tried. Mr. J.W. Mackailmight have been one of our major critics, but there again--he, too,prefers the security of a Government office, like Mr. Austin Dobson, who,by the way, is very good in a very limited sphere. Perhaps Austin Dobsonis as good as we have. Compare his low flight with the terrific sweepingrange of a Sainte-Beuve or a Taine. I wish that some greatly gifted youthnow aged about seventeen would make up his mind to be a literary criticand nothing else.
MRS. ELINOR GLYN
_10 Nov. '10_
After all, the world does move. I never thought to be able to congratulatethe Circulating Libraries on their attitude towards a work of art; andhere in common fairness I, who have so often animadverted upon theircowardice, am obliged to laud their courage. The instant cause of this isMrs. Elinor Glyn's new novel, "His Hour" (Duckworth, 6s.) Everybody whocares for literature knows, or should know, Mrs. Glyn's fine carelessnessof popular opinion (either here or in the States), and the singleness ofher regard for the art which she practises and which she honours.Troubling herself about naught but splendour of subject and elevation ofstyle, she goes on her career indifferent alike to the praise and to theblame of the mob. (I use the word "mob" in Fielding's sense--as meaningpersons, in no matter what rank of life, capable of "low" feelings.)Perhaps Mrs. Glyn's latest book is the supreme example of her genius andof her conscientiousness. In essence it is a short story, handled with afullness and a completeness which justify her in calling it a novel. Thereare two principal characters, a youn
g half-Cossack Russian prince and anEnglish widow of good family. The pet name of the former is "Gritzko." Thelatter is generally called Tamara. Gritzko is one of those heroic heroeswho can spend their nights in the company of prostitutes, and their daysin the solution of deep military problems. He is very wealthy; he hasevery attribute of a hero, including audacity. During their very firstdance together Gritzko kissed Tamara. "They were up in a corner; everyone's back was turned to them happily, for in one second he had bent andkissed her neck. It was done with such incredible swiftness...." etc. "Butthe kiss burnt into Tamara's flesh." ... "'How dare you? How dare you?'she hissed."