"THE NEW MACHIAVELLI"
[_2 Feb. '11_]
A pretty general realization of the extremely high quality of "The NewMachiavelli" has reduced almost to silence the ignoble tittle-tattle thataccompanied its serial publication in the _English Review_. It is yearssince a novel gave rise to so much offensive and ridiculous chatter beforebeing issued as a book. When the chatter began, dozens of people who wouldno more dream of paying four-and-sixpence for a new novel that happened tobe literature than they would dream of paying four-and-sixpence for acigar, sent down to the offices of the _English Review_ for complete setsof back numbers at half a crown a number, so that they could rummagewithout a moment's delay among the earlier chapters in search of tit-bitsaccording to their singular appetite. Such was the London which callsitself literary and political! A spectacle to encourage cynicism! Rumourhad a wonderful time. It was stated that not only the libraries but thebooksellers also would decline to handle "The New Machiavelli." Thereasons for this prophesied ostracism were perhaps vague, but they wereunderstood to be broad-based upon the unprecedented audacity of thenovel. And really in this exciting year, with Sir Percy Bunting in chargeof the national sense of decency, and Mr. W.T. Stead still gloating aftertwenty-five years over his success in keeping Sir Charles Dilke out ofoffice--you never can tell what may happen!
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However, it is all over now. "The New Machiavelli" has been received withthe respect and with the enthusiasm which its tremendous qualitiesdeserve. It is a great success. And the reviews have on the whole beengenerous. It was perhaps not to be expected that certain Radical dailiesshould swallow the entire violent dose of the book without kicking up afuss; but, indeed, Mr. Scott-James, in the _Daily News_, ought to knowbetter than to go running about after autobiography in fiction. The humannose was not designed by an all-merciful providence for this purpose. Mr.Scott-James has undoubted gifts as a critic, and his temperament issympathetic; and the men most capable of appreciating him, and whoseappreciation he would probably like to retain, would esteem him even morehighly if he could get into his head the simple fact that a novel is anovel. I have suffered myself from this very provincial mania forchemically testing novels for traces of autobiography. There are somecritics of fiction who talk about autobiography in fiction in the tone ofa doctor who has found arsenic in the stomach at a post-mortem inquiry.The truth is that whenever a scene in a novel is _really_ convincing, acertain type of critical and uncreative mind will infallibly mutter inaccents of pain, "Autobiography!" When I was discussing this topic theother day a novelist not inferior to Mr. Wells suddenly exclaimed: "I say!Supposing we _did_ write autobiography!"... Yes, if we did, what acelestial rumpus there would be!
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The carping at "The New Machiavelli" is naught. For myself I anticipatedfor it a vast deal more carping than it has in fact occasioned. And I amvery content to observe a marked increase of generosity in the receptionof Mr. Wells's work. To me the welcome accorded to his best books hasalways seemed to lack spontaneity, to be characterized by a meanreluctance. And yet if there is a novelist writing to-day who bygenerosity has deserved generosity, that novelist is H.G. Wells.Astounding width of observation; a marvellously true perspective; anextraordinary grasp of the real significance of innumerable phenomenautterly diverse; profound emotional power; dazzling verbal skill: theseare qualities which Mr. Wells indubitably has. But the qualities whichconsecrate these other qualities are his priceless and total sincerity,and the splendid human generosity which colours that sincerity. What aboveall else we want in this island of intellectual dishonesty is some one whowill tell us the truth "and chance it." H.G. Wells is pre-eminently thatman. He might have told us the truth with cynicism; he might have told itmeanly; he might have told it tediously--and he would still have beeninvaluable. But it does just happen that he has combined a disconcertingand entrancing candour with a warmth of generosity towards mankind and aninspiring faith in mankind such as no other living writer, not even themost sentimental, has surpassed. And yet in the immediate past we haveheard journalists pronouncing coldly: "This thing is not so bad." And wehave heard journalists asserting in tones of shocked reprehension: "Thisthing is not free from faults!" Who the deuce said it was free fromfaults? But where in fiction, ancient or modern, will you find anotherphilosophical picture of a whole epoch and society as brilliant and ashonest as "The New Machiavelli"? Well, I will tell you where you will findit. You will find it in "Tono-Bungay." H.G. Wells is a bit of sheer luckfor England. Some countries don't know their luck. And as I do not believethat England is worse than another, I will say that no country knows itsluck. However, as regards this particular bit, there are now some clearsigns of a growing perception.
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The social and political questions raised in "The New Machiavelli" mightbe discussed at length with great advantage. But this province is notmine. Nor could the rightness or the wrongness of the hero's views andacts affect the artistic value of the novel. On purely artistic groundsthe novel might be criticized in several ways unfavourably. But in myopinion it has only one fault that to any appreciable extent impairs itsartistic worth. The politically-creative part, as distinguished from thepolitically-shattering part, is not convincing. The hero's change ofparty, and his popular success with the policy of the endowment ofmotherhood are indeed strangely unconvincing--inconceivable to commonsense. Here the author's hand has trembled, and his persuasive powerforsaken him. Happily he recaptured it for the final catastrophe, which isabsolutely magnificent, a masterpiece of unforced poignant tragedy andunsentimental tenderness.
SUCCESS IN JOURNALISM
[_16 Feb. '11_]
It is notorious that in London--happily so different from othercapitals--there is no connexion between the advertisement and theeditorial departments of the daily papers. It is positively known, forinstance, that the exuberant editorial praise poured out upon the new"Encyclopaedia Britannica" has no connexion whatever with the tremendoussums paid by the Cambridge University Press for advertising the said workof reference. The almost simultaneous appearance, of the advertisementsand of the superlative reviews is a pure coincidence. Now, in Paris itwould not be a coincidence, and nobody would have the courage to pretendthat it was. But London is a city apart. In view of this admitted fact Iwas intensely startled, not to say outraged, by a conversation at which Iassisted the other day. A young acquaintance, with literary andjournalistic proclivities, and with a touching belief in the high missionof the London press, desired advice as to the best method of reaching thetop rungs of the ladder of which he had not yet set foot even on thelowest rung. I therefore invited him to meet a celebrated friend of mine,an author and a journalist, who has recently quitted an importanteditorial chair.
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The latter spoke to him as follows: "My dear boy, you had better get asituation in the advertisement department of a paper--no matter whatpaper, provided it has a large advertisement revenue; and no matter whatsituation, however modest." Here the youth interrupted with the remarkthat his desire was the editorial department. The ex-editor proceededcalmly: "I have quite grasped that.... Well, you must work yourself up inthe advertisement department! What you chiefly require for success is agood suit, a good club, an imperturbable manner, and a cultivated taste inrestaurants and bars. In your spare time you must write long dull articlesfor the reviews; and you must rediscover London in a series of snappishsketches for a half-penny daily, and also write a novel that is just trueenough to frighten the libraries and not too true to make them refuse italtogether: it must absolutely be such a novel as they will supply only tosuch subscribers as insist on having it. When you have worked your wayvery high up in the advertisement department, and are intimate withadvertisement agents and large advertisers to the point of being able toinfluence advertisements amounting to fifty thousand pounds a year--then,and not before, you
may look about you and decide what big serious dailypaper you would like to assist in editing. Make your own choice. Then seethe proprietor. If he is not already in the House of Lords, he willassuredly be on Mr. Asquith's private list of five hundred candidates forthe House of Lords. The best moment to catch him is as he comes out of thePalace Theatre, about a quarter past eleven of a night. Tell him on thepavement that you have edited a paper in Chicago, and he will at onceinvite you into his automobile. You go with him to his club, and then youconfess that you have not edited a paper in Chicago, but that you haveadopted this device in order to get speech with him, and that all youdesire is a humble post on the editorial staff of his big serious daily.
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"He will insult you. He will inform you that he has forty candidates forthe most insignificant post on the editorial staff, and that there is notthe remotest chance for you. You then tell him that you are an expertwriter, a contributor to the monthlies and quarterlies, and the author ofa novel which Mr. James Douglas has described as the most stupendouslyvirile work of fiction since Tourgeniev's 'Crime and Punishment.' He willinsult you anew, and demand your immediate departure. You then say to him,in a casual tone: 'I can bring you ten thousand pounds' worth of ads. ayear.' He will read your deepest soul with one glance, and will reply, ina casual tone, 'I dare say I could find you something regular to do on themagazine page.' You go on airily: 'I'm pretty sure I can bring twentythousand pounds' worth of ads. a year.' He will then order R.P. Muriacigars, and say with benevolence: 'It just happens that the head of ourreviewing department is under notice. How would that suit you?' You thenunmask all your batteries, and tell him squarely that you can bring himadvertisements to the tune of a thousand pounds a week. Whereupon he willreply, shaking you fraternally by the hand: 'My dear fellow, I will makeyou editor at once.'"
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So spake my celebrated friend. Of course, he is a cynic. He may be acriminal cynic. But he spake so. From time to time London dailies do methe honour to reprint saucy paragraphs from this weekly article of mine.My friend said to me: "You can print what I've said, if you like. No dailypaper in London will reprint _that_."
MARGUERITE AUDOUX
[_2 March '11_]
Among the astonishing phenomena of a spring season which promises to bequite as successful, in its way, as the very glorious autumn season(publishers must have spent a happy Christmas!) is the success of a reallydistinguished book. I mean "Marie Claire." Frankly, I did not anticipatethis triumph. For, of course, it is very difficult for an author ofexperience to believe that a good book will be well received. However,"Marie Claire" has been helped by a series of extraordinary reviews. Nonovel of recent years has had such favourable reviews, or so many of them,or such long ones. I have seen all of them--all except one have been verylaudatory--and I am in a position to state that if placed end to end theywould stretch from Miss Corelli's house in Stratford-on-Avon across themain to Mr. Hall Caine's castle in the Isle of Man. This may be calledpraise. One of the best, if not the best, was signed "J.L.G." in the_Observer_. It is indeed a solemn and terrifying thought that Mr. Garvin,who, by means of thoroughly bad prose persisted in during many years, hasat last laid the Tory Party in ruins, should be so excellent a judge ofliterature. Mr. Garvin made his debut in the London Press, I think, as aliterary critic; and it is a pity (from the Tory point of view) that hedid not remain a literary critic. I am convinced that Mr. Balfour and LordLansdowne would personally subscribe large sums to found a literary paperfor him to edit, on condition that he promised never to write another lineof advice to their party. The _Telegraph_ would bleed copiously; the_Observer_ would expire; the _Fortnightly Review_ would stagger in itsheavy stride, but there would be hope for Tories!... In the meantime, fivethousand copies of the English translation of "Marie Claire" were soldwithin a week of publication. It is improbable that the total English salewill be less than ten thousand. Now translated novels rarely achievepopularity. The last one to be popular here was Fogazzaro's "The Saint";but the popularity of "The Saint" was not due to artistic causes.
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I think I may say that I am thoroughly accustomed to the society of womennovelists. Peculiar circumstances in my obscure life have thrown me amongwomen writers of all sorts; and I can boast that I have helped to formmore than one woman novelist; so that the prospect of meeting a new onedoes not agitate me in the slightest degree. I make friends with the newone at once, and in about two minutes we are discussing prices with themost touching familiarity. Nevertheless, I own that I was somewhatdisturbed in my Midland phlegm when the author of "Marie Claire" came tosee me. The book, read in the light of the circumstances of itscomposition, had unusually impressed me and stirred my imagination. It wasnot the woman novelist who was coming to see me, but Marie Claire herself,shepherdess, farm-servant, and sempstress; it was a mysterious creaturewho had known how to excite enthusiasm in a whole regiment of literaryyoung men.... And literary young men as a rule are extremely harsh, evenoffensive, in their attitude towards women writers. I stood at the top ofthe toy stairs of the _pavillon_ which I was then occupying in Paris, andMadame Marguerite Audoux came up the stairs towards me, preceded by one ofher young sponsors, and followed by another. A rather short, plump littlelady, very simply dressed, and with the simplest possible manner--justsuch a comfortable human being as in my part of the world is called a"body"! She had, however, eyes of a softness and depth such as are notseen in my part of the world. With that, a very quiet, timid, and sweetvoice. She was a sempstress; she looked like a sempstress; and she waswell content to look like a sempstress. Nobody would have guessed in tenthousand guesses that here was the author of the European book of theyear. But when she talked the resemblance to the sempstress soon vanished.Sempstresses--of whom I have also known many--do not talk as she talked.Not that she said much! Not that she began to talk at once! Far from it.When I had referred to the goodness of her visit, and she had referred tothe goodness of my invitation, and she was ensconced in an arm-chair nearthe fire, she quite simply left the pioneer work of conversation to herbodyguard. Her bodyguard was very proud, and very nervous, as befitted itsage.
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It was my reference to Dostoievsky that first started her talking. In allliterary conversations Dostoievsky is my King Charles's head. She hadpreviously stated that she had read very little indeed. But at any rateshe had read Dostoievsky, and was well minded to share my enthusiasms.Indeed, Dostoievsky drew her out of her arm-chair and right across theroom. We were soon discussing methods of work, and I learnt that sheworked very slowly indeed, destroying much, and feeling her way inch byinch rather than seeing it clear ahead. She said that her second book,dealing with her life in Paris, might not be ready for years. It wasevident that she profoundly understood the nature of work--all sorts ofwork. Work had, indeed, left its honourable and fine mark upon her. Shemade some very subtle observations about the psychology of it, butunfortunately I cannot adequately report them here.... From work toprices, naturally! It was pleasing to find that she had a very sane andproper curiosity as to prices and conditions in England. After I hadsomewhat satisfied this curiosity she showed an equally sane and properannoyance at the fact that the English and American rights of "MarieClaire" had been sold outright for a ridiculous sum. She told me the exactsum. It was either L16 or L20--I forget which.
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When Madame Audoux had gone I reviewed my notions of her visit, and I cameto the conclusion that she was very like her book. She had said little,and nothing that was striking, but she had mysteriously emanated anatmosphere of artistic distinction. She was a true sensitive. She had hadimmense and deep experience of life, but her adventures, often difficult,had not disturbed the nice balance of her judgment, nor impaired thedelicacy of her impressions. She was an amateur of life. She was awake toall aspects of it. And a calm
common sense presided over her magnanimousverdicts. She was far too wary, sagacious, and well acquainted with realvalues to allow herself to be spoilt, even the least bit, by a periloussuccess, however brilliant. Such were my notions. But it is not in asingle interview that one can arrive at a due estimate of a mind soreserved, dreamy, and complex as hers. The next day she left Paris, and Ihave not seen her since.
JOHN MASEFIELD
[_20 April '11_]
I opened Mr. John Masefield's novel of modern London, "The Street ofTo-day" (Dent and Co.), with much interest. But I found it very difficultto read. This is a damning criticism; but what would you have? I found itvery difficult to read. It is very earnest, very sincere, very carefullyand generously done. But these qualities will not save it. Even itsintelligence, and its alert critical attitude towards life, will not saveit. I could say a great deal of good about it, and yet all that I couldsay in its favour would not avail. It would certainly be better if it wereconsiderably shorter. I estimate that between fifty and a hundred pages ofsmall talk and miscellaneous observation could be safely removed from itwithout impairing the coherence of the story. The amount of small talkrecorded is simply terrific. Not bad small talk! Heard in real life, itwould be reckoned rather good small talk! But artistically futile! Smalltalk, and cleverer small talk than this, smothered and ruined a novel moredramatic than this--I mean Mr. Zangwill's "The Master." I am convincedthat a novel ought to be dramatic--intellectually, spiritually, orphysically--and "The Street of To-day" is not dramatic. It is always aboutto be dramatic and it never is. Chapter III, for instance, contains veryimportant material, essential to the tale, fundamental. But it is notpresented dramatically. It is presented in the form of a psychologicalessay. Now Mr. Masefield's business as a novelist was to have inventedhappenings for the presentment of the information contained in this essay.He has saved himself a lot of trouble, but to my mind he has not yet cometo understand what a novel is.