* * * * *
I have invented a destiny for Mrs. Humphry Ward's heroines. It isterrible, and just. They ought to be caught, with their lawful maleprotectors, in the siege of a great city by a foreign army. Their lawfulmale protectors ought, before sallying forth on a forlorn hope, to providethem with a revolver as a last refuge from a brutal and licentioussoldiery. And when things come to a crisis, in order to be concluded inour next, the revolvers ought to prove to be unloaded. I admit that thisinvention of mine is odious, and quite un-English, and such as would neveroccur to a right-minded subscriber to Mudie's. But it illustrates the moodcaused in me by witnessing the antics of those harrowing dolls.
W.W. JACOBS AND ARISTOPHANES
[_24 Oct. '08_]
I have been reading a new novel by Mr. W.W. Jacobs--"Salthaven" (Methuen,6s.). It is a long time since I read a book of his. Ministries have fallensince then, and probably Mr. Jacobs' prices have risen--indeed, much hashappened--but the talent of the author of "Many Cargoes" remains steadfastwhere it did. "Salthaven" is a funny book. Captain Trimblett, to excusethe lateness of a friend for tea, says to the landlady: "He saw a mannearly run over!" and the landlady replies: "Yes, but how long would thattake him?" If you ask me whether I consider this humorous, I reply that Ido. I also consider humorous this conversational description of anexemplary boy who took to "Sandford and Merton" "as a duck takes towater": "By modelling his life on its teaching" (says young Vyner) "he wona silver medal for never missing an attendance at school. Even the measlesfailed to stop him. Day by day, a little more flushed than usual, perhaps,he sat in his place until the whole school was down with it, and had to beclosed in consequence. Then and not till then did he feel that he hadsaved the situation." I care nothing for the outrageous improbability ofany youthful son of a shipowner being able to talk in the brilliantfashion in which Mr. Jacobs makes Vyner talk. Success excuses it."Salthaven" is bathed in humour.
* * * * *
At the same time I am dissatisfied with "Salthaven." And I do not find iteasy to explain why. I suppose the real reason is that it discloses nosigns of any development whatever on the part of the author. Worse, itdiscloses no signs of intellectual curiosity on the part of the author.Mr. Jacobs seems to live apart from the movement of his age. Nothing,except the particular type of humanity and environment in which hespecializes, seems to interest him. There is no hint of a general idea inhis work. By some of his fellow-artists he is immensely admired. I haveheard him called, seriously, the greatest humorist since Aristophanes. Iadmire him myself, and I will not swear that he is not the greatesthumorist since Aristophanes. But I will swear that no genuine humoristever resembled Aristophanes less than Mr. Jacobs does. Aristophanes waspassionately interested in everything. He would leave nothing alone.Whereas Mr. Jacobs will leave nearly everything alone. Kipling's generalideas are excessively crude, but one does feel in reading him that hiscuriosity is boundless, even though his taste in literature mustinfallibly be bad. "Q" is not to be compared in creative power with eitherof these two men, but one does feel in reading him that he is interestedin other manifestations of his own art, that he cares for literature.Impossible to gather from Mr. Jacobs' work that he cares for anythingserious at all; impossible to differentiate his intellectual outlook fromthat of an average reader of the _Strand Magazine_! I do not bring this asa reproach against Mr. Jacobs, whose personality it would be difficult notto esteem and to like. He cannot alter himself. I merely record thephenomenon as worthy of notice.
* * * * *
Mr. Jacobs is not alone. Among our very successful novelists there aremany like him in what I will roundly term intellectual sluggishness,though there is, perhaps, none with quite his talent. Have these menentered into a secret compact not to touch a problem even with a pair oftongs? Or are they afraid of being confused with Hall Caine, Mrs. HumphryWard, and Miss Marie Corelli, who anyhow have the merit of beinginterested in the wide aspects of their age? I do not know. But I think wemight expect a little more general activity from some of our authors wholie tranquil, steeped in success as lizards in sunshine. I speakdelicately, for I am on delicate ground. I do, however, speak as acreative artist, and not as a critic. Occasionally my correspondentsupbraid me for not writing like a critic. I have never pretended to lookat things from any other standpoint than that of a creative artist.
KENNETH GRAHAME
[_24 Oct. '08_]
It is a long time since I read a new book by Mr. Kenneth Grahame, but thefault is his rather than mine. I suppose that I was not the only readerwho opened "The Wind in the Willows" (Methuen, 6s.) with an unusual andapprehensive curiosity. Would it disappoint? For really, you know, to liveup to "The Golden Age" and "Pagan Papers" could not be an easy task--andafter so many years of silence! It is ten years, if I mistake not, sinceMr. Kenneth Grahame put his name to anything more important than theofficial correspondence of the Bank of England. Well, "The Wind in theWillows" does not disappoint. Here, indeed, we have the work of a man whois obviously interested in letters and in life, the work of a fastidiousand yet a very robust artist. But the book is fairly certain to bemisunderstood of the people. The publishers' own announcement describes itas "perhaps chiefly for youth," a description with which I disagree. Theobtuse are capable of seeing in it nothing save a bread-and-butterimitation of "The Jungle Book." The woodland and sedgy lore in it isdiscreet and attractive. Names of animals abound in it. But it isnevertheless a book of humanity. The author may call his chief charactersthe Rat, the Mole, the Toad,--they are human beings, and they are meant tobe nothing but human beings. Were it otherwise, the spectacle of a toadgoing through the motor-car craft would be merely incomprehensible andexasperating. The superficial scheme of the story is so childishly naive,or so daringly naive, that only a genius could have preserved it from theridiculous. The book is an urbane exercise in irony at the expense of theEnglish character and of mankind. It is entirely successful. Whatever mayhappen to it in the esteem of mandarins and professors, it will beyonddoubt be considered by authentic experts as a work highly distinguished,original, and amusing--and no more to be comprehended by youth than "TheGolden Age" was to be comprehended by youth.
ANATOLE FRANCE
[_29 Oct. '08_]
I obtained the new book of Anatole France, "L'Ile des Pingouins," the dayafter publication, and my copy was marked "eighteenth edition." But inFrench publishing the word "edition" may mean anything. There is a sort oflegend among the simple that it means five hundred copies. The betterinformed, however, are aware that it often means less. Thus, in the caseof the later novels of Emile Zola, an edition meant two hundred copies.This was chiefly to save the self-love of his publishers, who did not careto admit that the idol of a capricious populace had fallen off itspedestal. The vast fiction was created that Zola sold as well as ever! OneParis firm, the "Societe du Mercure de France," which in the domain ofpure letters has probably issued in the last dozen years more good booksthan any other house in the world, has, with astounding courage, adoptedthe practice of numbering every copy of a book. Thus my copy of its"L'Esprit de Barbey d'Aurevilly" (an exceedingly diverting volume) isnumbered 1424. I prefer this to advertisements of "second large edition,"etc. One knows where one is. But I fear the example of the Mercure deFrance is not likely to be honestly imitated.
* * * * *
If Anatole France's "editions" consist of five hundred copies I am glad.For an immediate sale of nine thousand copies is fairly remarkable whenthe article sold consists of nothing more solid than irony. But I aminclined to think that they do not consist of five hundred copies. Thereis less enthusiasm--that is to say, less genuine enthusiasm--for AnatoleFrance than there used to be. The majority, of course, could neverappreciate him, and would only buy him under the threat of being disdainedby the minority, whose sole weapon is scorn. And the minority has beenseriously thinking about Anatole France, and coming to the
conclusionthat, though a genius, he is not the only genius that ever existed.(Stendhal is at present the god of the minority of the race which the_Westminister Gazette_ will persist in referring to as "our Frenchneighbours." In some circles it is now a lapse from taste to read anythingbut Stendhal.) Anatole France's last two works of imagination did notbrilliantly impose themselves on the intellect of his country. "L'HistoireComique" showed once again his complete inability to construct a novel,and it appeared to be irresponsibly extravagant in its sensuality. And"Sur la Pierre Blanche" was inferior Wells. The minority has waited a longtime for something large, original, and arresting; and it has not had it.The author was under no compulsion to write his history of Joan of Arc,which bears little relation to his epoch, and which one is justified indismissing as the elegant pastime of a savant. If in Anatole France thesavant has not lately flourished to the detriment of the fightingphilosopher, why should he have spent years on the "Joan of Arc" at aperiod when Jaures urgently needed intellectual aid against thedoctrinarianism of the International Congress? Jaures was beaten, and heyielded, with the result that Clemenceau, a man far too intelligent not tobe a practical Socialist at heart, has become semi-reactionary for want ofsupport. This has not much to do with literature. Neither has the historyof Joan of Arc. To return to literature, it is indubitable that AnatoleFrance is slightly acquiring the reputation of a dilettante.
* * * * *
In "L'Ile des Pingouins" he returns, in a parable, to his epoch. For thisbook is the history of France "from the earliest time to the presentday," seen in the mirror of the writer's ironical temperament. It is verygood. It is inimitable. It is sheer genius. One cannot reasonably findfault with its amazing finesse. But then one is so damnably_un_reasonable! One had expected--one does not know what one hadexpected--but anyhow something with a more soaring flight, something morepassionate, something a little less gently "tired" in its attitude towardsthe criminal frailties of mankind! When an A.B. Walkley yawns in printbefore the spectacle of the modern English theatre, it really doesn'tmatter. But when an Anatole France grows wearily indulgent before thespectacle of life, one is inclined to wake him by throwing "Leaves ofGrass" or "Ecce Homo" (Nietzsche's) at his head. For my part, I am readyto hazard that what is wrong with Anatole France is just spiritual anaemia.Yet only a little while, and he was as great a force for pushing forwardas H.G. Wells himself!
INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY
[_3 Dec. '08_]
The judgments of men who have the right to judge are not as otherjudgments. According to Mr. Yeats "the finest comedian of his kind on theEnglish-speaking stage" is not Mr. George Alexander, but Mr. William Fay!And who, outside Dublin, has ever heard of Mr. J.M. Synge, author of "ThePlayboy of the Western World?" For myself, I have heard of him, and thatis all. Mr. Yeats calls him "a unique man," and puts him above all otherIrish creative artists in prose. And very probably Mr. Yeats is correct.For the difference between what informed people truly think aboutreputations, and what is printed about reputations by mandarins in popularpapers, is apt to be startling. The other day I had a terrific pow-wowwith one of the most accomplished writers now living; it occurred in themiddle of a wood. We presently arrived at this point: He askedimpatiently: "Well, who _is_ there who can write tip-top poetry to-day?" Itried to dig out my genuine opinions. Really, it is not so easy to putone's finger on a high-class poet. I gave the names of Robert Bridges andW.B. Yeats. He wouldn't admit Mr. Yeats's tip-topness. "What about T.W.H.Crosland?" he inquired. At first, with the immeasurable and vulgar tediumof Mr. Crosland's popular books in my memory, I thought he was joking. Buthe was not. He was convinced than an early book by the slanger of suburbscontained as fine poetry as has been written in these days. I was formallybound over to peruse the volume. "And Alfred Douglas?" he said further.(Not that he had shares or interest in the _Academy_!) Of course, I had toadmit that Lord Alfred Douglas, before he began to cut capers in thehinterland of Fleet Street, had been a poet. I have an early volume of histhat, to speak mildly, I cherish. I should surmise that scarcely oneperson in a million has the least idea of the identity of the artists bywhich the end of the twentieth century will remember the beginning. Thevital facts of to-day's literature always lie buried beneath chatter oflarge editions and immense popularities. I wouldn't mind so much, were itnot incontestable that at the end of the century I shall be dead.
MALLARME, BAZIN, SWINBURNE
[_17 Dec. '08_]
The Mrs. Humphry Ward of France, M. Rene Bazin, has visited these shores,and has been interviewed. In comparing him to Mrs. Humphry Ward, I amunfair to the lady in one sense and too generous in another. M. Bazinwrites perhaps slightly better than Mrs. Humphry Ward, but not much. _Percontra_, he is a finished master of the art of self-advertisement, whereasthe public demeanour of Mrs. Humphry Ward is entirely beyond reproach. M.Bazin did not get through his interview without giving some precisestatistical information as to the vast sale of his novels. I suppose thatM. Bazin, Academician and apostle of literary correctitude, is just thetype of official mediocrity that the Alliance Francaise was fated toinvite to London as representative of French letters. My only objection tothe activities of M. Bazin is that, not content with a golden popularity,he cannot refrain from sneering at genuine artists. Thus, to theinterviewer, he referred to Stephane Mallarme as a "fumiste." No Englishword will render exactly this French slang; it may be roughly translateda practical joker with a trace of fraud. There may be, and there are, twoopinions as to the permanent value of Mallarme's work, but there cannot betwo informed and honest opinions as to his profound sincerity. It isindubitable that he had one aim--to produce the finest literature of whichhe was capable, and that to this aim he sacrificed everything else in hiscareer. A charming spectacle, this nuncio of mediocrity and of theAcademie Francaise coming to London to assert that a distinguished writerlike Mallarme was a "fumiste"! If any one wishes to know what is thoughtof Mallarme by the younger French school, let him read the Mallarmechapter in Andre Gide's "Pretextes." In this very able book will be foundalso some wonderful reminiscences of Oscar Wilde.
* * * * *
Speaking of the respect which ought to be accorded to a distinguishedartist, there is an excellent example of propriety in Dr. LevinSchuecking's review of Swinburne's "The Age of Shakespeare," which bringsto a close the extraordinarily fine first number of the _English Review_.Dr. Schuecking shows that he is quite aware of the defects of manner whichmark the book, but his own manner is the summit of courteous deferencesuch as is due to one of the chief ornaments of English literature, and toa very old man. "A Man of Kent" (_British Weekly_), in commenting on thearticle, regrets its timidity, and refers to Swinburne as the "howlingdervish" of criticism. This is the kind of lapse from decorum which causesthe judicious not to grieve but to shrug their shoulders. Probably "A Manof Kent" would wish to withdraw it. I trust he is aware that "The Age ofShakespeare" is packed full of criticism whose insight and sensitivenessno other English critic could equal.
THE RUINED SEASON
[_24 Dec. '08_]
In a recent number of the _Athenaeum_ appeared a letter from Mr. E.H.Cooper, novelist and writer for children, protesting against thepublication of the Queen's Gift-Book and the royally commanded cheapedition of "Queen Victoria's Letters" during the autumn season, andrequesting their Majesties to forbear next year from injuring the generalbusiness of books as they have injured it this year. That somesemi-official importance is attached to Mr. Cooper's statements is obviousfrom the fact that the _Athenaeum_ (which is the organ of the trade as wellas of learning) thought well to print his letter. But Mr. Cooperundoubtedly exaggerates. He states that the two books in question "haveruined the present publishing season rather more effectively than aPan-European war could have done." Briefly, this is ridiculous. He saysfurther: "Men and women who could trust to a sale of 5000 or 6000 copiesof a novel, equally with authors who can command much larger sales, findthat this year the sale of th
eir annual novel has reached a tenth part ofthe usual figures." This also is ridiculous. The general view is that,while the season has been scarcely up to the average for fiction, it hasnot been below the average on the whole. But Mr. Cooper is nothing if notsweeping. A few days later he wrote to the _Westminster Gazette_ about theHouse of Lords, and said: "I am open to wager a considerable sum that ifthe Government fights a general election next year they will win back alltheir lost by-elections and get an increased majority besides." Suchrashness proves that grammar is not Mr. Cooper's only weak point.
* * * * *
It is a pity that Mr. Cooper's protest was not made with more moderation,for it was a protest worth making. The books of the two Queens have notruined the season, nor have they reduced the sales of popular novels by 90per cent.; but they have upset trade quite unnecessarily. The issue of"Queen Victoria's Letters" at six shillings was a worthy idea, but itsexecution was thoughtlessly timed. The volumes would have sold almostequally well at another period of the year. As for "Queen Alexandra'sGift-Book," I personally have an objection to the sale of books forcharity, just as I have an objection to all indirect taxation and to thepaying of rates out of gas profits. In such enterprises as the vast,frenzied pushing and booming of the "Gift-Book," the people who really payare just the people who get no credit whatever. The public who buy getrich value for their outlay; the chief pushers and boomsters get anadvertisement after their own hearts; and the folk who genuinely butunwillingly contribute, without any return of any kind, are authors whosemarket is disturbed and booksellers who, partly intimidated and partlyfrom good nature, handle the favoured book on wholesale terms barelyprofitable. I will have none of Mr. Cooper's 90 per cent.; but I dare saythat I have lost at the very least L10 owing to the "Gift-Book." That isto say, I have furnished L10 to the Unemployed Fund. I share Mr. Cooper'sresentment. I do not want to give L10 to any fund whatever, and to forceme to pay it to the Unemployed Fund, of all funds, is to insult my mostsacred convictions. L10 wants earning. And the fact that L10 wants earningshould be brought to the attention of Windsor and Greeba Castles.