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The next day all the shops were open, and hundreds of fatigued assistantswere pouring out their exhaustless patience on thousands of urgent andbright women; and flags waved on high, and the gutters were banked withyellow and white flowers, and the air was brisk and the roadways wereclean. The very vital spirit of energy seemed to have scattered the breathof life generously, so that all were intoxicated by it in the gaysunshine. He was dead then. The waving posters said it. When Tennyson diedI felt less hurt; for I had serious charges to bring against Tennyson,which impaired my affection for him. But I was more shocked. When Tennysondied, everybody knew it, and imaginatively realized it. Everybody wastouched. I was saddened then as much by the contagion of a general griefas by a sorrow of my own. But there was no general grief on Saturday.Swinburne had written for fifty years, and never once moved the nation,save inimically, when "Poems and Ballads" came near to being burntpublicly by the hangman. (By "the nation," I mean newspaper readers. Thereal nation, busy with the problem of eating, dying, and being born all inone room, has never heard of either Tennyson or Swinburne or George R.Sims.) There are poems of Tennyson, of Wordsworth, even of the speciouslyrecondite Browning, that have entered into the general consciousness. Butnothing of Swinburne's! Swinburne had no moral ideas to impart. Swinburnenever publicly yearned to meet his Pilot face to face. He never gallopedon one of Lord George Sanger's horses from Aix to Ghent. He was interestedonly in ideal manifestations of beauty and force. Except when he grievedthe judicious by the expression of political crudities, he never connectedart with any form of morals that the British public could understand. Hesang. He sang supremely. And it wasn't enough for the British public. Theconsequence was that his fame spread out as far as under-graduates, andthe tiny mob of under-graduates was the largest mob that ever worrieditself about Swinburne. Their shouts showed the high-water mark of hispopularity. When one of them wrote in a facetious ecstasy over "Dolores,"
_But you came, O you procuratores_ _And ran us all in!_
that moment was the crown of Swinburne's career as a popular author. Withits incomparable finger on the public pulse the _Daily Mail_, on the daywhen it announced Swinburne's death, devoted one of its placards to theperformances of a lady and a dog on a wrecked liner, and another to theantics of a lunatic with a revolver. The _Daily Mail_ knew what it wasabout. Do not imagine that I am trying to be sardonic about the Englishrace and its organs. Not at all. The English race is all right, thoughageing now. The English race has committed no crime in demanding from itspoets something that Swinburne could not give. I am merely trying to makeclear the exceeding strangeness of the apparition of a poet like Swinburnein a place like England.
Last year I was walking down Putney Hill, and I saw Swinburne for thefirst and last time. I could see nothing but his face and head. I did notnotice those ridiculously short trousers that Putney people invariablymention when mentioning Swinburne. Never have I seen a man's life moreclearly written in his eyes and mouth and forehead. The face of a man whohad lived with fine, austere, passionate thoughts of his own! By theheavens, it was a noble sight. I have not seen a nobler. Now, I knew byhearsay every crease in his trousers, but nobody had told me that his facewas a vision that would never fade from my memory. And nobody, I foundafterwards by inquiry, had "noticed anything particular" about his face. Idon't mind, either for Swinburne or for Putney. I reflect that if Putneyignored Swinburne, he ignored Putney. And I reflect that there is greatstuff in Putney for a poet, and marvel that Swinburne never perceived itand used it. He must have been born English, and in the nineteenthcentury, by accident. He was misprized while living. That is nothing. Whatdoes annoy me is that critics who know better are pandering to thenational hypocrisy after his death. In a dozen columns he has been spedinto the unknown as "a great Victorian"! Miserable dishonesty! Nobody wasever less Victorian than Swinburne. And then when these critics have toskate over the "Poems and Ballads" episode--thin, cracking ice!--how theyrepeat delicately the word "sensuous," "sensuous." Out with it, tailorishand craven minds, and say "sensual"! For sensual the book is. It is finein sensuality, and no talking will ever get you away from that. Villiersde l'Isle-Adam once wrote an essay on "Le Sadisme anglais," and supportedit with a translation of a large part of "Anactoria." And even Paris wasstartled. A rare trick for a supreme genius to play on the country of hisbirth, enshrining in the topmost heights of its literature a lovely poemthat cannot be discussed!... Well, Swinburne has got the better of usthere. He has simply knocked to pieces the theory that great art isinseparable from the Ten Commandments. His greatest poem was written inhonour of a poet whom any English Vigilance Society would have crucified."Sane" critics will naturally observe, in their quiet manner, that"Anactoria" and similar feats were "so unnecessary." Would it were true!
THE SEVENPENNIES
[_29 Apr. '09_]
Some time ago a meeting (henceforward historic) took place between Mr.Longman, Mr. Macmillan, Mr. Reginald Smith, Mr. Methuen, and Mr.Hutchinson [All baronets or knights now, except Reginald Smith, who isdead] of the one part, and Mr. Bernard Shaw, Mr. Maurice Hewlett, and Mr.Anthony Hope of the other part. Mr. Longman was the host, and theencounter must have been touching. I would have given a complete set ofthe works of Mrs. Humphry Ward to have been invisibly present. Thepublishers had invited the authors (who represented the Authors' Society),with the object of dissuading them from allowing their books to bereprinted at the price of sevenpence. Naturally, the publishers, asalways, were actuated by a pure desire for the welfare of authors. MessrsShaw, Hewlett, and Hope have written an official account of theirimpressions of the great sevenpenny question, and it appears in thecurrent number of the _Author_. It is amusing. The most amusing aspect ofthe whole affair is the mere fact that one solitary Scotch firm, Nelsons,have forced the mandarins, nay, the arch-mandarins, of the trade to cryout that the shoe is pinching. For the supreme convention of life on themandarinic plane is that the shoe never pinches. The publishers made onevery true statement to the authors, namely, that sevenpenny editions givethe public the impression that 6s. is an excessive price for a novel.Well, it is. But is that a reason for abolishing the sevenpenny? The otherstatements of the publishers were chiefly absurd. For instance, this: "Anyauthor allowing a novel to be sold at sevenpence will find the sales ofhis next book at 6s. suffering a considerable decrease." Well, it isnotorious that if the sevenpenny publishers are publishing one particularbook just now, that book is "Kipps." It is equally notorious that thesales of "Tono-Bungay" are, and continue to be, extremely satisfactory.
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On the other hand, the remarks of the sevenpenny publishers themselves arenot undiverting. I have heard from dozens of people in the trade thatMessrs. Nelson could not possibly make the sevenpenny reprint pay. I havenever believed the statement. But the Shaw and Co. report makes Messrs.Nelson give as one reason for not abandoning the sevenpenny enterprisethe fact that "the machinery already in existence is too costly to beabandoned." Which involves the novel maxim that a loss may be too big tobe cut! Were their amazing factory ten times as large as it actually is,Messrs. Nelson would have to put it to other uses in face of a regularloss on their sevenpennies. However, there is no doubt in my mind that theenterprise is, and will be, remunerative. The Shaw and Co. report is ofthe same view. Did the mandarins imagine that they were going to stop thesevenpenny, that anything could stop it? I suppose they did! Moreagreeably comic than the attitude and arguments of the publishers are theattitude and arguments of the booksellers. But the largest firms, Smithand Son and Wymans, "do not find that the sevenpenny has interfered withthe 6s. novel." Be it noted that Smith and Son are now the largest buyersof 6s. novels in England.
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In the Shaw and Co. report, in the arguments of publishers, in thearguments booksellers, not a word about the interests of the consumer! Yetthe consumer will settle the affair ultim
ately. That the price of newnovels will come down is absolutely certain. It will come down because itis ridiculous, and no mandarinic efforts can keep it up. In the process ofreadjustment many people will temporarily suffer, and a few people will beannihilated. But things are what they are, and the consequences of themwill be what they will be. Why, therefore, should we deceive ourselves? Iquite expect to suffer myself. I shall not, however, complain of thecosmic movement. The auctorial report (which, by the way, is full ofcommon sense) envisages immense changes in the book market. I agree. And Iam sure that these changes will come about in the teeth of violentopposition from both publishers and booksellers. The book market isgrowing steadily. It is enormous compared to what used to be. And yet itis only in its infancy. The inhabitants of this country have scarcely evenbegun to buy books. Wait a few years and you will see!
MEREDITH
[_27 May '09_]
The death of George Meredith removes, not the last of the Victoriannovelists, but the first of the modern school. He was almost the firstEnglish novelist whose work reflected an intelligent interest in the artwhich he practised; and he was certainly the first since Scott who wasreally a literary man. Even Scott was more of an antiquary than a man ofletters--apart from his work. Can one think of Dickens as a man ofletters, as one who cared for books, as one whose notions on literaturewere worth twopence? And Thackeray's opinions on contemporary andpreceding writers condemn him past hope of forgiveness. Thackeray was inParis during the most productive years of French fiction, the sublimedecade of Balzac, Stendhal, and Victor Hugo. And his "Paris Sketch-Book"proves that his attitude towards the marvels by which he was surroundedwas the attitude of a clubman. These men wrote; they got through theirwriting as quickly as they could; and during the rest of the day they wereclubmen, or hosts, or guests. Trollope, who dashed off his literary workwith a watch in front of him before 8.30 of a morning, who hunted threedays a week, dined out enormously, and gave his best hours to fightingRowland Hill in the Post Office--Trollope merely carried to its logicalconclusion the principle of his mightier rivals. What was the matter withall of them, after a holy fear of their publics, was simple ignorance.George Eliot was not ignorant. Her mind was more distinguished than theminds of the great three. But she was too preoccupied by moral questionsto be a first-class creative artist. And she was a woman. A woman, at thatepoch, dared not write an entirely honest novel! Nor a man either! BetweenFielding and Meredith no entirely honest novel was written by anybody inEngland. The fear of the public, the lust of popularity, feminine prudery,sentimentalism, Victorian niceness--one or other of these things preventedhonesty.
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In "Richard Feverel," what a loosening of the bonds! What a renaissance!Nobody since Fielding would have ventured to write the Star and Garterchapter in "Richard Feverel." It was the announcer of a sort of dawn. Butthere are fearful faults in "Richard Feverel." The book is sicklied o'erwith the pale cast of the excellent Charlotte M. Yonge. The largeconstructional lines of it are bad. The separation of Lucy and Richard isnever explained, and cannot be explained. The whole business of Sir Juliusis grotesque. And the conclusion is quite arbitrary. It is a weak book,full of episodic power and overloaded with wit. "Diana of the Crossways"is even worse. I am still awaiting from some ardent Meredithian anexplanation of Diana's marriage that does not insult my intelligence. Noris "One of our Conquerors" very good. I read it again recently, and wassad. In my view, "The Egoist" and "Rhoda Fleming" are the best of thenovels, and I don't know that I prefer one to the other. The latter oughtto have been called "Dahlia Fleming," and not "Rhoda." When one thinks ofthe rich colour, the variety, the breadth, the constant intellectualdistinction, the sheer brilliant power of novels such as these, oneperceives that a "great Victorian" could only have succeeded in an agewhen all the arts were at their lowest ebb in England, and the mostmiddling of the middle-classes ruled with the Bible in one hand and theRiot Act in the other.
Meredith was an uncompromising Radical, and--what is singular--heremained so in his old age. He called Mr. Joseph Chamberlain's nose"adventurous" at a time when Mr. Joseph Chamberlain's nose had theineffable majesty of the Queen of Spain's leg. And the _Pall Mall_haughtily rebuked him. A spectacle for history! He said aloud in aballroom that Guy de Maupassant was the greatest novelist that ever lived.To think so was not strange; but to say it aloud! No wonder thistemperament had to wait for recognition. Well, Meredith has never hadproper recognition; and won't have yet. To be appreciated by a handful ofwriters, gushed over by a little crowd of thoughtful young women, and kepton a shelf uncut by ten thousand persons determined to be in themovement--that is not appreciation. He has not even been appreciated asmuch as Thomas Hardy, though he is a less fine novelist. I do not assertthat he is a less fine writer. For his poems are as superior to the versesof Thomas Hardy as "The Mayor of Casterbridge" is superior to "TheEgoist." (Never in English prose literature was such a seer of beauty asThomas Hardy.) The volume of Meredith's verse is small, but there arethings in it that one would like to have written. And it is all so fine,so acute, so alert, courageous, and immoderate.
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A member of the firm which has the honour of publishing Meredith's novelswas interviewed by the _Daily Mail_ on the day after his death. Thegentleman interviewed gave vent to the usual insolence about our owntimes. "He belonged," said the gentleman, "to a very different age fromthe _modern_ writer--an age before the literary agent; and with Mr.Meredith the feeling of intimacy as between author and publisher--thefeeling that gave to publishing as it was its charm--was always existent."Charm--yes, for the publisher. The secret history of the publishing ofMeredith's earlier books (long before Constables had ever dreamed ofpublishing him) is more than curious. I have heard some details of it. Myonly wonder is that human ingenuity did not invent literary agents fortyyears ago. Then the person interviewed went grandly on: "In his manner ofwriting the great novelist was very different from the _modern_ fashion.He wrote with such care that judged by _modern_ standards he would beconsidered a trifle slow." Tut-tut! It may interest the gentlemaninterviewed to learn that no modern writer would dare to produce work atthe rate at which Scott, Dickens, Trollope, and Thackeray produced it whentheir prices were at their highest. The rate of production has mostdecidedly declined, and upon the whole novels are written with more carenow than ever they were. I should doubt if any novel was written atgreater speed than the greatest realistic novel in the world, Richardson's"Clarissa," which is eight or ten times the length of an average novel byMrs. Humphry Ward. "Mademoiselle de Maupin" was done in six weeks. Scott'scareless dash is notorious. And both Dickens and Thackeray were in such ahurry that they would often begin to print before they had finishedwriting. Publishers who pride themselves on the old charming personalrelations with great authors ought not to be so ignorant of literaryhistory as the gentleman who unpacked his heart to a sympathetic _DailyMail_.
ST. JOHN HANKIN
[_1 July '09_]
I was discussing last week the insufficiency of the supply of intelligentplaywrights for the presumable demand of the two new repertory theatres;and, almost as I spoke, St. John Hankin drowned himself. The loss issensible. I do not consider St. John Hankin to have been a greatdramatist; I should scarcely care to say that he was a distinguisheddramatist, though, of course, the least of his works is infinitely moreimportant in the development of the English theatre than the biggest ofthe creaking contrivances for which Sir Arthur Wing Pinero has recentlyreceived honour from a grateful and cultured Government. But he was acurious, honest, and original dramatist, with a considerable equipment ofwit and of skill. The unconsciously grotesque condescension which hereceived in the criticisms of Mr. William Archer, and the mere insolencewhich he had to tolerate in the criticisms of Mr. A.B. Walkley, weredemonstrations of the fact that he was a genuine writer. What he lackedwas creative energy. He could interest but he could not powerfully gripyou. His most precious quality--par
ticularly precious in England--was hiscalm intellectual curiosity, his perfect absence of fear at the logicalconsequences of an argument. He would follow an argument anywhere. He wasnot one, of those wretched poltroons who say: "But if I admit _x_ to betrue, I am doing away with the incentive to righteousness. _Therefore_ Ishall not admit _x_ to be true." There are thousands of these highlyeducated poltroons between St. Stephen's, Westminster, and AberystwithUniversity, and St. John Hankin was their foe.
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The last time I conversed with him was at the dress rehearsal of a comedy.Between the sloppy sounds of charwomen washing the floor of the pit andthe feverish cries of photographers taking photographs on the stage, wediscussed the plays of Tchehkoff and other things. He was one of the fewmen in England who had ever heard of Tchehkoff's plays. When I asked himin what edition he had obtained them, he replied that he had read them inmanuscript. I have little doubt that one day these plays will be performedin England. St. John Hankin was an exceedingly good talker, ratherelaborate in the construction of his phrases, and occasionally dandiacalin his choice of words. One does not arrive at his skill in conversationwithout taking thought, and he must have devoted a lot of thought to theart of talking. Hence he talked self-consciously, fully aware all the timethat talking was an art and himself an artist. Beneath the somewhatfinicking manner there was visible the intelligence that cared for neitherconventions nor traditions, nor for possible inconvenient results, butsolely for intellectual honesty amid conditions of intellectual freedom.