* * * * *
Still, I am not depressed about the general cause of serious literature.Serious literature is kept alive by a few authors who, not owningmotor-cars nor entertaining parties to dinner at the Carlton, find itpossible and agreeable to maintain life and decency on the money paid downby very small bands of truly bookish readers. And these readers are notlikely to deprive themselves completely of literature for ever in order topossess a collection of royal photographs. The injury to seriousliterature is slight and purely temporary.
* * * * *
[_31 Dec. '08_]
A melancholy Christmas, it seems! According to "a well-known member of thetrade," the business is once again--the second time this year--about tocrumble into ruins. This well-known member of the trade, who discreetlyrefrains from signing his name, writes to the _Athenaeum_ in answer to Mr.E.H. Cooper's letter about the disastrous influence of royal books on thepublishing season. According to him, Mr. Cooper is all wrong. The end ofprofitable publishing is being brought about, not by their Majesties, butonce more by the authors and their agents. It appears that too many booksare published. Authors and their agents have evidently some miraculousmethod of forcing publishers to publish books which they do not want topublish. I am not a member of the trade, but I should have thought thatfew things could be easier than not to publish a book. Presumably theagent stands over the publisher with a contract in one hand and a revolverin the other, and, after a glance at the revolver, the publisher signswithout glancing at the contract. Secondly, it appears, authors and theiragents habitually compel the publisher to pay too much, so that hehabitually publishes at a loss. (Novels, that is.) I should love to knowhow the trick is done, but "a well-known member of the trade" does not gointo details. He merely states the broad fact. Thirdly, the sevenpennyreprint of the popular novel is ruining the already ruined six-shillingnovel. It is comforting to perceive that this wickedness on the part ofthe sevenpenny reprint cannot indefinitely continue. For when there are nosix-shilling novels to reprint, obviously there can be no sevenpennyreprints of them. There is justice in England yet; but a well-known memberof the trade has not noticed that the sevenpenny novel, in killing its ownfather, must kill itself. At any rate he does not refer to the point.
I have been young, and now am nearly old. Silvered is the once brownhair. Dim is the eye that on a time could decipher minion type bymoonlight. But never have I seen the publisher without a fur coat inwinter nor his seed begging bread. Nor do I expect to see such sights. YetI have seen an author begging bread, and instead of bread, I gave him arailway ticket. Authors have always been in the wrong, and they alwayswill be: grasping, unscrupulous, mercenary creatures that they are! Someof them haven't even the wit to keep their books from being burnt at thestake by the executioners of the National Vigilance Association. I wonderthat publishers don't dispense with them altogether, and carry on unaidedthe great tradition of English literature. Anyhow, publishers have had mywarm sympathy this Christmas-time. When I survey myself, as an example,lapped in luxury and clinking multitudinous gold coins extorted frompublishers by my hypnotizing rascal of an agent; and when I think of thepublishers, endeavouring in their fur coats to keep warm in fireless roomsand picking turkey limbs while filling up bankruptcy forms--I blush. Or Ishould blush, were not authors notoriously incapable of that action.
1909
"ECCE HOMO"
[_7 Jan. '09_]
The people who live in the eye of the public have been asked, as usual, tostate what books during the past year have most interested them, and theyhave stated. This year I think the lists are less funny than usual. Butsome items give joy. Thus the Bishop of London has read Mr. A.E.W. Mason's"The Broken Road" with interest and pleasure. Mr. Frederic Harrison, alongwith two historical works, has read "Diana Mallory" with interest andpleasure. What an unearthly light such confessions throw upon thementalities from which they emanate! As regards the Bishop of London Ishould not have been surprised to hear that he had read "Holy Orders" withinterest and pleasure. But Mr. Frederic Harrison, one had naivelyimagined, possessed some rudimentary knowledge of the art which he haspractised.
* * * * *
This confessing malady is infectious, if not contagious. I suppose thatfew persons can resist the microbe. I cannot. I feel compelled to announceto all whom it may not concern the books of the year which (at the momentof writing) seem to have most interested me--apart from my own, _bienentendu_: H.G. Wells's "New Worlds for Old." If it is not in its fiftieththousand the intelligent masses ought to go into a month's sackcloth."Nature Poems," by William H. Davies. This slim volume is quiteindubitably wondrous. I won't say that it contains some of the mostlyrical lyrics in English, but I will say that there are lyrics in it asgood as have been produced by anybody at all in the present century. "APoor Man's House," by Stephen Reynolds. Young Mr. Reynolds has alreadybeen fully accepted by the aforesaid intelligent masses, and I have nodoubt that he is tolerably well satisfied with 1908. Nietzsche's "EcceHomo." When this book gets translated into English (I have been reading itin Henri Albert's French translation) it will assuredly be laughed at. Iwould hazard that it is the most conceited book ever written. Take ourfour leading actor-managers; extract from them all their conceit; multiplythat conceit by the self-satisfaction of Mr. F.E. Smith, M.P., when he hasmade a joke; and raise the result to the Kaiser-power, and you will havesomething less than the cube-root of Nietzsche's conceit in this the lastbook he wrote. But it is a great book, full of great things.
HENRY OSPOVAT
[_14 Jan. '09_]
The death of that distinguished draughtsman and painter, Henry Ospovat,who was among the few who can illustrate a serious author withoutinsulting him, ought not to pass unnoticed. Because an exhibition of hiscaricatures made a considerable stir last year it was generally understoodthat he was destined exclusively for caricature. But he was a man whocould do several things very well indeed, and caricature was only one ofthese things. In Paris he would certainly have made a name and a fortuneas a caricaturist. They have more liberty there. Witness Rouveyre'sadmirable and appalling sketch of Sarah Bernhardt in the current _Mercurede France_. I never met Ospovat, but I was intimate with some of hisfriends while he was at South Kensington. In those days I used to hear"what Ospovat thought" about everything. He must have been listened towith great respect by his fellow-students. And sometimes one of them wouldcome to me, with the air of doing me a favour (as indeed he was) and say:"Look here. Do you want to buy something good, at simply no price at all?"And I became the possessor of a beautiful sketch by Ospovat, while theintermediary went off with a look on his face as if saying: "Consideryourself lucky, my boy!" I used even to get Ospovat's opinions on mybooks, now and then very severe. I wanted to meet him. But I never could.The youths used to murmur: "Oh! It's no use you _meeting_ him." They wereafraid he was not spectacular enough. Or they desired to keep him tothemselves, like a precious pearl. I pictured him as very frail, and verypositive in a quiet way. He was only about thirty when he died last week.
FRENCH AND BRITISH ACADEMIES
[_21 Jan. '09_]
Although we know in our hearts that the French Academy is a foolishinstitution, designed and kept up for the encouragement of mediocrity,correct syntax, and the _status quo_, we still, also in our hearts, admireit and watch its mutations with the respect which we always give toforeign phenomena and usually withold from phenomena British. The lastelected member is M. Francis Charmes. His sole title to be an Academicianis that he directs _La Revue des Deux Mondes_, which pays good prices toAcademic contributors. And this is, of course, a very good title. Even hisofficial "welcomer," M. Henry Houssaye, did not assert that M. Charmes hadever written anything more important or less mortal than leaders andparagraphs in the _Journal des Debats_. M. Henry Houssaye was himself oncea journalist. But he thought better of that, and became a historian. Hehas written one or two volumes which, without being u
nreadable, haveachieved immense popularity. Stevenson used to delve in them for mattersuitable to his romances. The French Academy now contains pretty nearlyeverything except first-class literary artists. Anatole France is afirst-class literary artist and an Academician; but he makes a point ofnever going near the Academy. Perhaps the best writer among "devout"Academicians is Maurice Barres. Unhappily his comic-opera politics provethat in attempting Parnassus he mistook his mountain. Primrose Hill wouldhave been more in his line. Still, he wrote "Le Jardin de Berenice": anovel which I am afraid to read again lest I should fail to recapture thefirst fine careless rapture it gave me.
* * * * *
Personally, I think our British Academy is a far more brilliant affairthan the French. There is no nonsense about it. At least very little,except Mr. Balfour. I believe, from inductive processes of thought, thatwhen Mr. Balfour gets into his room of a night he locks the door--andsmiles. Not the urbane smile that fascinates and undoes even Radicaljournalists--quite another smile. Never could this private smile have beenmore subtle than on the night of the day when he permitted himself to beelected a member of the British Academy. Further, let it not be said thatour Academy excludes novelists and journalists. We novelists are ablyrepresented by Mr. Andrew Lang, author of "Prince Prigio" and part-authorof "The World's Desire." And we journalists have surely an adequatespokesman in the person of the author of "Lost Leaders." Mr. Lang has alsodabbled in history.
POE AND THE SHORT STORY
[_28 Jan. '09_]
The great Edgar Allen Poe celebration has passed off, and no one has beenseriously hurt by the terrific display of fireworks. Some of the setpieces were pretty fair; for example, Mr. G.B. Shaw's in the _Nation_ andProf. C.H. Herford's in the _Manchester Guardian_. On the whole, however,the enthusiasm was too much in the nature of mere good form. If only wecould have a celebration of Omar Khayyam, Tennyson, Gilbert White, or theinventor of Bridge, the difference between new and manufactured enthusiasmwould be apparent. We have spent several happy weeks in conceitedlyexplaining to that barbaric race, the Americans, that in Poe they havenever appreciated their luck. Yet we ourselves have never understood Poe.And we never shall understand Poe. It is immensely to our credit that,owing to the admirable obstinacy of Mr. J.H. Ingram, we now admit that Poewas neither a drunkard, a debauchee, nor a cynical eremite. This is aboutas far as we shall get. Poe's philosophy of art, as discovered in hisessays and his creative work, is purely Latin and, as such,incomprehensible and even naughty to the Saxon mind. To the averagebookish Englishman Poe means "The Pit and the Pendulum," and his finestpoetry means nothing at all. Tell that Englishman that Poe wrote morebeautiful lyrics than Tennyson, and he will blankly put you down as mad.(So shall I.)
* * * * *
Once, and not many years since, I contemplated editing a complete editionof Poe, with a brilliant introduction in which I was to show that theappearance of a temperament like his in the United States in the earlyyears of the nineteenth century was the most puzzling miracle that can befound in the whole history of literature. Then, naturally, I intended toexplain the miracle. My plans were placed before a wise and goodpublisher, whose reply was to indicate two very respectable completeeditions of Poe which had eminently failed with the public. Furtherinquiries satisfied me that the public had no immediate use for anythingelaborate, final, and expensive concerning Poe. My bright desire thereforepaled and flickered out. Since then I have come to the conclusion that Iknow practically nothing of the "secret of Poe," and that nobody elseknows much more.
It was inevitable that, apropos of Poe, our customary national nonsenseabout the "art of the short story" should have recurred in a painful andacute form. It is a platitude of "Literary Pages" that Anglo-Saxon writerscannot possess themselves of the "art of the short story." The only reasonadvanced has been that Guy du Maupassant wrote very good short stories,and he was French! God be thanked! Last week we all admitted that Poe hadunderstood the "art of the short story." (His name had not occurred to usbefore.) Henceforward our platitude will be that no Anglo-Saxon writer cancompass the "art of the short story" unless his name happens to be Poe.Another platitude is that the short story is mysteriously somehow moredifficult than the long story--the novel. Whenever I meet that phrase,"art of the short story," in the press I feel as if I had drunk mustardand water. And I would like here to state that there are as good shortstories in English as in any language, and that the whole theory of theunsuitability of English soil to that trifling plant the short story isridiculous. Nearly every novelist of the nineteenth century, from Scott toStevenson, wrote first-class short stories. There are now working inEngland to-day at least six writers who can write, and have written,better short stories than any living writer of their age in France. As forthe greater difficulty of the short story, ask any novelist who hassucceeded equally well in both. Ask Thomas Hardy, ask George Meredith, askJoseph Conrad, ask H.G. Wells, ask Murray Gilchrist, ask George Moore, askEden Phillpotts, ask "Q," ask Henry James. Lo! I say to all facilegabblers about the "art of the short story," as the late "C.-B." said toMr. Balfour: "Enough of this foolery!" It is of a piece with the notionthat a fine sonnet is more difficult than a fine epic.
MIDDLE-CLASS
[_4 Feb. '09_]
As a novelist, a creative artist working in the only literary "form" whichwidely appeals to the public, I sometimes wonder curiously what the publicis. Not often, because it is bad for the artist to think often about thepublic. I have never by inquiry from those experts my publishers learntanything useful or precise about the public. I hear the words "thepublic," "the public," uttered in awe or in disdain, and this is all. Theonly conclusion which can be drawn from what I am told is that the publicis the public. Still, it appears that my chief purchasers are thecirculating libraries. It appears that without the patronage of thecirculating libraries I should either have to live on sixpence a day orstarve. Hence, when my morbid curiosity is upon me, I stroll into Mudie'sor the _Times_ Book Club, or I hover round Smith's bookstall at CharingCross.
* * * * *
The crowd at these places is the prosperous crowd, the crowd whichgrumbles at income-tax and pays it. Three hundred and seventy-fivethousand persons paid income-tax last year, under protest: they stand forthe existence of perhaps a million souls, and this million is a handfulfloating more or less easily on the surface of the forty millions of thepopulation. The great majority of my readers must be somewhere in thismillion. There can be few hirers of books who neither pay income-tax norlive on terms of dependent equality with those who pay it. I see at thecounters people on whose foreheads it is written that they know themselvesto be the salt of the earth. Their assured, curt voices, their proudcarriage, their clothes, the similarity of their manners, all show thatthey belong to a caste and that the caste has been successful in thestruggle for life. It is called the middle-class, but it ought to becalled the upper-class, for nearly everything is below it. I go to theStores, to Harrod's Stores, to Barker's, to Rumpelmeyer's, to the RoyalAcademy, and to a dozen clubs in Albemarle Street and Dover Street, and Isee again just the same crowd, well-fed, well-dressed, completely freefrom the cares which beset at least five-sixths of the English race. Theyhave worries; they take taxis because they must not indulge in motor-cars,hansoms because taxis are an extravagance, and omnibuses because theyreally must economize. But they never look twice at twopence. They cursethe injustice of fate, but secretly they are aware of their luck. Whenthey have nothing to do, they say, in effect: "Let's go out and spendsomething." And they go out. They spend their lives in spending. Theydeliberately gaze into shop windows in order to discover an outlet fortheir money. You can catch them at it any day.
* * * * *
I do not belong to this class by birth. Artists very seldom do. I was bornslightly beneath it. But by the help of God and strict attention tobusiness I have gained the right of entrance into it. I admit tha
t I haveimitated its deportment, with certain modifications of my own; I think itsdeportment is in many respects worthy of imitation. I am acquainted withmembers of it; some are artists like myself; a few others win my sympathyby honestly admiring my work; and the rest I like because I like them. Butthe philosopher in me cannot, though he has tried, melt away my profoundand instinctive hostility to this class. Instead of decreasing, myhostility grows. I say to myself: "I can never be content until this classwalks along the street in a different manner, until that now absurdlegend has been worn clean off its forehead." Henry Harland was not agreat writer, but he said: _Il faut souffrir pour etre sel._ I ask myselfimpatiently: "When is this salt going to begin to suffer?" That is myattitude towards the class. I frequent it but little. Nevertheless I knowit intimately, nearly all the intimacy being on my side. For I havewatched it during long, agreeable, sardonic months and years in foreignhotels. In foreign hotels you get the essence of it, if not the cream.
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