* * * * *
I can tell a true tale about one of the three great circulating libraries.A certain man of taste was directing the education in literature of acertain woman. The time came when the woman had to study Balzac. The mangave her a list of titles of novels by Balzac which she was to read. Shewent to her library, but could not find, in the list of Balzac's complete"Comedie Humaine" furnished by the library, one of the works which she hadbeen instructed to peruse. Hearing of this, the man, whose curiosity wasaroused, called at the library to conduct an inquiry. He had an interviewwith one of the managers, and the manager at once admitted that theircomplete list was not complete. "We cannot supply a work with such atitle," the manager explained. The book was one of the most famous and oneof the finest of nineteenth-century novels, "Splendeurs et Miseres desCourtisanes," issued by Messrs. Dent and Co. (surely a respectable firm),with a preface by Professor George Saintsbury (surely a respectablemandarin), under the title, "The Harlot's Progress." The man of tasteasked, "Have you read the book?" "No," said the manager. "Have you readany of Balzac's novels?" "No," said the manager. "Do you prohibitGalsworthy's 'Man of Property'?" "No," said the manager. "Have you readit?" "No," said the manager. "Do you prohibit Jacob Tonson's last novel?""No," said the manager. "Have you read it?" "No," said the manager."Well," said the man of taste, "you'd better read one or two of theselater writers, and then think over the Balzac question." The managerdiscreetly replied that he would consult the principal proprietor. Thenext morning "The Harlot's Progress," in two volumes, was sent round fromthe library.
* * * * *
But imagine it! Imagine one of the largest circulating libraries in theworld, in the year 1909, refusing to supply an established, world-admired,classical work of genius because its title contains the word "harlot"! Inno other European capital, nor in any American capital, could such amonstrously idiotic and disgusting thing happen. It is so preposterousthat one cannot realize it all at once. I am a tremendous admirer ofEngland. I have lived too long in foreign parts not to see the finenessof England. But in matters of hypocrisy there is really something verywrong with this island, and the atmosphere of this island is thick enoughto choke all artists dead. You can walk up and down the Strand and seephotographs of celebrated living harlots all over the place. You can buythem on picture post cards for your daughter. You can see their names evenon the posters of high-class weekly papers. You can entertain them at themost select fashionable restaurants. Indeed, the shareholders offashionable restaurants would look very blue without the said harlots.(Only they aren't called harlots.) But if you desire to read a masterpieceof social fiction, some mirror of crass stupidity in a circulating librarywill try to save you from yourself.
* * * * *
[_24 Feb. '10_]
Up Yorkshire way the opponents of freedom have been dealing some effectiveblows at the Libraries Censorship. They doubtless imagine that they havebeen supporting the Libraries Censorship; but they are mistaken. Hull hasdistinguished itself. It is a strange, interesting place. I only set footin it once; the day was Sunday, and I arrived by sea. I was informed thata man could not get a shave in Hull on Sunday. But I got one. At the lastmeeting of the Hull Libraries Committee, when "Ann Veronica" was underdiscussion, Canon Lambert procured for the name of Lambert a freeadvertisement throughout the length and breadth of the country by saying:"I would just as soon send a daughter of mine to a house infected withdiphtheria or typhoid fever as put that book into her hands." I doubt it.I can conceive that, if it came to the point, Canon Lambert's fear ofinfection and regard for his own canonical skin might move him to offerhis daughter "Ann Veronica" in preference to diphtheria and typhoid fever.Canons who give expression to this kind of babblement must expect whatthey get in the way of responses. Let the Canon now turn the other cheek,in a Christian spirit, and I will see what I can do for him.
* * * * *
Needless to say, "Ann Veronica" was banned from the Free Public Librariesof free Hull. But I cull the following from the _Hull Daily Mail_: "Alocal bookseller had thirteen orders for 'Ann Veronica' on Monday, thirtyon Tuesday, and scores since. Previously he had no demand." A CanonLambert in every town would demolish the censorship in less time than ittook the Hebrew deity to create the world and the fig-tree.
* * * * *
Canon Lambert, doubtless unconsciously, went wide of the point. The pointwas not a code for the parental treatment of canons' daughters. Englandwas not waiting for information as to what Canon Lambert would do to aMiss Lambert in a given dilemma. H.G. Wells did not turn up in Hull with aGatling gun and, turning it on the Canon's abode, threaten to blow theecclesiastical wigwam to pieces if the canon did not immediately buy acopy of "Ann Veronica" for his daughter to read. Nobody wants to interferebetween the Canon and a Miss Lambert. All that quiet people want is to beleft alone to treat their daughters according to their lights. Does CanonLambert hold that the Hull libraries are to contain no volumes which hewould not care for his daughter to read?
* * * * *
The _Hull Daily Mail_ has, I regret to say, taken the side of the Canon.This is a pity. The Hull paper should be a little more careful about theletters it prints. In a recent issue it allowed a correspondent to call"Ann Veronica" "pornographic," which is most distinctly libellous. Butpossibly the correspondent and the newspaper felt themselves secure in Mr.Wells's disdain. "Ann Veronica" is not pornographic. It is not evenindecent. It is utterly decent from end to end. It is also utterly honest.It is not one of Mr. Wells's major productions. But if a work of anhonourable and honoured artist is to be damned because it happens to beinferior to other works of the same artist, Hull ought to consider theawful case of "Measure for Measure." By the way, would Canon Lambert assoon send a Miss Lambert to a house infected with mumps as put "Measurefor Measure" into her hands? The _Hull Daily Mail_, taken to task,sheltered itself behind Mr. Clement Shorter and the _Sphere_. I will notdiscuss Mr. Shorter's singular pronouncement upon "Ann Veronica," becauseI am in a very good humour with him just now for his excellently acidremarks upon the "success" literature of Mr. Peter Keary. But I may remarkthat Mr. Shorter did not advocate the censoring of the book, nor did hecome within seven Irish miles of describing it as pornographic.
Canonical people have tried to make capital out of the fact that "AnnVeronica" is not to be found in the public libraries of sundry largetowns. But the reason may not be connected with the iconoclasm of "AnnVeronica." In an interview, Mr. T.W. Hand, the librarian at Leeds, said:"I haven't read the book through (Why not?), though I have seen it, and wehaven't got it in any of our libraries in Leeds. The reason for this isnot the character of the book, but the fact that we never purchase ournovels until they have become cheaper." Charming confession! Asubscription ought to be opened for poverty-stricken Leeds, which mustwait to buy an English book that is or will be translated into everyEuropean language, until it has become cheaper! A few weeks ago thecountry was laughing at little Beverley because its Fathers publiclydecided to purchase no fiction less than a year old. But are the greattowns any better off?
* * * * *
[_3 Mar. '10_]
Literary censorship in the intellectual centre of the world: I need hardlysay that I mean Boston, Mass. Boston is the city of Harvard University.It is also the city of the _Atlantic Monthly_. It is also the city ofEmerson, Lowell, Longfellow, and Holmes. Boston has a Public Library. Itis supposed to be one of the finest public libraries in this world or anyother. Great artists, such as Puvis de Chavannes and John Sargent, havehelped to decorate the Boston Library. In brief, Boston and its Libraryare not to be sneezed at. A certain woman asked for George Moore's "EstherWaters," recognized, I believe, as one of the most serious and superb ofmodern novels. The work was included in the catalogue of the Library. Inreply to her request she was informed that s
he could not have "EstherWaters" unless she obtained from the Chief Mandarin or Librarian specialpermission to read it, on the ground that she was a "student ofliterature." I doubt whether the imagination of nincompoops and boards ofmanagement has ever devised anything more beautiful than this.
* * * * *
But the lady had a husband, and the husband, being a prominent journalist,had the editorial use of a newspaper in Boston. He began to makeinquiries, and he discovered that many of the catalog cards were markedwith red stars, and that a star signified that the work described on thecard was not morally fit for general circulation. He further discoveredthat works rankly and frankly pornographic and works of distinguished artwere starred with the same star. Lastly, he discovered that the ChiefMandarin or Librarian, all out of his own head and off his own bat, hadappointed a reading committee for the dividing of modern fiction intosheep and goats, and that the said committee consisted exclusively ofBoston dames mature in years. He exposed the entire affair in hisnewspapers and made a very pleasing sensation. The first result was thathis wife was afterwards received at the Library with imperial honours andgiven to understand by kotowing sub-mandarins that she might have thewhole red-star library sent home to her house if she so desired. There wasno other result. The rest of reading Boston remained under the motherlybut autocratic care of _ces dames_. Those skilled in the artistic recordsof Boston may remember that the management of the same Library oncerefused the offered gift of a statue of a woman holding a baby, on thesole ground that the woman was not attired.
[_26 May '10_]
More interesting information has accrued to me concerning literarycensorship in the British provinces. Glasgow has about a dozen lendinglibraries, chiefly, I believe, of the Carnegie species. In none of theseare the works of Richardson, Fielding, and Smollett allowed a place.Further, "Anna Karenina," "Resurrection," "Tess," "Jude the Obscure," and"Tono-Bungay" are banned. Further, and still more droll, in the words of acorrespondent who has been good enough to send me all sorts ofparticulars: "A few days ago I applied at the Mitchell Library (areference library in the centre of the town) for Whitman's poems. Theattendant procured the volume, but, before handing it to me, consulted oneof the senior librarians. This official scrutinized me from a distance ofabout eight yards and finally nodded his head in acquiescence. The bookwas then given to me. On the back of it a little red label was affixed. Imade inquiry and discovered that books with these labels are only givenout to persons of (what shall I say?) good moral appearance."
Nevertheless, we ought to be thankful that we live in Britain. The caseof the United States is in some respects far worse than ours. Theegregious Sir Robert Anderson has just explained in _Blackwood_ how heestablished a sort of unofficial censorship of morals at the English PostOffice. In the United States an official censorship of mailed matterexists, and the United States Post Office can and does regularly examinethe literature entrusted to it, and can and does reject what it deemsinimical to the morals of the native land of Jay Gould, James GordonBennett, J.D. Rockefeller, and the regretted Harriman. Among other matterwhich the United States Post Office censorship has recently excluded arethe following items:
An extract from an article in the _Fortnightly Review_.
An extract from "Man and Superman."
An article in favour of freedom of the Press reprinted from the Boston's_Woman's Journal_.
An article by Lady Florence Dixie reprinted from a Scottish county paper.
* * * * *
On one occasion the editor of _Lucifer_ had occasion to mention thatadultery and fornication had not been criminal offences in England since1660. The authorities were so aghast at the idea of this information beingallowed to creep out that they insisted on the passage being deleted. Itwas.
* * * * *
Further. The Editor of an American paper, on it being suggested to himthat he should reprint portions of a criticism of "Measure for Measure,"by Mr. A.B. Walkley in the _Times_, refused to do so for fear ofprosecution. Perhaps the most truly American instance of all is themisfortune that befell the Reverend Mabel McCoy Irwin. The excellent ladybegan to publish a paper advocating strict chastity for both sexes. It wasexcluded from the mails on the ground that no allusion to sex could betolerated. I reckon this anecdote to be the most exquisitely perfect ofall anecdotes that I have ever come across in the diverting history ofmoral censorships. There is a subtle flavour about that name, Mabel McCoyIrwin, which is indescribably apposite ... McCoy. It is a wonderful world!I am much indebted to an American correspondent for these delights.
BRIEUX
[_17 Feb. '10_]
I foresee a craze in this country for Brieux. I first perceived its comingone day during an intellectual meal in a green-painted little restaurantin Soho. Whenever I go into Soho I pass through experiences which send meout again a wiser man. On this occasion I happened to speak lightly ofBrieux to a friend of mine, a prominent and influential member of theStage Society--one of those men in London who think to-day what Londonwill think to-morrow, and what Paris thought yesterday. He was visiblyshocked by my tone. His invincible politeness withstood the strain, butthe strain was terrible. From this incident alone I was almost ready toprophesy a Brieux craze in London. And now a selection of Brieux's playsis to be published in English in one volume, with a preface by BernardShaw. Within a fortnight of the appearance of the book the Brieux crazewill exist in full magnificence. Leading articles will contain learnedoff-hand allusions to Brieux, Brieux and Shaw will be compared anddifferentiated, and Brieux will be the most serious dramatist in France. Idoubt not that Mr. Shaw's preface will be a witty and illuminatingaffair, and that it will show me agreeable aspects of Brieux's talentwhich have hitherto escaped me; but if it persuades me that Brieux is anartistically serious dramatist worth twopence, then I will retire frompublic life and seek a post as third sub-editor on the _British Weekly_.
* * * * *
Brieux is a man with moral ideas. I will admit even that he is dominatedby moral ideas, which, if they are sometimes crude, are certainlyrighteous. He is a reformer and a passionate reformer. But a man can be apassionate reformer, with a marked turn for eloquence, and yet not be aserious dramatist. Dr. Clifford is a reformer; Mr. Henniker Heaton is apassionate reformer; and both are capable of literature when they areexcited. But they are not dramatists. We still await Mr. Henniker Heaton'stragic fourth act about the failure of the negotiations for a penny postwith France. Brieux is too violent a reformer ever to be a seriousdramatist. Violent reformers are unprincipled, and the reformer in Brieuxforces the dramatist in him to prostitution. The dramatist in him is notstrong enough to resist the odious demands of the reformer: which factalone shows how far he is from being a first-rate dramatist. As adramatist Brieux is no stronger, no more sincere, no less unscrupulous, noless viciously sentimental, than the fashionable authors of the boulevard,such as Capus, Donnay, and the ineffable Bernstein, so adored in London.And it is as a dramatist that he must be judged. Of course, if you wish tojudge him as a reformer, you must get some expert opinion about hissubjects of reform. I fancy that you will end by discovering that as areformer he must be considered just a little crude.
* * * * *
I have seen most of Brieux's plays, and I have seen them produced underhis own direction, so that I can judge fairly well what he is after on thestage. And I am bound to say that, with the exception of "Les Trois Fillesde Monsieur Dupont" (which pleased me pretty well so far as I comprehendedits dramatic intention), I have not seen one which I could refrain fromdespising. Brieux's plays always begin so brilliantly, and they always endso feebly, in such a wishwash of sentimentalism. Take his last play--no,his last play was "La Foi," produced by Mr. Tree, and I have not yet meteven an ardent disciple of the craze who has had sufficient effrontery toargue that it is a good play. Take his last play but one, "Suzette"--or"Suzan
ne," or whatever its girl's name was--produced at the ParisVaudeville last autumn. The first act is very taking indeed. You can seethe situation of the ostracized wife coming along beautifully. Thepreparation is charming, in the best boulevard manner. But when thesituation arrives and has to be dealt with--what a mess, what falseness,what wrenching, what sickly smoothing, what ranting, and what terrifictediousness! It is so easy to begin. It is so easy to think of a fineidea. The next man you meet in an hotel bar will tell you a fine ideaafter two whiskys--I mean a really fine idea. Only in art an idea doesn'texist till it is worked _out_. Brieux never (with the possible exceptionabove mentioned) works an idea _out_. Because he can't. He doesn't knowenough of his business. He can only do the easy parts of his business.Last autumn also, the Comedie Francaise revived "La Robe Rouge." Thecasting, owing to an effort to make it too good, was very bad; and theproduction was very bad, though Brieux himself superintended it. But, allallowances made for the inevitable turpitudes of this ridiculous nationaltheatre, the was senile; it was done for! Certainly it exposes the abusesof the French magistrature, but at what cost of fundamental truth! Themelodramatic close might have been written in the Isle of Man.
* * * * *
Take the most notorious of all his plays, "Les Avaries." It contains anadmirable sermon, a really effective sermon, animated by ideas which Isuppose have been in the minds of exceptionally intelligent men for ahundred years or so, and which Brieux restated in terms of dramaticeloquence. But the sentimentality of the end is simply base. Thesentimentality of another famous play, "Maternite," is even moredeplorable.
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