by F L Lucas
True, the modern world would hardly tolerate in criticism the vulgar horse-whipping style of the old Quarterly and Blackwood’s; the few twentieth-century writers who have tried it (like D. H. Lawrence, for instance) damaged themselves more than their enemies. But if we have fewer vultures, I doubt if there is any decrease in the owls and peacocks. It is still possible, for example, for a distinguished critic, having compiled an anthology, to preface it by saying that most people will like some things in it and dislike others (which I should have thought true of all the anthologies ever made); but that only the elect few in the world who have trained themselves to appreciate poetry, will like it all. Which is really tantamount to saying: ‘Do not dare to disagree with me. For my taste happens to be infallible.’
In themselves such lapses are trivial enough. This comical dogmatism may be due in part to disinterested enthusiasm as well as to vanity. Still it is a pity when critics become infected with an epidemic itch for sitting on thrones judging the tribes of Israel. It may be endured by a long-suffering public; but it is not very good for the critics themselves. And one of the least desirable results of too much English in Universities is that it turns out numbers of bright young men and women who will trot off half a dozen pages exposing the ‘stupidity’ of Tennyson, or the ‘insincerity’ of Hardy, quite uncramped by their own very indifferent capacity to write English, or even to spell it. No doubt it is right and natural at twenty to have strong feelings; but even at twenty it is well to have learnt some control of them.
Some, I find, are surprised at this suggestion that a writer should consider not only the convenience of his readers, by being clear and brief, but also their feelings, by not laying down the law. But I must say that my personal preference goes to the type of author who realizes that to have read a lot of books, or even to have written them, is not after all very important; that most of the things we debate so hotly are extremely debatable, and anyway will not matter two straws in fifty years’ time; that since nothing matters ultimately but good states of mind, and the means to them, many an honest artisan or simple housewife gets more from life, and gives more to it, than many a writer of repute; and that it is better to gain the respect of readers than their admiration – better still, it may be, to gain their gratitude. I was struck by a curious critical quotation set recently in the Tripos: ‘Morris was not a great anything – painter, poet, romancer, or philosopher – but he was a very great man.’ Is to be ‘a great man’ not to be ‘a great anything’, compared with being a great artist or poet? I should have thought it the greatest thing of all. But some literary circles, it seems, judge otherwise.
Newman’s portrait of a gentleman has often been admired:
He has his eyes on all his company; … he can recollect to whom he is speaking; he guards against unseasonable allusions, or topics which may irritate; he is seldom prominent in conversation, and never wearisome. … He has too much good sense to be affronted at insults, he is too well employed to remember injuries, and too indolent to bear malice. … If he engages in controversy of any kind, his disciplined intellect preserves him from the blundering discourtesy of better, perhaps, but less educated minds; who, like blunt weapons, tear and hack instead of cutting clean, who mistake the point in argument, waste their strength on trifles, misconceive their adversary, and leave the question more involved than they find it. [144] He may be right or wrong in his opinion, but he is too clear-headed to be unjust; he is as simple as he is forcible, and as brief as he is decisive.
This portrait reflects the sensitive lines of Newman’s own temperament; though I find it a little solemn and Grandisonian. (There seems also – though, of course, I have not quoted the whole passage – overmuch stress on methods of controversy, as if Newman’s gentleman, despite his gentleness, were a trifle disputatious; perhaps Newman was remembering the battles of his own career.) But it illustrates some of the points I have tried to make.
There is, however, a companion-picture from the eighteenth century that moves me to far warmer sympathy, and renders much better what I imagine by ‘urbanity’. Nothing more typical, indeed, was ever written by that most charming person, the Prince de Ligne (1735–1814).
Tout le monde a de l’esprit à présent, mais, s’il n’y en a pas beaucoup dans les idées, méfiez-vous des phrases. S’il n’y a pas du trait, du neuf, du piquant, de l’originalité, ces gens d’esprit sont des sots à mon avis. Ceux qui ont ce trait, ce neuf, ce piquant peuvent encore ne pas être parfaitement aimables; mais si l’on unit à cela de l’imagination, de jolis détails, peut-être même des disparates heureux, des choses imprévues qui partent comme un éclair, de la finesse, de l’élégance, de la justesse, un joli genre d’instruction, de la raison qui ne soit pas fatigante, jamais rien de vulgaire, un maintien simple ou distingué, un choix heureux d’expressions, de la gaieté, de l’à-propos, de la grâce, de la négligence, [145] une manière à soi en écrivant ou en parlant, dites alors qu’on a réellement, décidément de l’esprit, et que l’on est aimable. [146]
Interesting, I think, this contrast between the ideals of the churchman and the soldier, of the nineteenth century and the eighteenth. I respect Newman; but I like the Prince de Ligne. Of course to some he may be irritating. ‘What a “petit-maître”!’ they may exclaim. ‘Airing himself affectedly in his salons, while the Third Estate drudged or starved!’ But culture, in the past, could only exist on exploitation. The slaves in the mines of Laurium paid for Pericles; and eighteenth-century hovels for the graces of mansion and château. That price, one hopes (if only the world learns the sense to restrict its population) may cease to be paid. But the Prince de Ligne was no fribble; he was an excellent soldier, though fate denied him opportunities, and – what is no less estimable – an admirable father (though, I am afraid, a less admirable husband); and when the old prince died during the Congress of Vienna, gay to the last, he symbolized the passing of an era that, with many abuses we have since corrected, possessed certain graces we have largely lost. A circle like that of Madame du Deffand was narrow enough in many ways; it had little feeling, by our standards, for poetry; but that blind old woman, and her like, had keen vision for certain qualities that matter both in prose and in life. It would be piquant to have her comments on some writers who satisfy our own less fastidious age.
No need to exaggerate the importance of urbanity, as if it were any substitute for ideas. It is only a kind of polish. If you are Dante or Milton or Swift, you can afford to be harsh, bitter, even cruel; they lost by it as human beings, but it remains a part of their quality; and one must take rough with smooth. But more ordinary writers on more ordinary themes must keep the sympathy of their readers, if they would produce their full effect, or perhaps any effect at all. Even a scientist discussing neutrons or dwarf stars may damage his case by acrimony or arrogance.
I will conclude with an example of urbanity in practice, from a field where its practice is hardest – controversy. Perhaps the wisest way with controversy is to avoid it. There seems to be admirable wisdom in Buffon’s answer to friends who wished him to controvert his critics – ‘Il faut laisser ces mauvaises gens dans l’incertitude’. [147] But there are times – both in criticism, for example, and in other matters more important – when challenges have to be met; times when it becomes ‘base to sit dumb and let barbarians talk.’ Of the right tone for such controversy – of the effectiveness of perfect calm, courtesy, and self-control – I know no example to equal the reply of Anatole France to Brunetière.
Brunetière had fallen upon Anatole France as a critical anarchist who believed that beauty was relative, and criticism a mere confession of personal tastes. As regards the pleasure-value of literature, Anatole France seems to me absolutely right; but he seems to me to forget that literature has also influence-value. (For while it is idle to argue about the pleasure-value of Milton or Proust, it remains quite rational, and not unimportant, to discuss whether the religion of Paradise Lost is somewhat debased,
or the philosophy of À la Recherche du Temps Perdu touched by neurotic decadence.) The point here, however, is not how far Anatole France was right in his opinion, but how admirably right he is in the tone of his reply.
M. Ferdinand Brunetière, que j’aime beaucoup, me fait une grande querelle. Il me reproche de méconnaître les lois mêmes de la critique, de n’avoir pas de critérium pour juger les choses de l’esprit, de flotter, au gré de mes instincts, parmi les contradictions, de ne pas sortir de moi-même, d’être enfermé dans ma subjectivité comme dans une prison obscure. Loin de me plaindre d’être ainsi attaqué, je me réjouis de cette dispute honorable où tout me flatte: le mérite de mon adversaire, la sévérité d’une censure qui cache beaucoup d’indulgence, la grandeur des intérêts qui sont mis en cause, car il n’y va pas moins, selon M. Brunetière, que de l’avenir intellectuel de notre pays. [148] …
Il est donc plus juste que je me défende tout seul. J’essayerai de la faire, mais non pas sans avoir d’abord rendu hommage à la vaillance de mon adversaire. M. Brunetière est un critique guerrier d’une intrépidité rare. Il est, en polémique, de l’école de Napoléon et des grands capitaines qui savent qu’on ne se défend victorieusement qu’en prenant l’offensive et que, se laisser attaquer, c’est être déjà à demi vaincu. Et il est venu m’attaquer dans mon petit bois, au bord de mon onde pure. C’est un rude assaillant. Il y va de l’ongle et des dents, sans compter les feintes et les ruses. J’entends par là qu’en polémique il a diverses méthodes et qu’il ne dédaigne point l’intuitive, quand la déductive ne suffit pas. Je ne troublais point son eau. Mais il est contrariant et même un peu querelleur. C’est le défaut des braves. Je l’aime beaucoup ainsi. N’est-ce pas Nicolas, [149] son maître et le mien, qui a dit:
Achille déplairait moins bouillant et moins prompt.
J’ai beaucoup de désavantages s’il me faut absolument combattre M. Brunetière. Je ne signalerai pas les inégalités trop certaines et qui sautent aux yeux. J’en indiquerai seulement une qui est d’une nature tout particulière; c’est que, tandis qu’il trouve ma critique fâcheuse, je trouve la sienne excellente. Je suis par cela même réduit à cet état de défensive qui, comme nous le disions tout à l’heure, est jugé mauvais par tous les tacticiens. Je tiens en très haute estime les fortes constructions de M. Brunetière. J’admire la solidité des matériaux et la grandeur du plan. Je viens de lire les leçons professées à l’École normale par cet habile maître de conférences, sur l’Évolution de la critique depuis la Renaissance jusqu’a nos jours, et je n’éprouve aucun déplaisir à dire très haut que les idées y sont conduites avec beaucoup de méthode et mises dans un ordre heureux, imposant, nouveau. Leur marche, pesante mais sûre, rappelle cette manoeuvre fameuse des légionnaires s’avançant serrés l’un contre l’autre et couverts de leurs boucliers, à l’assaut d’une ville. Cela se nommait faire la tortue, et c’était formidable. Il se mêle, peut-être, quelque surprise à mon admiration quand je vois où va cette armée d’idées. M. Ferdinand Brunetière se propose d’appliquer à la critique littéraire les théories de l’Évolution. Et, si l’entreprise en elle-même semble intéressante et louable, on n’a pas oublié l’énergie déployée récemment par le critique de la Revue des Deux Mondes pour subordonner la science à la morale et pour infirmer l’autorité de toute doctrine fondée sur les sciences naturelles. … Il repoussait les idées darwiniennes au nom de la morale immuable. ‘Ces idées, disait-il expressément, doivent être fausses, puisqu’elles sont dangereuses.’ Et maintenant il fonde la critique nouvelle sur l’hypothèse de l’évolution. … Je ne dis pas du tout que M. Brunetière se démente et se cotredise. Je marque un trait de sa nature, un tour de son caractère, qui est, avec beaucoup d’esprit de suite, de donner volontiers dans l’inattendu et dans l’imprévu. On a dit un jour, qu’il était paradoxal, et il semblait bien que ce fût par antiphrase, tant sa réputation de bon raisonneur était solidement établi. Mais on a vu à la réflexion qu’il est, en effet, un peu paradoxal à sa manière. Il est prodigieusement habile dans la démonstration: il faut qu’il démontre toujours, et il aime parfois à soutenir fortement des opinions extraordinaires et mêmes stupéfiantes.
Par quel sort cruel devais-je aimer et admirer un critique qui correspond si peu à mes sentiments! Pour M. Ferdinand Brunetière, il y a simplement deux sortes de critiques, la subjective, qui est mauvaise, et l’objective, qui est bonne. Selon lui, M. Jules Lemaître, M. Paul Desjardins, et moi-même, nous sommes atteints de subjectivité, et c’est le pire des maux; car, de la subjectivité, on tombe dans l’illusion, dans la sensualité et dans la concupiscence, et l’on juge les oeuvres humaines par le plaisir qu’on en reçoit, ce qui est abominable. Car il ne faut pas se plaire à quelque ouvrage d’esprit avant de savoir si l’on a raison de s’y plaire; car, l’homme étant un animal raisonnable, il faut d’abord qu’il raisonne; car il est nécessaire d’avoir raison et il n’est pas nécessaire de trouver de l’agrément; car le propre de l’homme est de chercher à s’instruire par le moyen de la dialectique, lequel est infaillible; car on doit toujours mettre un vérité au bout d’un raisonnement, comme un noeud au bout d’une natte; car, sans cela, le raisonnement ne tiendrait pas, et il faut qu’il tienne; car on attache ensuite plusieurs raisonnements ensemble de manière à former un système indestructible, qui dure une dizaine d’années. Et c’est pourquoi la critique objective est la seule bonne. [150]
The smiling Socratic irony, this serene catalogue of Brunetière’s accusations, mockingly exaggerated, is far more effective than any airs of injured innocence. I think the honey is laid on a trifle thick; but the reader is attracted to a character seemingly so free from vanity; he is tickled by that grotesque vision of the ‘tortoise’; and, though there are moments when the disarming smile gives place to a curt cut of the whip (‘opinions extraordinaires et stupéfiantes’, ‘un système indestructible, qui dure une dizaine d’années’), he is inclined to feel that Brunetière is a cantankerous and elephantine pedant, treated by Anatole France with excessive indulgence. Now this is a vital point. For the ordinary reader is a perverse creature who, if he thinks a critic severe, at once feels indulgent; but if he thinks the critic indulgent, tends himself to become much more severe.
Again, the ordinary reader takes far less interest in theories than in personalities; and there is no question here which personality seems more charming and amusing. It is all not unlike Mark Antony’s triumph in the Forum over Brutus. As in ju-jitsu, the cleverer combatant, seeming to yield, uses the very strength of his more rigid antagonist to overcome him. You may say this is demagogic vote-catching, or the cunning of an adroit barrister. But I do not think it is so superficial. There really is more reason to believe in the reasonableness of a coolly courteous disputant who does not lose his head, and with it his case. At all vents this seems to me no bad object-lesson of the value of urbanity in style.
But urbanity is something better than a trick for giving pain and winning controversies. It is a main means of strengthening that sympathy between writer and reader which seems to me one of the most valuable things in literature. It is not a sort of effeminate elegance; it is that quality by which Marlborough, whom no one thinks effeminate, won more goodwill even from men whose requests he refused than they felt towards others who granted all they asked. It involves, among other things, an avoidance of vanity – of that self-assertion which imposes one’s own ego on others – faults which the world finds less pardonable than many more serious sins. The vanity of Cicero, to us merely a half-endearing foible, yet cost him dear in his own day; and Caesar, though less vain than Cicero (with more grounds for being it), might yet have avoided assassination, and perhaps changed the course of history, had he preserved to the end the seeming modesty of the more prudent Augustus. The vanity of the witty and brilliant Marshal Villars (in contrast to Marlborough) not only left Saint-Simon foaming, but seriously damaged his career, by the enemies it made him at Versailles. ‘L’honnête homme ne
se pique de rien.’ [151] And in style it is curious how self-defeating such self-complacency can be. The ego can seem execrable. To the memory of Erskine clings that deadly gibe of The Anti-Jacobin, which apologized for not reporting him in full because the printer had run out of capital I’s. [152] Further, by tempting a writer to pompous terminology, pretentiousness can sometimes lead him into obscurity; but the pretentiousness itself quickly becomes all too clear. Sometimes it takes the form of pedantry; which consists in attaching undue importance to scraps of knowledge, and undue importance to oneself for knowing them. Thus De Quincey – in an essay on Style, of all places – slips into the strange phrase, ‘The τὸ docendum, the thing to be taught.’ A simpler person would merely have said ‘The thing to be taught.’ If De Quincey must show that he knew some Latin, he could have said (though it is hideous, and adds nothing whatever) ‘The docendum’, as we say ‘The agenda’. But what barbarous whimsy made him clap a Greek definite article on to a Latin gerundive, then stick an English definite article in front of both?’ [153] A writer should not flap.
Or consider this from Saintsbury: ‘It is written ἐν ψιλοῖς λόγοις (to adopt one proposed sense of that disputed Aristotelianism), in simple prose – if anything ever was.’ Why not say ‘It is written in simple prose’? Why drag in a phrase of Aristotle, of which you then have to explain that no one quite knows what it means? To show you know Greek? If you know Greek, you should know better.
Or again, from the same writer: ‘Occasionally some general suggestions, inferences and even provisional axioms have cropped up, which I have endeavoured to summarize in this Conclusion, and to tabulate, more shortly and strikingly to the eye, in a third Appendix. But they are only put up and forward as jury-masts or acting-officers; though I do not take quite such a gloomy view, of at least some of them, as Mr. Midshipman Easy’s poor friend, the master’s mate, did of his “acting” appointment.’
