Books and Persons; Being Comments on a Past Epoch, 1908-1911

by Arnold Bennett

  UNCLEAN BOOKS

  [_8 July '09_]

  The Rev. Dr. W.F. Barry, himself a novelist, has set about to belabournovelists, and to enliven the end of a dull season, in a highly explosivearticle concerning "the plague of unclean books, and especially ofdangerous fiction." He says: "I never leave my house to journey in anydirection, but I am forced to see, and solicited to buy, works flaminglyadvertised of which the gospel is adultery and the apocalypse the right ofsuicide." (No! I am not parodying Dr. Barry. I am quoting from hisarticle, which may be read in the _Bookman_. It ought to have appeared in_Punch_.) One naturally asks oneself: "What is the geographical situationof this house of Dr. Barry's, hemmed in by flaming and immoraladvertisements and by soliciting sellers of naughtiness?" Dr. Barryprobably expects to be taken seriously. But he will never be takenseriously until he descends from purple generalities to the particularnaming of names. If he has the courage of his opinions, if he genuinely isconcerned for the future of this unfortunate island, he might name a dozenor so of the "myriad volumes which deride self-control, scoff at theGod-like in man, deny the judgment, and by most potent illustrationdeclare that death ends all." For myself, I am unacquainted with them, andnobody has ever solicited me to buy them. At least he might state _where_one is solicited to buy these shockers. I would go thither at once, justto see. In the course of his article, Dr. Barry lets slip a phrase about"half-empty churches." Of course, these half-empty churches must be laidon the back of somebody, and the novelist's back is always convenient.Hence, no doubt, the article. Dr. Barry seeks for information. He asks:"Will Christian fathers and mothers go on tolerating...," etc. etc. I canoblige him. The answer is, "Yes. They will."

  LOVE POETRY

  [_16 Sep. '09_]

  In every number up to August, I think, the summary of the _English Review_began with "Modern Poetry," a proper and necessary formal recognition ofthe supremacy of verse. But in the current issue "Modern Poetry" is putafter a "study" of the Chancellor of the Exchequer by Max Beerbohm. Atrifling change! editorially speaking, perhaps an unavoidable change! Andyet it is one of these nothings which are noticed by those who notice suchnothings. Among the poets, some of them fairly new discoveries, whom the_English Review_ has printed is "J. Marjoram." I do not know whatindividuality the name of J. Marjoram conceals, but it is certainly apseudonym. Some time ago J. Marjoram published a volume of verse entitled"Repose" (Alston Rivers), and now Duckworth has published his "New Poems."The volume is agreeable and provocative. It contains a poem called"Afternoon Tea," which readers of the _English Review_ will remember. I donot particularly care for "Afternoon Tea." I find the contrast between theoutcry of a deep passion and the chatter of the tea merely melodramatic,instead of impressive. And I object to the idiom in which the passion isexpressed. For example:

  _To prove I mean love, I'd burn in Hell._

  Or:

  _You touch the cup_ _With one slim finger.... I'll drink it up,_ _Though it be blood._

  We are all quite certain that the lover would not willingly burn in Hellto prove his love, and that if he drank blood he would be sick. The idiomis outworn. That J. Marjoram should employ it is a sign, among others,that he has not yet quite got over the "devout lover" stage in his moodtowards women. He makes a pin say: "She dropped me, pity my despair!"which is in the worst tradition of _Westminster Gazette_ "Occ. Verse." Heis somewhat too much occupied with this attitudinization before women orthe memory of women. It has about as much to do with the reality of sexualcompanionship as the Lord Mayor's procession has to do with the municipallife of Greater London. Still, J. Marjoram is a genuine poet. In "Fantasyof the Sick Bed," the principal poem in the book, there are some reallybeautiful passages. I would say to him, and I would say to all youngpoets, because I feel it deeply: Do not be afraid of your raw material,especially in the relations between men and women. J. Marjoram well andepigrammatically writes:

  _Yet who despiseth Love_ _As little and incomplete_ _Learns by losing Love_ _How it was sweet!_

  True. But, when applied to love with a capital L, and to dropped pinsdespairing, a little sane realistic disdain will not be amiss,particularly in this isle. I want to see the rise of a new school of lovepoetry in England. And I believe I shall see it.

  TROLLOPE'S METHODS

  [_23 Sep. '09_]

  I am reminded of Anthony Trollope and a recent article on him, in the_Times_, which was somewhat below the high level of the _Times_ literarycriticism. Said the _Times_: "Anthony Trollope died in the December of1882, and in the following year a fatal, perhaps an irreparable, blow tohis reputation was struck by the publication of his autobiography." Theconceit of a blow which in addition to being fatal is perhaps alsoirreparable is diverting. But that is not my point. What the _Times_objects to in the Autobiography is the revelation of the clock-workmethods by which Trollope wrote his novels. It appears that this horridsecret ought to have been for ever concealed. "Fatal admission!" exclaimsthe _Times_. Fatal fiddlesticks! Trollope said much more than the _Times_quotes. He confessed that he wrote with a watch in front of him, andobliged himself to produce 250 words every quarter of an hour. And whatthen? How can the confession affect his reputation? His reputation restson the value of his novels, and not in the least on the manner in which hechose to write them. And his reputation is secure. Moreover, there is noreason why great literature should not be produced to time, with a watchon the desk. Persons who chatter about the necessity of awaitinginspirational hypersthenia don't know what the business of being an artistis. They have only read about it sentimentally. The whole argument ispreposterous, and withal extraordinarily Victorian. And even assuming thatthe truth _would_ deal a fatal blow, etc., is that a reason for hiding it?Another strange sentence is this: "The wonder is, not that Trollope'snovels are 'readable,' but that, _being readable, they are yet_ so closelypacked with that true realism without which any picture of life islifeless." (My italics.) I ask myself what quality, in the opinion of the_Times_ writer, chiefly makes for readableness.

  CHESTERTON AND LUCAS

  [_7 Oct. '09_]

  Two books of essays on the same day from the same firm, "One Day andAnother," by E.V. Lucas, and "Tremendous Trifles," by G.K. Chesterton!Messrs. Methuen put the volumes together and advertised them as being"uniform in size and appearance." I do not know why. They are uniformneither in size nor in appearance; but only in price, costing a crownapiece. "Tremendous Trifles" has given me a wholesome shock. Its contentsare all reprinted from the _Daily News_. In some ways they are sheer andrank journalism; they are often almost Harmsworthian in their unscrupuloussimplifying of the facts of a case, in their crude determination toemphasize one fact at the expense of every other fact. Thus: "No one canunderstand Paris and its history who does not understand that itsfierceness is the balance and justification of its frivolity." So thereyou are! If you don't accept that you are damned; the Chestertonguillotine has clicked on you. Perhaps I have lived in Paris more yearsthan Mr. Chesterton has lived in it months, but it has not yet happened tome to understand that its fierceness is the balance and justification ofits frivolity. Hence I am undone; I no longer exist! Again, of Brussels:"It has none of the things which make good Frenchmen love Paris; it hasonly the things which make unspeakable Englishmen love it." There are ahundred things in Brussels that I love, and I find Brussels a veryagreeable city. Hence I am an unspeakable Englishman. Mr. Chesterton'sbook is blotched with this particular form of curt arrogance as with askin complaint. Happily it is only a skin complaint. More serious than askin complaint is Mr. Chesterton's religious orthodoxy, which crops up atintervals and colours the book. I merely voice the opinion of theintelligent minority (or majority) of Mr. Chesterton's readers when I saythat his championship of Christian dogma sticks in my throat. In myopinion, at this time of day it is absolutely impossible for a young manwith a first-class intellectual apparatus to accept any form of dogma, andI am therefore forced to the conclusion that Mr. Chesterton has not got afirst-cl
ass intellectual apparatus. (With an older man, whose centralideas were definitely formed at an earlier epoch, the case might bedifferent.) I will go further and say that it is impossible, in one'sprivate thoughts, to think of the accepter of dogma as an intellectualequal. Not all Mr. Chesterton's immense cleverness and charm will evererase from the minds of his best readers this impression--caused by hismistimed religious dogmatism--that there is something seriously deficientin the very basis of his mind. And what his cleverness and charm cannot dohis arrogance and his effrontery assuredly will not do. And yet I saidthat this book gave me a wholesome shock. Far from deteriorating, Mr.Chesterton is improving. In spite of the awful tediousness of hismannerism of antithetical epigram, he does occasionally write finerepigrams than ever. His imagination is stronger, his fancy more delicate,and his sense of beauty widened. There are things in this book that reallyare very excellent indeed; things that, if they die, will die hard. Forexample, the essay: "In Topsy Turvy Land." It is a book which, in themain, strongly makes for righteousness. Its minor defects are scandalous,in a literary sense; its central defect passes the comprehension; the bookis journalism, it is anything you like. But I can tell you that it isliterature, after all.

  * * * * *

  If you desire a book entirely free from the exasperating faults of Mr.Chesterton's you will turn to Mr. Lucas's. But Mr. Lucas, too, is a highlymysterious man. On the surface he might be mistaken for a mere cricketenthusiast. Dig down, and you will come, with not too much difficulty, tothe simple man of letters. Dig further, and, with somewhat moredifficulty, you will come to an agreeably ironic critic of human foibles.Try to dig still further, and you will probably encounter rock. Only hereand there in his two novels does Mr. Lucas allow us to glimpse a certainpowerful and sardonic harshness in him, indicative of a mind that has seenthe world and irrevocably judged it in most of its manifestations. I couldbelieve that Mr. Lucas is an ardent politician, who, however, would notdeign to mention his passionately held views save with a pencil on aballot-paper--if then! It could not have been without intention that heput first in this new book an essay describing the manufacture of aprofessional criminal. Most of the other essays are exceedingly light intexture. They leave no loophole for criticism, for their accomplishment isalways at least as high as their ambition. They are serenely well done.Immanent in the book is the calm assurance of a man perfectly aware thatit will be a passing hard task to get change out of _him_! And even whensome one does get change out of him, honour is always saved. In describinga certain over of his own bowling, Mr. Lucas says: "I was conscious of atwinge as I saw his swift glance round the field. He then hit my firstball clean out of it; from my second he made two; from my third anothertwo; the fourth and fifth wanted playing; and the sixth he hit over myhead among some distant haymakers." You see, the fourth and fifth wantedplaying.

  OFFICIAL RECOGNITION OF POETRY

  [_14 Oct. '09_]

  I did not go to Paris to witness the fetes in celebration of the fiftiethanniversary of Victor Hugo's "La Legende des Siecles," but I happened tobe in Paris while they were afoot. I might have seen one of Hugo's dramasat the Theatre Francais, but I avoided this experience, my admiration forHugo being tempered after the manner of M. Andre Gide's. M. Gide, askedwith a number of other authors to say who was still the greatest modernFrench poet, replied: "Victor Hugo--alas!" So I chose Brieux instead ofHugo, and saw "La Robe Rouge" at the Francais. Brieux is now not only anAcademician, but one of the stars of the Francais. A bad sign! A bad play,studded with good things, like all Brieux's plays. (The importanceattached to Brieux by certain of the elect in England is absurd. BernardShaw could simply eat him up--for he belongs to the vegetable kingdom.) Athoroughly bad performance, studded with fine acting! A great popularsuccess! Whenever I go to the Francais I tremble at the prospect of anational theatre in England. The Francais is hopeless--corrupt, feeble,tedious, reactionary, fraudulent, and the laughing-stock of artists.However, we have not got a national theatre yet.

  * * * * *

  Immediately after its unveiling I gazed in the garden of the Palais Royalat Rodin's statue of Victor Hugo. I thought it rather fine, shadowed onthe north and on the south by two famous serpentine trees. Hugo, in astate of nudity, reclines meditating on a pile of rocks. The likeness isgood, but you would not guess from the statue that for many years Hugotravelled daily on the top of the Clichy-Odeon omnibus and was neverrecognized by the public. Heaven knows what he is meditating about!Perhaps about that gushing biography of himself which apparently he pennedwith his own hand and published under another name! For he was a weirdadmixture of qualities--like most of us. I could not help meditating,myself, upon the really extraordinary differences between France andEngland. Imagine a nude statue of Tennyson in St. James's Park! Youcannot! But, assuming that some creative wit had contrived to get a nudestatue of Tennyson into St. James's Park, imagine the enormous shindy thatwould occur, the horror-stricken Press of London, the deep pain andresentment of a mighty race! And can you conceive London officiallydevoting a week to the recognition of the fact that fifty years hadelapsed since the publication of a work of poetic genius! Yet I think weknow quite as much about poetry in England as they do in France. Stillless conceivable is the participation of an English Government in such ananniversary. In Paris last Thursday a French Minister stood in front ofthe Hugo statue and thus began: "The Government of the Republic could notallow the fiftieth anniversary of the 'Legend of the Centuries' to becelebrated without associating itself with the events." My fancy views Mr.Herbert John Gladstone--yes, him!--standing discreetly in front of anindiscreet marble Wordsworth and asserting that the British Government hadno intention of being left out of the national rejoicings about theimmortality of "The Prelude"! A spectacle that surely Americans would payto see! On Sunday, at the Francais, Hugo was being declaimed from oneo'clock in the afternoon till midnight, with only an hour's interval. Andit rained violently nearly all the time.

  ARTISTS AND CRITICS

  [_21 Oct. '09_]

  There is a one-sided feud between artists and critics. When a number ofartists are gathered together you will soon in the conversation come uponsigns of that feud. I admit that the general attitude of artists tocritics is unfair. They expect from critics an imaginative comprehensionwhich in the nature of the case only a creative artist can possess. On theother hand, a creative artist cannot do the work of a critic because hehas neither the time nor the inclination to master the necessary criticalapparatus. Hence critical work seldom or never satisfies the artist, andthe artist's ideal of what critical work ought to be is an impossibledream. I find confirmation of my view in other arts than my own. Thecritical work of Mr. Bernhard Berenson, for instance, seems to mewonderful and satisfying. But when I mention Mr. Berenson to a painter Iinvariably discover that that painter's secret attitude towards Mr.Berenson is--well, aristocratic. The finest, and the only first-rate,criticism is produced when, by an exceptional accident, a creative artistof balanced and powerful temperament is moved to deal exhaustively with asubject. Among standard critical works the one that has most impressed meis Lessing's "Laocoon"--at any rate the literary parts of it. Here (I havejoyously said to myself) is somebody who knows what he is talking about!Here is some one who has _been there_.

  RUDYARD KIPLING

  [_4 Nov. '09_]

  After a long period of abstention from Rudyard Kipling, I have just read"Actions and Reactions." It has induced gloom in me; yet a modified gloom.Nearly a quarter of a century has passed since "Plain Tales from theHills" delighted first Anglo-Indian, and then English society. There wasnothing of permanent value in that book, and in my extremest youth I neverimagined otherwise. But "The Story of the Gadsbys" impressed me. So did"Barrack-room Ballads." So did pieces of "Soldiers Three." So did "Life'sHandicap" and "Many Inventions." So did "The Jungle Book," despite itswild natural history. And I remember my eagerness for the publication of"The Seven Seas." I remember going early
in the morning to Denny'sbookshop to buy it. I remember the crimson piles of it in every bookshopin London. And I remember that I perused it, gulped it down, with deepjoy. And I remember the personal anxiety which I felt when Kipling layvery dangerously ill in New York. For a fortnight, then, Kipling'stemperature was the most important news of the day. I remember giving aparty with a programme of music, in that fortnight, and I began theproceedings by reading aloud the programme, and at the end of theprogramme instead of "God Save the Queen," I read, "God Save Kipling," andeverybody cheered. "Stalky and Co." cooled me, and "Kim" chilled me. Atintervals, since, Kipling's astounding political manifestations, chieflyin verse, have shocked and angered me. As time has elapsed it has becomemore and more clear that his output was sharply divided into two parts byhis visit to New York, and that the second half is inferior in quantity,in quality, in everything, to the first. It has been too plain now foryears that he is against progress, that he is the shrill champion ofthings that are rightly doomed, that his vogue among the hordes of therespectable was due to political reasons, and that he retains hisauthority over the said hordes because he is the bard of their prejudicesand of their clayey ideals. A democrat of ten times Kipling's gift andpower could never have charmed and held the governing classes as Kiplinghas done. Nevertheless, I for one cannot, except in anger, go back on agenuine admiration. I cannot forget a benefit. If in quick resentment Ihave ever written of Kipling with less than the respect which iseternally due to an artist who has once excited in the heart a generousand beautiful emotion, and has remained honest, I regret it. And this isto be said: at his worst Kipling is an honest and painstaking artist. Nowork of his but has obviously been lingered over with a craftsman'sdevotion! He has never spoken when he had nothing to say--though probablyno artist was ever more seductively tempted by publishers and editors todo so. And he has done more than shun notoriety--Miss Marie Corelli doesthat--he has succeeded in avoiding it.