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

by Arnold Bennett

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  His creative power is not yet mature. That is to say, he does not convincethe reader in the measure which one would expect from a writer of hisundoubted emotional faculty. And yet he is often guilty of carelessness incorroborative detail--such carelessness as only a mighty tyrant over thereader could afford. The story deals largely with journalism. And one ofthe papers most frequently mentioned is "The Backwash." Now no paper couldpossibly be called "The Backwash." It is conceivable that a paper might becalled "The Tip Top." It is just conceivable that a paper might be called"Snip Snap." But "The Backwash," never! Mr. Masefield knows this as wellas anybody. The aim of his nomenclature was obviously satiric--an olddodge which did very well in the loose Victorian days, but which isexcruciatingly out of place in a modern strictly realistic novel. Atrifle, you say! Not at all! Every time "The Backwash" is mentioned, thereader thinks: "No paper called 'The Backwash' ever existed." And a freshbreak is made in Mr. Masefield's convincingness. A modern novelist may notpermit himself these freakish negligences. Another instance of the samefault is the Christian name of Mrs. Bailey in "The New Machiavelli." Itwas immensely clever of Mr. Wells to christen her "Altiora." But in sodoing he marred the extraordinary brilliance of his picture of her. If youinsist that I am talking about trifles, I can only insist that a work ofart is a series of trifles.

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  Mr. Masefield's style suffers in a singular manner. It is elaborate inworkmanship--perhaps to the point of an excessive self-consciousness. Butits virtue is constantly being undermined by inexactitudes which irritateand produce doubt. For example:

  "They entered the tube station. In the train they could not talk much.Lionel kept his brain alert with surmise as to the character of thepassengers. Like Blake, a century before, he found 'marks of weakness,marks of woe,' on each face there." Blake in the tube! Mr. Masefield willproduce a much better novel than "The Street of To-day."

  LECTURES AND STATE PERFORMANCES

  [_25 May '11_]

  Driven by curiosity I went to hear Mr. H.G. Wells's lecture last Thursdayat the _Times_ Book Club on "The Scope of the Novel." Despite the physicalconditions of heat, and noise, and an open window exactly behind thelecturer (whose voice thus flowed just as much into a back street as intothe ears of his auditors), the affair was a success, and it is to be hopedthat the _Times_ Book Club will pursue the enterprise further. It wasindeed a remarkable phenomenon: a first-class artist speaking the truthabout fiction to a crowd of circulating-library subscribers! Mr. Wells wasabove all defiant; he contrived to put in some very plain speaking aboutThackeray, and he finished by asserting that it was futile for thefashionable public to murmur against the intellectual demands of the bestmodern fiction--there was going to be no change unless it might be achange in the direction of the more severe, the more candid, and the moreexhaustively curious.

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  Of course the lecturer had to vulgarize his messages so as to get themsafely into the brain of the audience. What an audience! For the firsttime in my life I saw the "library" public in the mass! It is a sight tomake one think. My cab had gone up Bond Street, where the fortune-tellersflourish, and their flags wave in the wind, and their painted white handspoint alluringly up mysterious staircases. These fortune-tellers make atolerable deal of money, and the money they make must come out chiefly ofthe pockets of well-dressed library subscribers. Not a doubt but that manyof Mr. Wells's audience were clients of the soothsayers. A strangemultitude! It appeared to consist of a thousand women and Mr. BernardShaw. Women deemed to be elegant, women certainly deeming themselves to beelegant! I, being far from the rostrum, had a good view of the backs oftheir blouses, chemisettes, and bodices. What an assortment of pretentiousand ill-made toilettes! What disclosures of clumsy hooks-and-eyes andgeneral creased carelessness! It would not do for me to behold the"library" public in the mass too often!

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  I could not but think of the State performance of "Money" at Drury Lane onthe previous night: that amusing smack at living artists. There has beena good deal of straight talk about it in the daily and weekly papers. Butthe psychology of the matter has not been satisfactorily explained. Blamehas been laid at the King's door. I think wrongly, or at least unfairly.Besides being one of the two best shots in the United Kingdom, the King isbeyond any question a man of honourable intentions and of a strictconscientiousness. But it is no part of his business to be sufficientlyexpert to choose a play for a State performance. He has never pretended tohave artistic proclivities. Who among you, indeed, could be relied upon tochoose properly a play for a State performance? Take the best modernplays. Who among you would dare to suggest for a State performance OscarWilde's "The Importance of Being Earnest," Bernard Shaw's "Man andSuperman," John Galsworthy's "Justice," or Granville Barker's "The VoyseyInheritance"? Nobody! These plays are unthinkable for a State performance,because their distinction is utterly beyond the average comprehension ofthe ruling classes--and State performances are for the ruling classes.These plays are simply too good. Yet if you don't choose an old play youmust choose one of these four plays, or make the worst of both worlds.Modern plays being ruled out, you must either have Shakespeare or--orwhat? What is there? "The Cenci"?

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  Can you not now sympathize with the King as he ran through, in his mind,the whole range of British drama? But the truth is that he did not runthrough the whole range of British drama. Invariably in these cases a listis submitted for the sovereign to choose from. It is an open secret thatin this particular case such a list was prepared. Whether or not it wasprepared by Mr. Arthur Collins, organizer of Drury Lane pantomimes, Icannot say. The list contained Shakespeare and Lytton, and I don't knowwho else. Conceivably the King did not want Shakespeare. To my mind hewould be quite justified in not wanting Shakespeare. We are glutted withShakespeare in the Haymarket. Well, then,--why not "Money"? It is a famousplay. We all know its name and the name of its author. And that is thelimit of our knowledge. Why should the King be supposed to be acquaintedwith its extreme badness? I confess I didn't know it was so bad as now itseems to be. And, not very long ago, was not Sir William Robertson Nicolldefending the genius of Lytton in the _British Weekly_? It is now richlyapparent that "Money" ought not to have been included in the listsubmitted to the King. But it is easy to be wise after the event.

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  Let it be for ever understood that State theatres and State performancesnever have had, never will have, any real connexion with original dramaticart. That is one reason why I am against a national theatre, whoseinfluence on the drama is bound to be sinister. To count the performanceof "Money" as an insult to living artists is to lose sight of a mainfactor in the case. The State and living art must be mutually opposed, forthe reason that the State must, and quite rightly does, represent theaverage of opinion. For an original artist to expect aid from the State issilly; it is also wrong. In expressing a particular regard for thefeelings of musical comedy, and in announcing beforehand his intention ofbeing present at the first night of the new Gaiety masterpiece, the Kingwas properly fulfilling his duties as a monarch towards dramatic art. Artis not the whole of life, and to adore musical comedy is not a crime. Thebest thing original artists can do is to keep their perspectiveundistorted.

  A PLAY OF TCHEHKOFF'S

  [_8 June '11_]

  At last, thanks to the Stage Society, we have had a good representativeplay of Anton Tchehkoff on the London stage. Needless to say, Tchehkoffwas done in the provinces long ago. "The Cherry Orchard," I have beentold, is Tchehkoff's dramatic masterpiece, and I can well believe it. Butit is a dangerous thing to present foreign masterpieces to a West Endaudience, and the directors of the Stage Society discovered, orrediscovered, this fact on Sunday night last. The reception of "The CherryOrchard" was something like what the receptio
n of Ibsen's plays used to betwenty years ago. It was scarcely even a mixed reception. There could beno mistake about the failure of the play to please the vast majority ofthe members of the Society. At the end of the second act signs ofdisapproval were very manifest indeed, and the exodus from the theatrebegan. A competent authority informed me that at the end of the third acthalf the audience had departed; but in the narrative fever of the momentthe competent authority may have slightly exaggerated. Certain it is thatmultitudes preferred Aldwych and the restaurant concerts, or even theirown homes, to Tchehkoff's play. And as the evening was the Sabbath you mayjudge the extreme degree of their detestation of the play.

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  A director of the Stage Society said to me on the Monday: "If our peoplewon't stand it, it has no chance, because we have the pick here." I didn'tcontradict him, but I by no means agreed that he had the pick there. Themanaging committee of the Society is a very enlightened body; but the massof the members is just as stupid as any other mass. Its virtue is that itpays subscriptions, thus enabling the committee to make experiments and toplace before the forty or fifty persons in London who really can judge aplay the sort of play which is worthy of curiosity.

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  In spite of the antipathy which is aroused, "The Cherry Orchard" is quiteinoffensive. For example, there is nothing in it to which the Censor couldpossibly object. It does not deal specially with sex. It presents anaverage picture of Russian society. But it presents the picture with suchexact, uncompromising truthfulness that the members of the Stage Societymistook nearly all the portraits for caricatures, and tediouscaricatures. In naturalism the play is assuredly an advance on any otherplay that I have seen or that has been seen in England. Its naturalism ispositively daring. The author never hesitates to make his personages asridiculous as in life they would be. In this he differs from every otherplaywright that I know of. Ibsen, for instance; and Henri Becque. He hascarried an artistic convention much nearer to reality, and achievedanother step in the evolution of the drama. The consequence is that he isaccused of untruth and exaggeration, as Becque was, as Ibsen was. Histruthfulness frightens, and causes resentment.

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  People say: "No such persons exist, or at any rate such persons are tooexceptional to form proper material for a work of art." No such persons, Iadmit, exist in England; but then this play happens to be concerned withRussia, and even the men's costumes in it are appalling. Moreover, personsequally ridiculous and futile do exist in England, and by the hundredthousand; only they are ridiculous and futile in ways familiar to us. Iguarantee that if any ten average members of the august Stage Societyitself were faithfully portrayed on the stage, with all their mannerisms,absurdities, and futilities, the resulting picture would be damned as agross and offensive caricature. People never look properly at people;people take people for granted; they remain blind to the facts; and whenan artist comes along and discloses more of these facts than it is usualto disclose, of course there is a row. This row is a fine thing; it meansthat something has been done. And I hope that the directors of the StageSociety are proud of the reception of "The Cherry Orchard." They ought tobe.

  SEA AND SLAUGHTER

  [_6 July '11_]

  Recent spectacular events at Court have been the cause of a considerableamount of verse, indifferent or offensive. But it is to be noticed thatthe poets of this realm have not been inspired by the said events. I meansuch writers as W.B. Yeats, Robert Bridges, Lord Alfred Douglas, W.H.Davies. And yet I see no reason why a Coronation, even in this day offigure-heads and revolting snobbery, should not be the subject of a goodpoem--a poem which would not be afflicting to read, either for thelettered public or for the chief actor in the scene. However, the time forsuch poems has apparently not yet arrived. And meanwhile thesea-and-slaughter school have been doing an excellent work these last fewweeks in demonstrating how entirely absurd the sea-and-slaughter schoolis. Mr. Alfred Noyes has been very prominent, not only in his native page,_Blackwood's_, but also in the _Fortnightly Review_. Mr. Noyes is, Ibelieve, the only living versifier whose books are, in the words of anAmerican editor, "a commercial proposition." He is by many thought to be apoet. Personally, I have always classed him with Alfred Austin, not yethaving come across one single stanza of his which would fall within mydefinition of poetry. Here is an extract from his "A Salute from theFleet":

  _Mother, O grey sea-mother, thine is the crowning cry!_--

  I am bound to interrupt the quotation here in order to vent my feelings ofextreme irritation caused by the mere phrase. "O grey sea-mother." Whyshould this phrase drive me to fury? It does. Well, to recommence:

  _Mother, O grey sea-mother, thine is the crowning cry!_ _Thine the glory for ever in the nation born of thy womb!_ _Thine is the Sword and the Shield and the shout that Salamis heard,_ _Surging in AEschylean splendour, earth-shaking acclaim!_ _Ocean-mother of England, thine is the throne of her fame!_

  Fancy standing on the shore to-day and addressing the real sea in thesewords and accents! Fancy the poet doing it! The mood and the mentality areprehistoric. I would not mind Mr. Noyes putting himself lyrically intothe woaded skin of our ancestors. But I do think he might have got alittle nearer the mark in indicating the "throne of her fame." Because Iexpect Mr. Noyes knows as well as anybody that the real throne ofEngland's fame is not in the sea at all. England's true fame springs fromthe few acts of national justice which she has accomplished, and from thegenerous impulses which as a nation she has had--as, for example, in herrelations with Italy; as, for example, in the Factory Acts which preventedchildren from working eighteen hours a day six or seven days a week. Thepatriotic versifiers of this country will, if they persist, end by makingthe sea impossible for a plain man to sail on. I have long felt that Iwant never again to read anything about the sea, except the advertisementsof auxiliary yawls and cutters in the _Yachting World_. I recommend theseadvertisements as a balm for sores caused by rhymed marine Jingoism.

  A BOOK IN A RAILWAY ACCIDENT

  [_20 July '11_]

  Books are undoubtedly cursed, and rendered unreadable in a new sense. Idon't know how many years it is since I was informed that Villiers del'Isle-Adam's "L'Eve Future" was a really fine novel. I bought it, and Iwas so upset, in my narrow youthfulness, to find that the author had madea hero of Thomas Alva Edison, and called him by his name, that I could notaccomplish more than two chapters. Later I was again informed that "L'EveFuture" was a really fine novel, and I had another brief tussle with it,and was vanquished by its dullness. I received a third warning, andstarted yet again, and disliked the book rather less, and then Icompletely lost it in a removal. After months or years it mysteriouslyturned up, like a fox-terrier who has run off on an errand of his own. ButI did not resume it. And then after another long interval the idea that Iabsolutely must read "L'Eve Future" gathered force in my mind, and Idecided that the next time I went away for a week-end I would take it withme. This was in France. I took it away with me. I read a hundred pages onthe outward journey and I got on terms with "L'Eve Future." _"Ce livrem'attendait,"_ as a certain French novelist said when he read "Tom Jones."On the return journey I was deep buried in "L'Eve Future," when a fearfuljolting suddenly began to rock the saloon carriage in which I was. Thejolting grew worse, very much worse. Women screamed. I saw my stick flyout of the rack above my head across the carriage. The door leading to thecorridor jumped off its hinges. Then shattered glass fell in showers, andI saw an old lady beneath an arm-chair and a table. The shape of thecarriage altered. And then, after an enormous crash, equilibrium wasestablished amid the cries of human anguish. I had clung to the arms of myseat and was unhurt, but there were four wounded in the carriage. Myeye-glasses were still sticking on my nose. Saying to myself that I mustkeep calm, I put them carefully away, and began to help to get people outof the wreck. It was not until I looked about for my belongings that I sawthat the c
orner of a tender had poked itself into our carriage. Outside, amail-van and two enormous coaches were lying very impressively on theirsides, and two wounded girls were lying on the grass by the track, andpeople were shouting for doctors. I ultimately got away with my bag andstick and hat, and walked to the nearest station, where a porter naturallyasked me for my ticket. I hired an auto and reached Paris only a quarterof an hour late for dinner. And I congratulated myself on my calmness andperfect presence of mind in a railway accident. Only "L'Eve Future" wasnot in my bag. I had forgotten it, and my presence of mind had thus beenimperfect. I did not buy another copy of "L'Eve Future," and I don't thinkI ever shall, now.

  "FICTION" AND "LITERATURE"

  [_31 Aug '11_]

  Publishers' advertisements of imaginative work are so constantly curiousthat one gets accustomed to their bizarre qualities and refrains fromcomment. But Messrs. Hutchinson, who are evidently rather proud of havingsecured Lucas Malet's new long novel, have thought of a new adjective, andthe event must be chronicled. They are announcing to the world that LucasMalet's new novel is "literary"--"the literary novel of the autumn." Icannot be quite sure what this means, but it is probably intended tosignify that, in the opinion of Messrs. Hutchinson, Lucas Malet's novel isvery special--that is to say, it is not a mere novel. Less adroitpublishers than Messrs. Hutchinson might have described it as an "artnovel." (_Cf._ "art furniture," all up Tottenham Court Road.) Some of themost esteemed provincial dailies have a column headed "Literature" on fivedays of the week, but on the sixth day that column is headed "NewFiction." You see the distinction. Messrs. Hutchinson are doubtlesshinting to the provinces that the new book is something between"literature" and "fiction," and combines the superior attributes of both.Once the _Athenaeum_, apparently staggered by the discovery that JosephConrad existed, reviewed a novel of his under the rubric of "Literature,"instead of with other novels under the rubric of "Fiction." Messrs.Hutchinson have possibly an eye also on the _Athenaeum_. Personally, Iwould not permit my publishers to advertise a novel of mine as literary.But on the whole I wouldn't seriously object to the adjective"unliterary."