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The Project Gutenberg EBook of Books and Persons, by Arnold Bennett
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net
Title: Books and Persons
Being Comments on a Past Epoch 1908-1911
Author: Arnold Bennett
Release Date: April 26, 2005 [EBook #15717]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BOOKS AND PERSONS ***
Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Melissa Er-Raqabi and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net.
Books and Persons
BEING COMMENTS ON A
PAST EPOCH
1908-1911
BY
ARNOLD BENNETT
LONDON
Chatto & Windus
1917
WORKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR
_NOVELS_
A MAN FROM THE NORTH
ANNA OF THE FIVE TOWNS
LEONORA
A GREAT MAN
SACRED AND PROFANE LOVE
WHOM GOD HATH JOINED
BURIED ALIVE
THE OLD WIVES' TALE
THE GLIMPSE
HELEN WITH THE HIGH HAND
CLAYHANGER
HILDA LESSWAYS
THE CARD
THE REGENT
THE PRICE OF LOVE
THESE TWAIN
THE LION'S SHARE
_FANTASIAS_
THE GRAND BABYLON HOTEL
THE GATES OF WRATH
TERESA OF WATLING STREET
THE LOOT OF CITIES
HUGO
THE GHOST
THE CITY OF PLEASURE
_SHORT STORIES_
TALES OF THE FIVE TOWNS
THE GRIM SMILE OF THE FIVE TOWNS
THE MATADOR OF THE FIVE TOWNS
_BELLES-LETTRES_
JOURNALISM FOR WOMEN
FAME AND FICTION
HOW TO BECOME AN AUTHOR
THE TRUTH ABOUT AN AUTHOR
MENTAL EFFICIENCY
HOW TO LIVE ON TWENTY-FOUR HOURS A DAY
THE HUMAN MACHINE
LITERARY TASTE
FRIENDSHIP AND HAPPINESS
THOSE UNITED STATES
PARIS NIGHTS
MARRIED LIFE
LIBERTY
OVER THERE: WAR SCENES
THE AUTHOR'S CRAFT
_DRAMA_
POLITE FARCES
CUPID AND COMMONSENSE
WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS
THE HONEYMOON
THE GREAT ADVENTURE
MILESTONES. (_In Collaboration with Edward Knoblock_)
(_In Collaboration with Eden Phillpotts_)
THE SINEWS OF WAR: A ROMANCE
THE STATUE: A ROMANCE
Books and Persons
BEING COMMENTS ON A
PAST EPOCH
1908-1911
BY
ARNOLD BENNETT
LONDON
Chatto & Windus
1917
_First published June 1917_
_Second Impression Aug. 1917_
PRINTED AT THE COMPLETE PRESS
WEST NORWOOD
LONDON
TO
HUGH WALPOLE
PREFATORY NOTE
The contents of this book have been chosen from a series of weekly
articles which enlivened the _New Age_ during the years 1908, 1909, 1910,
and 1911, under the pseudonym "Jacob Tonson." The man responsible for the
republication is the dedicatee, who, having mysteriously demanded from me
back numbers of the _New Age_, sat in my house one Sunday afternoon and in
four hours read through the entire series. He then announced that he had
made a judicious selection, and that the selection must positively be
issued in volume form. Mr. Frank Swinnerton approved the selection and
added to it slightly. In my turn I suggested a few more additions. The
total amounts to one-third of the original matter. Beyond correcting
misprints, softening the crudity of several epithets, and censoring lines
here and there which might give offence without helping the sacred cause,
I have not altered the articles. They appear as they were journalistically
written in Paris, London, Switzerland, and the Forest of Fontainebleau.
In particular I have left the critical judgments alone, for the good
reason that I stand by nearly all of them, though perhaps with a less
challenging vivacity, to this day.
ARNOLD BENNETT
_February 1917_
CONTENTS
1908
WILFRED WHITTEN'S PROSE 3
UGLINESS IN FICTION 8
LETTERS OF QUEEN VICTORIA 11
FRENCH PUBLISHERS 16
WORDSWORTH'S SINGLE LINES 18
NOVELISTS AND AGENTS 22
THE NOVEL OF THE SEASON 26
GERMAN EXPANSION 30
THE BOOK-BUYER 32
JOSEPH CONRAD AND THE _ATHENÆUM_ 36
THE PROFESSORS 41
MRS. HUMPHRY WARD'S HEROINES 47
W.W. JACOBS AND ARISTOPHANES 53
KENNETH GRAHAME 57
ANATOLE FRANCE 59
INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY 63
MALLARMÉ, BAZIN, SWINBURNE 65
THE RUINED SEASON 68
1909
"ECCE HOMO" 77
HENRY OSPOVAT 79
FRENCH AND BRITISH ACADEMIES 81
POE AND THE SHORT STORY 84
MIDDLE-CLASS 88
THE POTENTIAL PUBLIC 101
H.G. WELLS 109
TCHEHKOFF 117
THE SURREY LABOURER 120
SWINBURNE 123
THE SEVENPENNIES 130
MEREDITH 134
ST. JOHN HANKIN 140
UNCLEAN BOOKS 143
LOVE POETRY 145
TROLLOPE'S METHODS 148
CHESTERTON AND LUCAS 150
OFFICIAL RECOGNITION OF POETRY 155
ARTISTS AND CRITICS 158
RUDYARD KIPLING 160
CENSORSHIP BY THE LIBRARIES 167
1910
CENSORSHIP BY THE LIBRARIES 181
BRIEUX 195
C.E. MONTAGUE 201
PUBLISHERS AND AUTHORS 204
TOURGENIEV AND DOSTOIEVSKY 208
JOHN GALSWORTHY 214
SUPPRESSIONS IN "DE PROFUNDIS" 217
HOLIDAY READING 222
THE BRITISH ACADEMY OF LETTERS 228
UNFINISHED PERUSALS 235
MR. A.C. BENSON 239
THE LITERARY PERIODICAL 242
THE LENGTH OF NOVELS 248
ARTISTS AND MONEY 250
HENRI BECQUE 255
HENRY JAMES 263
ENGLISH LITERARY CRITICISM 267
MRS. ELINOR GLYN 271
W.H. HUDSON 278
NEO-IMPRESSIONISM AND LITERATURE 280
1911
BOOKS OF THE YEAR 289
"THE NEW MACHIAVELLI" 294
SUCCESS IN JOURNALISM 300
MARGUERITE AUDOUX 305
JOHN MASEFIELD 311
LECTURES AND STATE PERFORMANCES 315
A PLAY OF TCHEHKOFF'S 321
SEA AND SLAUGHTER 325
A BOOK IN A RAILWAY ACCIDENT 328
"FICTION" AND "LITERATURE" 331
INDEX 333
1908
WILFRED WHITTEN'S PROSE
[_4 Apr. '08_]
An important book on an important town is to be issued by Messrs. Methuen.
The town is London, and the author Mr. Wilfred Whitten, known to
journalism as John o' London. Considering that he comes from
Newcastle-on-Tyne (or thereabouts), his pseudonym seems to stretch a
point. However, Mr. Whitten is now acknowledged as one of the foremost
experts in London topography. He is not an archæologist, he is a
humanist--in a good dry sense; not the University sense, nor the silly
sense. The word "human" is a dangerous word; I am rather inclined to
handle it with antiseptic precautions. When a critic who has risen high
enough to be allowed to sign his reviews in a daily paper calls a new book
"a great human novel," you may be absolutely sure that the said novel
consists chiefly of ridiculous twaddle. Mr. Whitten is not a humanist in
that sense. He has no sentimentality, and a very great deal of both wit
and humour.
* * * * *
He is also a critic admirably sane. Not long ago he gave a highly
diverting exhibition of sanity in a short, shattering pronouncement upon
the works of Mr. Arthur Christopher Benson and the school which has
acquired celebrity by holding the mirror up to its own nature. The wonder
was that Mr. Benson did not, following his precedent, write to the papers
to say that Mr. Whitten was no gentleman. In the days before the _Academy_
blended the characteristics of a comic paper with those of a journal of
dogmatic theology, before it took to disowning its own reviewers, Mr.
Whitten was the solid foundation of that paper's staff. He furnished the
substance, which was embroidered by the dark grace of the personality of
Mr. Lewis Hind, whose new volume of divagations is, by the way, just out.
* * * * *
But my main object in referring to Mr. Whitten is to state formally, and
with a due sense of responsibility, that he is one of the finest prose
writers now writing in English. His name is on the title-pages of several
books, but no book of his will yet bear out my statement. The proof of it
lies in weekly papers. No living Englishman can do "the grand
manner"--combining majestic dignity with a genuine lyrical
inspiration--better than Mr. Whitten. These are proud words of mine, but I
am not going to disguise my conviction that I know what I am talking
about. Some day some publisher will wake up out of the coma in which
publishers exist, and publish in volume form--probably with coloured
pictures as jam for children--Mr. Whitten's descriptions of English towns.
Then I shall be justified. I might have waited till that august moment.
But I want to be beforehand with Dr. Robertson Nicoll. I see that Dr.
Nicoll has just added to his list of patents by inventing Leonard Merrick,
whom I used to admire in print long before Dr. Nicoll had ever heard that
Mr. J.M. Barrie regarded Leonard Merrick as the foremost English novelist.
Dr. Nicoll has already got Mr. Whitten on to the reviewing staff of the
_Bookman_. But I am determined that he shall not invent Mr. Whitten's
prose style. I am the inventor of that.
[_2 May '08_]
A few weeks ago I claimed to be the discoverer of Mr. Wilfred Whitten as a
first-class prose writer. I relinquish the claim, with apologies. Messrs.
Methuen have staggered me by sending me Mrs. Laurence Binyon's "Nineteenth
Century Prose," in which anthology is an example of Mr. Whitten's prose.
Though staggered, I was delighted. I should very much like to know how
Mrs. Binyon encountered the prose of Mr. Whitten. Did she hunt through the
files of newspapers for what she might find therein, and was she thus
rewarded? Or did some tremendous and omniscient expert give her the tip? I
disagree with about 85 per cent. of the _obiter dicta_ of her preface, but
her anthology is certainly a most agreeable compilation. It shows, like
sundry other recent anthologies, the strong liberating influence of Mr.
E.V. Lucas, whose "Open Road" really amounted to a renascence of the
craft.
And here is the tail-end of the extract which Mrs. Binyon has perfectly
chosen from the essays of Mr. Whitten:
"...The moon pushing her way upwards through the vapours, and the scent of
the beans and kitchen stuff from the allotments, and the gleaming rails
below, spoke of the resumption of daily burdens. But let us drop that
jargon. Why call that a burden which can never be lifted? This calm
necessity that dwells with the matured man to get back to the matter in
hand, and dree his weird whatever befall, is a badge, not a burden. It is
the stimulus of sound natures; and as the weight of his wife's arm makes a
man's body proud, so the sense of his usefulness to the world does but
warm and indurate his soul. It is something when a man comes to this mind,
and with all his capacity to err, is abreast of life at last. He shall not
regret the infrequency of his inspirations, for he will know that the day
of his strength has set in. And if, for poesy, some grave Virgilian line
should pause on his memory, or some tongue of Hebrew fire leap from the
ashes of his godly youth, it will be enough. But if cold duck await--why,
then, to supper!"
UGLINESS IN FICTION
[_9 May '08_]
In the _Edinburgh Review_ there is a disquisition on "Ugliness in
Fiction." Probably the author of it has read "Liza of Lambeth," and said
Faugh! The article, peculiarly inept, is one of those outpourings which
every generation of artists has to suffer with what tranquillity it can.
According to the Reviewer, ugliness is specially rife "just now." It is
always "just now." It was "just now" when George Eliot wrote "Adam Bede,"
when George Moore wrote "A Mummer's Wife," when Thomas Hardy wrote "Jude
the Obscure." As sure as ever a novelist endeavours to paint a complete
picture of life in this honest, hypocritical country of bad restaurants
and good women; as sure as ever he hints that all is not for the best in
the best of all possible islands, some witling is bound to come forward
and point out with wise finger that life is not all black. I once resided
near a young noodle of a Methodist pastor who had the pious habit of
reading novels aloud to his father and mother. He began to read one of
mine to them, but half-way through decided that something of Charlotte M.
Yonge would be less unsuitable for the parental ear. He then called and
lectured me. Among other aphorisms of his which I have treasured up was
this: "Life, my dear friend, is like an April day--sunshine and shadow
chasing each other over the plain." That he is not dead is a great tribute
to my singular self-control. I suspect him to be the _Edinburgh_ Reviewer.
At any rate, the article moves on the plane of his plain.
* * * * *
The Reviewer has the strange effrontery to select Mr. Joseph Conrad's
"Secret Agent" as an example of modern ugliness in fiction: a novel that
is simply steeped in the finest beauty from end to end. I do not suppose
that the _Edinburgh Review_ has any moulding influence upon the evolution
of the art of fiction in this country. But such nonsense may, after all,
do harm by confusing the minds of people who really are anxious to
encourage what is best, strongest, and most sane. The Reviewer in this
instance, for example, classes, as serious, Thomas Hardy, Joseph Conrad,
and John Galsworthy, who are genuine creative forces, with mere dignified
unimportant sentimentalizers like Mr. W.B. Maxwell. While he was on the
business of sifting the serious from the unserious I wonder he didn't
include the authors of "Three Weeks" and "The Heart of a Child" among the
serious! Perhaps because the latter wrote "Pigs in Clover" and the former
was condemned by the booksellers! Nobody could have a lower opinion of
"Three Weeks" than I have. But I have never been able to understand why
the poor little feeble story was singled out as an awful example of female
licentiousness, and condemned by a hundred newspapers that had not the
courage to name it. The thing was merely infantile and absurd. Moreover, I
violently object to booksellers sitting in judgment on novels.
LETTERS OF QUEEN VICTORIA
[_16 May '08_]
The result of _Murray_ v. _The Times_ is very amusing. I don't know why
the fact that the _Times_ is called upon to pay £7500 to Mr. John Murray
should make me laugh joyously; but it does. Certainly the reason is not
that I sympathize with the libelled Mr. Murray. The action was a great and
a wonderful action, full of enigmas for a mere man of letters like myself.
For example, Mr. Murray said that his agreement with the "authors" (I
cannot imagine how Lord Esher and Mr. A.C. Benson came to be the "authors"
of the late Queen's correspondence) stipulated that two-thirds of the
profits should go to the "authors" and one-third to Mr. Murray. Secondly,
Mr. Murray said that he paid the authors £5592 14s. 2d. Thirdly, he said
that his own profit was £600. Hence £600 is the half of £5592 14s. 2d. I
have no doubt that there exists some quite simple explanation of this new
arithmetic; only it has not occurred to me, my name not being Colenso. The
whole enterprise was regal, as befitted. Proof-corrections cost twice as
much as the original setting up! A mere man of letters would be inclined
to suspect that the printing was begun too soon; it is usual to postpone
setting-up a book until the book is written. Balzac partially beggared
himself by ignoring this rule. Balzac, however, was not published by Mr.
Murray. £950 was paid to the amanuensis! Oh, amanuensis, how I wonder who
you are, up above the world so high, like a fashionable novelist in the
sky! And so on.
* * * * *
The attitude of Tunbridge Wells (the most plutocratic town in England, by
the way) towards the book was adorable. "Mr. Daniel Williams, a bookseller
and librarian, of Tunbridge Wells, said that after the review by 'Artifex'
people complained that the price of the book was too high. No complaints
were made before that." They read their _Times Literary Supplement_ at the
Wells, and they still wait for it to thunder, and when it has
thundered--and not before--they rattle their tea-trays, and the sequel is
red ruin! Again, Mr. Justice Darling, in his ineptly decorated summing-up,
observed that it was hardly too much to say that "the plaintiff's
house--the house of Murray," was a national institution. It would be
hardly too much to say that also the house of Crosse and Blackwell is a
national institution, and that Mr. Justice Darling is a national
institution. By all means let us count the brothers Murray as a national
institution, even as an Imperial institution. But let us guard against the
notion, everywhere cropping up, that such "houses" as the dignified and
wealthy house of Murray are in some mysterious way responsible for English
literature, part-authors of English literature, to whom half of the glory
of English literature is due. It is well to remember now and then that
publishers who have quite squarely made vast sums out of selling the work
of creative artists are not thereby creative artists themselves. A
publisher is a tradesman; infinitely less an artist than a tailor is an
artist. Often a publisher knows what the public will buy in literature.
Very rarely he knows what is good literature. Scarcely ever will he issue
a distinguished book exclusively because it is a distinguished book. And
he is right, for he is only a tradesman. But to judge from the otiose
majesty of some publishers, one would imagine that they had written at
least "Childe Harold." There is the case of a living publisher (not either
of the brothers Murray) whose presence at his country chateau is indicated
to the surrounding nobility, gentry, and peasantry by the unfurling of
the Royal standard over a turret.
* * * * *
To return to the subject, the price at which the house of Murray issued
the "Letters of Queen Victoria" was not "extortionate," having regard to
the astounding expenses of publication. But why were the expenses so
astounding? If the book had not been one which by its intrinsic interest
compelled purchase, would the "authors" have been remunerated like the
managers of a steel trust? Would the paper have been so precious and
costly? Would the illustrations have so enriched photographers? And would
the amanuensis have made £350 more out of the thing then Mr. Murray
himself? The price was not extortionate. But it was farcical. The entire
rigmarole combines to throw into dazzling prominence the fact that modern
literature in this country is still absolutely undemocratic. The time will
come, and much sooner than many august mandarins anticipate, when such a
book as the "Letters of Queen Victoria" will be issued at six shillings,
and newspapers will be fined £7500 for saying that the price is
extortionate and ought not to exceed half a crown. Assuredly there is no
commercial reason why the book should not have been published at 6s. or
thereabouts. Only mandarinism prevented that. Mr. Murray's profits would
have been greater, though "authors," amanuenses, photographers,
paper-makers, West-End booksellers, and other parasitic artisans might
have suffered slightly.
FRENCH PUBLISHERS
[_23 May '08_]
It has commonly been supposed that the publication of Flaubert's "Madame
Bovary" resulted, at first, in a loss to the author. I am sure that every
one will be extremely relieved to learn, from a letter recently printed in
_L'Intermédiaire_ (the French equivalent of _Notes and Queries)_, that the
supposition is incorrect. Here is a translation of part of the letter,
written by the celebrated publishers, Poulet-Malassis, to an author
unnamed. The whole letter is very interesting, and it would probably
reconcile the "authors" of the correspondence of Queen Victoria to the
sweating system by which they received the miserable sum of £5592 14s. 2d.
from Mr. John Murray for their Titanic labours.
October 23, 1857.
"I think, sir, that you are in error as to Messrs. Lévy's method of doing
business. Messrs. Lévy buy for 400 francs [£16] the right to publish a
book during four years. It was on these terms that they bought the stories
of Jules de la Madeleine, Flaubert's 'Madame Bovary,' etc. These facts are
within my knowledge. To take an example among translations, they bought
from Baudelaire, for 400 francs, the right to publish 6000 copies of his
Poé. We do not work in this way. We buy for 200 francs (£8) the right to
publish an edition of 1200 copies.... If the book succeeds, so much the
better for the author, who makes 200 francs out of every edition of 1200
copies. If M. Flaubert, whose book is in its third edition, had come to us
instead of to Messrs. Lévy, his book would already have brought him in
1000 francs (£40); during the four years that Messrs. Lévy will have the
rights of his book for a total payment of 400 francs, he might have made
two or three thousand francs with us.... Votre bien dévoué,
"A.P. MALASSIS."
* * * * *
We now know that Flaubert made £16 in four years out of "Madame Bovary,"
which went into three editions within considerably less than a year of
publication. And yet the house of Lévy is one of the most respectable and
grandiose in France. Moral: English authors ought to go down on their
knees and thank God that English publishers are not as other publishers.
At least, not always!
WORDSWORTH'S SINGLE LINES
[_30 May '08_]
I have had great joy in Mr. Nowell Charles Smith's new and comprehensive
edition of Wordsworth, published by Methuen in three volumes as majestic
as Wordsworth himself at his most pontifical. The price is fifteen
shillings net, and having regard to the immense labour involved in such an
edition, it is very cheap. I would sooner pay fifteen shillings for a real
book like this than a guinea for the memoirs of any tin god that ever sat
up at nights to keep a diary; yea, even though the average collection of
memoirs will furnish material to light seven hundred pipes. We have lately
been much favoured with first-rate editions of poets. I mention Mr. de
Sélincourt's Keats, and Mr. George Sampson's amazing and
not-to-be-sufficiently-lauded Blake. Mr. Smith's work is worthy to stand
on the same shelf with these. A shining virtue of Mr. Smith's edition is
that it embodies the main results of the researches and excavations not
only of Professor Knight, but, more important, of the wonderful Mr.
Hutchinson, whose contributions to the _Academy_, in days of yore, were
the delight of Wordsworthians.
* * * * *
Personally, I became a member of the order of Wordsworthians in the
historic year 1891, when Matthew Arnold's "Selections" were issued to the
public at the price of half a crown. I suppose that Matthew Arnold and Sir
Leslie Stephen were the two sanest Wordsworthians of us all. And Matthew
Arnold put Wordsworth above all modern poets except Dante, Shakespeare,
Goethe, Milton, and Molière. The test of a Wordsworthian is the ability to
read with pleasure every line that the poet wrote. I regret to say that,
strictly, Matthew Arnold was not a perfect Wordsworthian; he confessed,
with manly sincerity, that he could not read "Vaudracour and Julia" with
pleasure. This was a pity and Matthew Arnold's loss. For a strict
Wordsworthian, while utterly conserving his reverence for the most poetic
of poets, can discover a keen ecstasy in the perusal of the unconsciously
funny lines which Wordsworth was constantly perpetrating. And I would back
myself to win the first prize in any competition for Wordsworth's funniest
line with a quotation from "Vaudracour and Julia." My prize-line would
assuredly be:
_Yea, his first word of greeting was,--_
_"All right...._
It is true that the passage goes on:
_Is gone from me...._
But that does not impair the magnificent funniness.
* * * * *
From his tenderest years Wordsworth succeeded in combining the virtues of
Milton and of _Punch_ in a manner that no other poet has approached. Thus,
at the age of eighteen, he could write:
_Now while the solemn evening shadows sail,_
_On slowly-waving pinions, down the vale;_
_And fronting the bright west, yon oak entwines_
_Its darkening boughs...._
Which really is rather splendid for a boy. And he could immediately follow
that, speaking of a family of swans, with:
_While tender cares and mild domestic loves_
_With furtive watch pursue her as she moves,_
_The female with a meeker charm succeeds...._
Wordsworth richly atoned for his unconscious farcicalness by a multitude
of single lines that, in their pregnant sublimity, attend the
Wordsworthian like a shadow throughout his life, warning him continually
when he is in danger of making a fool of himself. Thus, whenever through
mere idleness I begin to waste the irrecoverable moments of eternity, I
always think of that masterly phrase (from, I think, the "Prelude," but I
will not be sure):
_Unprofitably travelling towards the grave._
This line is a most convenient and effective stone to throw at one's
languid friends. Finally let me hail Mr. Nowell Smith as a benefactor.
NOVELISTS AND AGENTS
[_20 June '08_]
A bad publishing season is now drawing to a close, and in the air are
rumours of a crisis. Of course the fault is the author's. It goes without
saying that the fault is the author's. In the first place, he will insist
on producing mediocre novels. (For naturally the author is a novelist;
only novelists count when crises loom. Algernon Charles Swinburne, Edward
Carpenter, Robert Bridges, Lord Morley--these types have no relation to
crises.) It appears that the publishers have been losing money over the
six-shilling novel, and that they are not going to stand the loss any
longer. It is stated that never in history were novels so atrociously
mediocre as they are to-day. And in the second place, the author will
insist on employing an Unspeakable Rascal entitled a literary agent, and
the poor innocent lamb of a publisher is fleeced to the naked skin by this
scoundrel every time the two meet. Already I have heard that one
publisher, hitherto accustomed to the services of twenty gardeners at his
country house, has been obliged to reduce the horticultural staff to
eighteen.
Such is the publishers' explanation of the crisis. I shall keep my own
explanation till the crisis is a little more advanced and ready to burst.
In the meantime I should like to ask: How _do_ people manage to range over
the whole period of the novel's history and definitely decide that novels
were never so bad as they are now? I am personally inclined to think that
at no time has the average novel been so good as it is to-day. (This view,
by the way, is borne out by publishers' own advertisements, which abound
in the word "masterpiece" quoted from infallible critics of great
masterpieces!) Let any man who disagrees with me dare go to Mudie's and
get out a few forgotten novels of thirty years ago and try to read them!
Also, I am prepared to offer £50 for the name and address of a literary
agent who is capable of getting the better of a publisher. I am widely
acquainted with publishers and literary agents, and though I have often
met publishers who have got the better of literary agents, I have never
met a literary agent who has come out on top of a publisher. Such a
literary agent is badly wanted. I have been looking for him for years. I
know a number of authors who would join me in enriching that literary
agent. The publishers are always talking about him. I seldom go into a
publisher's office but that literary agent has just left (gorged with
illicit gold). It irritates me that I cannot run across him. If I were a
publisher, he would have been in prison ere now. Briefly, the manner in
which certain prominent publishers, even clever ones, talk about literary
agents is silly.
* * * * *
Still, I am ready to believe that publishers have lost money over the
six-shilling novel. I am acquainted with the details of several instances
of such loss. And in every case the loss has been the result of gambling
on the part of the publisher. I do not hesitate to say that the terms
offered in late years by some publishers to some popular favourites have
been grotesquely inflated. Publishers compete among themselves, and then,
when the moment comes for paying the gambler's penalty, they complain of
having been swindled. Note that the losses of publishers are nearly always
on the works of the idols of the crowd. They want the idol's name as an
ornament to their lists, and they commit indiscretions in order to get it.
Fantastic terms are never offered to the solid, regular, industrious,
medium novelist. And it is a surety that fantastic terms are never
offered to the beginner. Ask, and learn.
* * * * *
But though I admit that money has been lost, I do not think the losses
have been heavy. After all, no idolized author and no diabolic agent can
force a publisher to pay more than he really wants to pay. And no diabolic
agent, having once bitten a publisher, can persuade that publisher to hold
out his generous hand to be bitten again. These are truisms. Lastly, I am
quite sure that, out of books, a great deal more money has been made by
publishers than by authors, and that this will always be so. The
threatened crisis in publishing has nothing to do with the prices paid to
authors, which on the whole are now fairly just (very different from what
they were twenty years ago, when authors had to accept whatever was
condescendingly offered to them). And if a crisis does come, the people to
suffer will happily be those who can best afford to suffer.
THE NOVEL OF THE SEASON
[_11 July '08_]
The publishing season--the bad publishing season--is now practically over,
and publishers may go away for their holidays comforted by the fact that
they will not begin to lose money again till the autumn. It only remains
to be decided which is the novel of the season. Those interested in the
question may expect it to be decided at any moment, either in the _British
Weekly_ or the _Sphere_. I take up these journals with a thrill of
anticipation. For my part, I am determined only to decide which is not the
novel of the season. There are several novels which are not the novel of
the season. Perhaps the chief of them is Mr. E.C. Booth's "The Cliff End,"
which counts among sundry successes to the score of Mr. Grant Richards.
Everything has been done for it that reviewing can do, and it has sold,
and it is an ingenious and giggling work, but not the novel of the season.
The reviews of "The Cliff End," almost unanimously laudatory, show in a
bright light our national indifference to composition in art. Some
reviewers, while stating that the story itself was a poor one, insisted
that Mr. Booth is a born and accomplished story-teller. Story-tellers
born and accomplished do not tell poor stories. A poor story is the work
of a poor story-teller. And the story of "The Cliff End" is merely absurd.
It is worse, if possible, than the story of Mr. Maxwell's "Vivien," which
reviewers accepted. It would appear that with certain novels the story
doesn't matter! I really believe that composition, the foundation of all
arts, including the art of fiction, is utterly unconsidered in England. Or
if it is considered, it is painfully misunderstood. I remember how the
panjandrums condescendingly pointed out the bad construction of Mr. Joseph
Conrad's "Lord Jim," one of the most noble examples of fine composition in
modern literature, and but slightly disfigured by a detail of clumsy
machinery. In "The Cliff End" there is simply no composition that is not
clumsy and conventional. All that can be said of it is that you can't read
a page, up to about page 200, without grinning. (Unhappily Mr. Booth
overestimated his stock of grins, which ran out untimely.) The true art of
fiction, however, is not chiefly connected with grinning, or with weeping.
It consists, first and mainly, in a beautiful general composition. But in
Anglo-Saxon countries any writer who can induce both a grin and a tear on
the same page, no matter how insolent his contempt for composition, is
sure of that immortality which contemporaries can award.
* * * * *
Another novel that is not the novel of the season is Mr. John Ayscough's
"Marotz," about which much has been said. I do not wish to labour this
point. "Marotz" is not the novel of the season. I trust that I make myself
plain. I shall not pronounce upon Mr. Masefield's "Captain Margaret,"
because, though it has been splashed all over by trowelfuls of slabby and
mortarish praise, it has real merits. Indeed, it has a chance of being the
novel of the season. Mr. Masefield is not yet grown up. He is always
trying to write "literature," and that is a great mistake. He should study
the wisdom of Paul Verlaine:
_Prends l'éloquence et tords-lui son cou._
Take literature and wring its neck. I suppose that Mr. H. de Vere
Stacpoole's "The Blue Lagoon" is not likely to be selected as the novel of
the season. And yet, possibly, it will be the novel of the season after
all, though unchosen. I will not labour this point, either. Any one read
"The Blue Lagoon" yet? Some folk have read it, for it is in its sixth
edition. But when I say any one, I mean some one, not mere folk. It might
be worth looking into, "The Blue Lagoon." _Verbum sap._, often, to Messrs.
Robertson Nicoll and Shorter. In choosing "Confessio Medici" as the book
of the season in general literature, Dr. Nicoll [Now Sir William Robertson
Nicoll] has already come a fearful cropper, and he must regret it. I would
give much to prevent him from afflicting the intelligent when the solemn
annual moment arrives for him to make the reputation of a novelist.
GERMAN EXPANSION
[_18 July '08_]
I think I could read anything about German Colonial expansion. The subject
may not appear to be attractive; but it is. The reason lies in the fact
that one is always maliciously interested in the failures of pompous and
conceited persons. In the same way, one is conscious of disappointment
that the navy pother has not blossomed into a naked scandal. A naked
scandal would be a bad thing, and yet one feels cheated because it has not
occurred. At least I do. And I am rather human. I can glut myself on
German colonial expansion--a wondrous flower. I have just read with
genuine avidity M. Tonnelat's "L'Expansion allemande hors d'Europe"
(Armand Colin, 3 fr. 50). It is a very good book. Most of it does not deal
with colonial expansion, but with the growth and organization of Germania
in the United States and Brazil. There is some delicious psychology in
this part of the book. Hear the German Governor of Pennsylvania: "As for
me, I consider that if the influence of the German colonist had been
eliminated from Pennsylvania, Philadelphia would never have been anything
but an ordinary American town like Boston, New York, Baltimore, or
Chicago." M. Tonnelat gives a masterly and succinct account of the
relations between Germans and native races in Africa (particularly the
Hereros). It is farcical, disastrous, piquant, and grotesque. The
documentation is admirably done. What can you do but smile when you gather
from a table that for the murder of seven Germans by natives fifteen
capital punishments and one life-imprisonment were awarded; whereas, for
the murder of five natives (including a woman) by Germans, the total
punishment was six and a quarter years of prison. In 1906 the amazing
German Colonial Empire cost 180 millions of marks. A high price to pay for
a comic opera, even with real waterfalls! M. Tonnelat has combined
sobriety and exactitude with an exciting readableness.
The Book-Buyer
[_22 Aug. '08_]
In the month of August, when the book trade is supposed to be dead, but
which, nevertheless, sees the publication of novels by Joseph Conrad and
Marie Corelli (if Joseph Conrad is one Pole, Marie Corelli is surely the
other), I have had leisure to think upon the most curious of all the
problems that affect the author: Who buys books? Who really does buy
books? We grumble at the lack of enterprise shown by booksellers. We
inveigh against that vague and long-suffering body of tradesmen because in
the immortal Strand, where there are forty tobacconists, thirty-nine
restaurants, half a dozen theatres, seventeen necktie shops, one Short's,
and one thousand three hundred and fourteen tea cafés, there should be
only two establishments for the sale of new books. We are shocked that in
the whole of Regent Street it is impossible to buy a new book. We shudder
when, in crossing the virgin country of the suburbs, we travel for days
and never see a single bookshop. But whose fault is it that bookshops are
so few? Are booksellers people who have a conscientious objection to
selling books? Or is it that nobody wants to buy books?
Personally, I extract some sort of a living--a dog's existence--from the
sale of books with my name on the title-page. And I am acquainted with a
few other individuals who perform the same feat. I am also acquainted with
a large number of individuals who have no connexion with the manufacture
or distribution of literature. And when I reflect upon the habits of this
latter crowd, I am astonished that I or anybody else can succeed in paying
rent out of what comes to the author from the sale of books. I know
scarcely a soul, I have scarcely ever met a soul, who can be said to make
a habit of buying new books. I know a few souls who borrow books from
Mudie's and elsewhere, and I recognize that their subscriptions yield me a
trifle. But what a trifle! Do you know anybody who really buys new books?
Have you ever heard tell of such a being? Of course, there are Franklinish
and self-improving young men (and conceivably women) who buy cheap
editions of works which the world will not willingly let die: the Temple
Classics, Everyman's Library, the World's Classics, the Universal Library.
Such volumes are to be found in many refined and strenuous homes--oftener
unopened than opened--but still there! But does this estimable practice
aid the living author to send his children to school in decent clothes? He
whom I am anxious to meet is the man who will not willingly let die the
author who is not yet dead. No society for the prevention of the death of
corpses will help me to pay my butcher's bill.
* * * * *
I know that people buy motor-cars, for the newspapers are full of the dust
of them. I know that they buy seats in railway carriages and theatres, and
meals at restaurants, and cravats of the new colour, and shares in
companies, for they talk about their purchases, and rise into ecstasies of
praise or blame concerning them. I want to learn about the people who buy
new books--modest band who never praise nor blame, nor get excited over
their acquisitions, preferring to keep silence, preferring to do good in
secret! Let an enterprising inventor put a new tyre on the market, and
every single purchaser will write to the Press and state that he has
bought it and exactly what he thinks about it. Yet, though the purchasers
of a fairly popular new book must be as numerous as the purchasers of a
new tyre, not one of them ever "lets on" that he has purchased. I want
some book-buyers to come forward and at any rate state that they have
bought a book, with some account of the adventure. I should then feel
partly reassured. I should know by demonstration that a book-buyer did
exist; whereas at present all I can do is to assume the existence of a
book-buyer whom I have never seen, and whom nobody has ever seen. It seems
to me that if a few book-buyers would kindly come forward and
confess--with proper statistics--the result would be a few columns quite
pleasant to read in the quietude of September.
JOSEPH CONRAD & THE ATHENÆUM
[_19 Sep. '08_]
The _Athenæum_ is a serious journal, genuinely devoted to learning. The
mischief is that it will persist in talking about literature. I do not
wish to be accused of breaking a butterfly on a wheel, but the
_Athenæum's_ review of Mr. Joseph Conrad's new book, "A Set of Six," in
its four thousand two hundred and eighteenth issue, really calls for
protest. At that age the _Athenæum_ ought, at any rate, to know better
than to make itself ridiculous. It owes an apology to Mr. Conrad. Here we
have a Pole who has taken the trouble to come from the ends of the earth
to England, to learn to speak the English language, and to write it like a
genius; and he is received in this grotesque fashion by the leading
literary journal! Truly, the _Athenæum's_ review resembles nothing so much
as the antics of a provincial mayor round a foreign monarch sojourning in
his town.
* * * * *
For, of course, the _Athenæum_ is obsequious. In common with every paper
in this country, it has learnt that the proper thing is to praise Mr.
Conrad's work. Not to appreciate Mr. Conrad's work at this time of day
would amount to bad form. There is a cliche in nearly every line of the
_Athenæum_'s discriminating notice. "Mr. Conrad is not the kind of author
whose work one is content to meet only in fugitive form," etc. "Those who
appreciate fine craftsmanship in fiction," etc. But there is worse than
clichés. For example: "It is too studiously chiselled and hammered-out for
that." (God alone knows for what.) Imagine the effect of studiously
chiselling a work and then hammering it out! Useful process! I wonder the
_Athenæum_ did not suggest that Mr. Conrad, having written a story, took
it to Brooklands to get it run over by a motor-car. Again: "His effects
are studiously wrought, _although_--such is his mastery of literary
art--they produce a swift and penetrating impression." Impossible not to
recall the weighty judgment of one of Stevenson's characters upon the
_Athenæum_: "Golly, what a paper!"
* * * * *
The _Athenæum_ further says: "His is not at all the impressionistic
method." Probably the impressionistic method is merely any method that the
_Athenæum_ doesn't like. But one would ask: Has it ever read the opening
paragraph of "The Return," perhaps the most dazzling feat of impressionism
in modern English? The _Athenæum_ says also: "Upon the whole, we do not
think the short story represents Mr. Conrad's true _métier_" It may be
that Mr. Conrad's true _métier_ was, after all, that of an auctioneer;
but, after "Youth," "To-morrow," "Typhoon," "Karain," "The End of the
Tether," and half a dozen other mere masterpieces, he may congratulate
himself on having made a fairly successful hobby of the short story. The
most extraordinary of all the _Athenæum's_ remarks is this: "The one ship
story here, 'The Brute,' makes us regret that the author does not give us
more of the sea in his work." Well, considering that about two-thirds of
Mr. Conrad's work deals with the sea, considering that he has written
"Lord Jim," "The Nigger of the _Narcissus_" "Typhoon," "Nostromo," and
"The Mirror of the Sea," this regret shall be awarded the gold medal of
the silly season. If the _Athenæum_ were a silly paper, like the
_Academy_, I should have kept an august silence on this ineptitude. But
the _Athenæum_ has my respect. It ought to remember the responsibilities
of its position, and ought not to entrust an important work of letters to
some one whose most obvious characteristic is an exquisite and profound
incompetence for criticism. The explanation that occurs to me is that "A
Set of Six" and "Diana Mallory" got mixed on the _Athenæum's_ library
table, and that each was despatched to the critic chosen for the other.
* * * * *
"A Set of Six" will not count among Mr. Conrad's major works. But in the
mere use of English it shows an advance upon all his previous books. In
some of his finest chapters there is scarcely a page without a phrase that
no Englishman would have written, and in nearly every one of his books
slight positive errors in the use of English are fairly common. In "A Set
of Six" I have detected no error and extremely few questionable terms. The
influence of his deep acquaintance with French is shown in the position of
the adverb in "I saw again somebody in the porch." It cannot be called bad
English, but it is queer. "Inasmuch that" could certainly be defended
(compare "in so much that"), but an Englishman would not, I think, have
written it. Nor would an Englishman be likely to write "that sort of
adventures."
Mr. Conrad still maintains his preference for indirect narrative through
the mouths of persons who witnessed the events to be described. I dare say
that he would justify the device with great skill and convincingness. But
it undoubtedly gives an effect of clumsiness. The first story in the
volume, "Gaspar Ruiz," is a striking instance of complicated narrative
machinery. This peculiarity also detracts from the realistic authority of
the work. For by the time you have got to the end of "A Set of Six" you
have met a whole series of men who all talk just as well as Mr. Conrad
writes, and upon calm reflection the existence of a whole series of such
men must seem to you very improbable. The best pages in the book are those
devoted to the ironical contemplation of a young lady anarchist. They are
tremendous.
THE PROFESSORS
[_26 Sep. '08_]
The death of Professor Churton Collins appears to have been attended by
painful circumstances, and one may be permitted to regret the
disappearance from the literary arena of this vigorous pundit. He had an
agreeable face, with pendant hair and the chin of a fighter. His industry
must have been terrific, and personally I can forgive anything to him who
consistently and violently works. He had also acquired much learning.
Indeed, I should suppose that on the subject of literature he was the most
learned man in Britain. Unfortunately, he was quite bereft of original
taste. The root of the matter was not in him. The frowning structure of
his vast knowledge overawed many people, but it never overawed an
artist--unless the artist was excessively young and naïve. A man may heap