The Egoiste

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Published Monthly

T H E E G O I S TN o . 1 . — V O L . V. J A N U A R Y 1918. S I X P E N C E .

Editor: H A R R I E T S H A W W E A V E R

Assistant Editor: T. S. E L I O T

Contributing Editor :

D O R A M A R S D E N

C O N T E N T S

P A G E

IN M E M O R Y OF H E N R Y J A M E S. By T . S. Eliot . . . 1

" T H E M E D D L E Y E A R S . " Reviewed by Ezra Pound . 2

T H E TWO UNFINISHED N O V E L S . Reviewed by Enrique

Gomez . . . . . . . . . 3

" T H E T U R N OF THE S C R E W . " By Arthur Waley . . 4

P A S S I N G PARIS. By M . C 4

A SORDID S T O R Y . By J 6

P A G B

E L I Z A B E T H A N C L AS S I C I S T S— V . By Ezra Pound . . 8

P O E M S . By Leigh Henry 9

S H O R T R E V I E W S . . . . . . . . 10

A L F R E D DE V I G N Y ON THE ART OF THE S T A G E . By

Madame Ciolkowska . . . . . . 10

C O R R E S P O N D E N C E 15

A N N O U N C E M E N T S 15

I N M E M O R Y O F H E N R Y J A M E S

B y T. S. E L I O T

H E N R Y J A M E S has been dead for some ti me.

The curren t of E n g l i s h literature was not

app rec iab ly altere d by his work du ri ng his

l i f e t i m e : and James w i l l probably continue to be

regarded as the extr aord inar ily clever but negligible

curiosi ty. The current har dly m a t t e r s ; i t hardly

mat t e r s t ha t very few people w i l l read James. The

" i n f l u e n c e " of James h a r d l y m a t t e r s : to be in-

fluenced b y a wri ter is to have a chance in sp ir at io n

f r o m h i m : o r t o t ake wha t one wa nt s; or to see

things one has overlooked; there w i l l always be afew intell igent people to under stand James, and to be

und ers too d b y a few int ell ige nt people is al l the

influence a ma n requires . Wh a t mat ters least of all

i s his place in such a L o r d Mayor's show as Mr.

Chesterton' s procession of V i c t o r i a n Literature. The

point to be made is t ha t James has an i mport ance

w h i c h has noth in g to do wi th wha t came before hi m

or wha t ma y happe n after h i m ; a n impo rta nce whic h

has been over look ed on bot h sides of the Atl an ti c.

I do not suppose t ha t any one who is not an A m e r i -

can can properly appreciate James. James ' s best

A m e r i c a n figures i n the n ove ls, in spit e of th ei r t r i m

definite outlin es, the eco nomy of strokes, hav e a

fullness of existence and an ext erna l ram ifi cati on ofrelat ionship whi ch a Eur ope an reader might not

easily suspect. The Bellegard e fam ily , for instance,

are merely good outline sketches by an intelligent

for eig ner ; wh en more is expe cte d of th em, in the

lat ter p a r t of the story , the y jerk themse lves i nto onl y

melodra matic violence. In al l appearance T o m

Tri st ram is an even slighter sketch. Euro pea ns can

recognize h i m ; t hey have seen him , kno wn h im ,

have even penet ra ted the Occidental C l u b ; but no

Eu ro pe an has the To m Tr is tr am element in his

comp osi tio n, has anyt hi ng of Tr is tr am from his first

v i s i t to the Lo uv re to his final remark t ha t Par is is the

o n l y place where a white man can l i v e . It is the final

perfect ion, the consumm atio n of an Am er ic an to

become, not an En gl is hm an , but a Euro pea n—so me-

th in g wh ic h no bor n Eur ope an, no person of an y

Eur ope an nati ona lit y, can become. T om is one of

the failures, one of nature 's misfortunes, in this

process . Ev en General Pac kar d, C. P. Ha tc h, a nd

M i s s K i t t y Up jo hn have a real ity whi ch Clai re de

Cintré misses. Noémie , of course, is perf ect, bu t

Noénrie is a result of the intel lig ent ey e; her exist ence

i s a tr iu mp h of the intelligence, and it does not extend

be yo nd the frame of the pic tur e.

F o r the E n g l i s h reader, much of James ' s c r i t i c i s mo f Am er ic a must merel y be somet hing tak en for

granted. E n g l i s h readers can appre ciat e it for wha t

i t has in com mon wit h cr i t i c ism everywhere, wi th

Fla uber t in Fran ce and Turgenev in Russ ia . S t i l l ,

i t should have for the E n g l i s h an importance bey ond

the work of these writ ers. The re is no E n g l i s h

equiv alent for James, and at least he writes in this

langua ge. As a c r i t i c , no nove lis t i n our langu age

can approach Jam es ; there is not eve n an y, large

par t of the reading publ ic wh ic h kno ws wha t the wo rd

" c r i t i c " means. (The usual d efi nit ion of a cri ti c is a

writer who cannot " c r e a t e " — p e r h a p s a reviewer of

books) . James was emphatically not a successful

literary c r i t i c . H i s cri tic ism of books and w rite rs is

feeble. I n writ in g of a noveli st, he occasio nally

produces a valu able sentence out of his ow n expe rien ce

ra ther th an i n judg ment of the subject. Th e rest is

char ming talk, or gentle commen dat io n. E v e n in

ha ndl ing men who m he cou ld, one supposes, h a v e

carved jo in t f rom jo in t—Emerson , o r Nor ton—his

touch i s unce r ta i n ; there is a desire to be generous,

a p o l i t i c a l motiv e, an admission ( in deal ing w it h

A m e r i c a n writers) t ha t unde r the circu mstanc es this

was the best possible, or t h a t it has fine qu ali tie s.

H i s father was here keener th an he. He nr y was not a

l i t e ra ry c r i t i c .

H e was a cri ti c who pr ey ed not up on ideas, bu tu p o n l i v i n g beings. It is cri ti cis m wh ic h is in a ver y



2 THE EGOIST January 1918

h i g h sense creati ve. Th e characters, the best of

th em , are each a di sti nct success of cr eat io n: D a i s y

M i l l e r ' s small brother is one of these. Do ne i n a

clean flat dr aw in g , each is ext rac ted out of a real it y

o f its ow n. substanti al enoug h ; everyth ing gi ven is

true fo r t ha t i n d i v i d u a l ; but wh at is gi ven is chosen

w i t h great art for it s pl ace i n a general scheme. Th e

general sch eme is not one charac ter, nor a gro up of

ch aracters i n a pl ot or merely in a cro wd. Th e focus

is a sit uati on, a rel ati on, an atmosph ere, t o w h i c h th e

ch aracters pa y tribute, but bei ng al lo wed to gi ve onl y

wh at th e wri ter wants. Th e real hero, i n any of

Jame s' s stories, is a social entity of w h i c h men and

women are consti tuents. It is, i n The Europeans,

t h a t part ic ular conjuncti on of people at the W ent-

wor th house, a situation in w h i c h several memorable

scenes are merely timel ess parts, onl y occ urring

necessar il y i n succession. I n th is aspect, you can

say t ha t James is dr ama ti c; as what Pi nero and

M r . Jones used to do for a large public, James

does for th e intel li gent . It is i n the ch emi stry of

these subtle substances, these curious precipitates

and explosive gases w h i c h are suddenly formed by the

contact of mi n d w i t h mind, tha t James is unequalled.

Compared w i t h James's, other novelists' characters

seem to be only accidentally in the same book.

Natura l ly , there is something terrible, as disconcert

i n g as a quic ksand , i n thi s discovery, th ough it only

becomes absolutely dominant in such stories as The

Turn of the Screw. It is part l y foretold in Hawth orne,

but James carri ed it muc h farther. A n d it makes the

reader, as w e l l as the personae, uneasily the v i c t i m of

a merciless clairvoyance.

James's c r i t i c a l genius comes out most t e l l i n g l y

i n his mastery over, his baffling escape from , Ideas; a

mastery and an escape w h i c h are perhaps the last testo f a superior intel li gence. H e h ad a mind so fine tha t

no idea could violate i t . Engli shmen, w i t h their

uncri t ical admi rati on (in the present age) for France,

l i k e to refer to Fra nce as the Ho me of Id eas ; a

phrase w h i c h , if we could twist it into truth, or at

least a compliment, ought to mean tha t in France

ideas are ver y severely lo ok ed aft er; not all owed to

stray, but preserved for the i nspecti on of c i v i c pride

i n a Ja rd i n des Pl antes, and frugal ly disp atch ed on

occasion of pub l ic necessity. En g l and , on the other

hand , if i t is not th e Ho m e of Ideas, has at l east

become infested w i t h th em i n about the space of

t ime w i t h i n w h i c h A u s t r a l i a has been overrun by

rabbits. I n En g l and ideas run w i l d an d pasture on

the emoti ons; instead of th ink ing w i t h our feelings

(a very different thing) we corrupt our feelings w i t h

id eas; we produce the public, th e p o l i t i c a l , th e

emotional idea, evad ing sensation and th ough t.

George Mered it h (the disc ipl e of C a r l y l e ) was fertile

i n i de as ; hi s epi gram s are a facil e substi tute for ob-

observ ati on and inference. Mr . Chesterton' s brain

swarms w i t h i de as ; I see no evid ence tha t i t thinks.

Jame s i n hi s novels is l i k e th e best Fre nch critic s in

mainta in ing a point of v i e w , a view -po int untouched

by the parasite id ea. H e is the most intel li gent ma n

o f his generation.

Th e fact of being everywhere a foreigner was

probably an assistance to hi s nat iv e wi t. Si nce

B y r o n and Landor, no Eng li sh man appears to have

profited much from l i v i n g abroad. W e hav e h ad

Bi r mi n g h am seen from Ch elsea, but not Chel sea seen

(really seen) from B ad en or Ro me. There are ad

vantag es, i ndeed, in co mi ng from a large flat c ountr y

w h i c h no one wants to v i s i t : advantages w h i c h both

Turg enev and Jame s enjoyed. These advantages

hav e not won th em recogni tion. Europeans h ave

preferred to take th eir noti on of the R ussi an fro m

Dostoevski , and their notion of the American from,

let us say, Frank Norr is if not O. He nry. Th us, they

f a i l to note tha t there are many kinds of Russians,

corresponding to the many kinds of their f e l l o w -

countrymen, and tha t most of these kinds, s i m i l a r l y

to the kinds of thei r fel lo w-c ountrymen, are st up i d ;

likewise w i t h Amer ic ans. Ame ric ans also have en

couraged this fiction of a general type, a formula or

idea, usuall y the predaceous square-jawed or th i n-

l ipped. They l i k e to be t o l d tha t they are a race of

commercial buccaneers. It giv es th em somet hi ng

easily escaped from, moreover, when they w i s h to

reject A m e r i c a . Thus the novels of Frank Norr i s

have succeeded in bot h co untr ie s; th oug h it is

curious tha t the most va luab le part of The Pit is

its satire (quite unconscious I believe; Norr is was

s imply representing f a i t h f u l l y th e l i f e he knew) of

Chicago society after business hours. A l l th is sho w

o f commercialism w h i c h Americans l i k e to present

to the foreign eye James qui etl y waves asi de ; and i n

pouncing upo n his fel lo w- co untrym an after the stoc k

exchange has closed, in tr ac ki ng do wn his vices a nd

absurdities across the A t l a n t i c , and exposing them

i n th eir hig hest flights of di g nit y or cul ture, Jam es

may be guilty of what w i l l seem to most Americans

scandalously impro per behavi our. It is too muc h

to expect th em to be grateful . A n d the B r i t i s hpublic, had it been more aware, would hardly have

been more comfortable confronted w i t h a smile w h i c h

was so far from breaking into the B r i t i s h laugh.

Henry James's death , if it ha d been more tak en note

of, should have given considerable r e l i e f " on bo th

sides of the A t l a n t i c , " and cemented the A n g l o -

American Entente.

NOTICE

A R T I C L E N O . X I V of the " L i n g u a l Psyc ho l og y " series

by the Contr ibut ing Ed i t or w i l l appear i n the Fe bru ary

issue of T H E E G O I S T . — Editor.

" T H E M I D D L E Y E A R S " *

R E V I E W E D B Y E Z R A P O U N D

THE M I D D L E Y E A R S is a tale of the great adven

tur e; for, pu tt i ng aside a few simp le advent ures,

sentimental, p h a l l ic , N i m r o d i c , the remaining

great adventure is preci sely the appr oac h to th e

Metropol is ; for the p r o v i n c i a l of our race the specific

approach to London, and no subject surely could more

heighten the pitch of writ ing t han t ha t the treated

approach shoul d be tha t of the greatest writer of our

time and own part ic ular language. W e may, I th in k,set aside Th oma s H ar d y as of an age not our o w n ; of

perhaps Wal te r Scot t's or of L' Abbé Prevo st' s, but

remote from us and things f a m i l i a r l y under our h an d ;

and we ski p ov er th e next few crops of wri ter s as

l a c k i n g i n any co mpa rat iv e interest, int erest i n a

writer being pri mari ly i n his degree of sensi t izat ion;

and on this count we may throw out the whole W e l l s -

B ennet perio d, for wh at interest c an we take i n ins tru

ments w h i c h must of nature miss two- th irds of the

vibrat ions in any concei vable sit uatio n. In James

the maximum sensibili ty compatible w i t h efficient

writ ing was present. Indeed, i n reading these pages

one can but despair over the inadequacy of one's o w n

l iterary sensit ization, one's so utterly inferior state ofawareness; even a l l o w i n g for what the author himself

a l lows : his not reall y, perhaps, h av in g felt at tw enty-

s i x , al l t ha t at sevent y he more or less rea d i nt o th e

memo ry of his feeling. Th e po int is t ha t w i t h the

exception of exceptional moments in Hueffer we find

no trace of such degree of awareness i n th e nex t lot of

writers, or u n t i l th e first nov els of L e w i s and Joyce,

whose awareness is, wi th ou t saying , of a nature

grea tl y different i n k i n d .

I t is not th e book for any reader to ta ck l e wh o h as

not read a g oo d deal of James, or wh o has not i n

default of tha t reading, been endowed w i t h a natural

Jamesi an sensibil ity (a case almo st negli gi ble by any

* The Middle Tears. B y Henry Jame6. Collins, 5s. net.



January 1918 THE EGOIST 3

l i k e l i h o o d ) ; neither is i t a book o f memoirs, I mean

one does no t turn to i t seeking info rmat io n about

V i c t o r i a n wor t h i es ; one does not , any more than one

d i d when t h e o l d m a n himself w as talking, want to be

t o l d a n y t h i n g ; there are encyclopaedia i n sufficiency,

and statistics, an d human mines of information,

bor ing sufficiency; one asked a n d asks only tha t slow

voice should continue—evaluating, o r perhaps onl y

ty ing up the strands of a sent ence : " A n d h o w m yo l d friend . . . Howells . . . " e tc .

T h e effects of H . J.'s first breakfasts i n L i v e r p o o l

a n d — , i nv i t ed up st ai rs at H a l f M o o n Street, are of

i n f i n i t e l y more value than any anecdotes of the

Laureat e (even th ough H. J. 's i n a b i l i t y not to see all

through the Laureate is compensated b y a quip

melting one's personal objectio n t o anything Tennyson

touched, b y making h i m merely an o ld gentleman

whatsoever w i t h a gleam of fun in hi s make-up).

A l l comers to the contrary, and the proportionate

sale of his works, a n d statistics whatsoever to the

contrary, only an American wh o has come abroad

w i l l ever draw all the succulence from Henry James's

wri t ings ; the denizen of Manchester or Well ington

may know what i t feels l i k e to reach London, the L o n -

doner born w i l l not be able quite t o reconstruct even

thi s par t of th e b o o k ; an d if for int i macy H. J . might

have stayed at the same hotel on the same d ay as one's

grandfather, and if the same American names h a d

part i n one's own inceptions i n London, one's own so

w h o l l y different an d less padd ed ince pt io ns; one has

perhaps a purely personal, selfish, unliterary sense of

in t ima cy : w i t h , i n my ow n case, the vast unbridgeable

difference of settl ing-in a n d escape.

T h e essence of James is tha t he is always "set tl ing -

i n , " i t is th e ground-tone of hi s genius.

Apart from the state of James's sensibili ty o narrival nothing else matters, th e "mi ldness of the

c r i t i c a l a i r , " t he fatuity of George E l i o t ' s husband,

the il lustrational a n d accomplished lady, even the

faculty for a portrait in a paragraph, no t to be matched

b y contemporary effects i n half-metric, are indeed a l l

subordinate t o one's curiosity as t o what Henry James

knew, a n d what he d id not know o n landing. Th e

portrai t of the author on the cover showing h i m

bearded, and l o o k i n g rather l i k e a cross between a

bishop and a Cape C od longshoreman, is an incident

gratuitous, interesting, b ut in no w ay connected w i t h

the young m a n of th e text .

T h e England of a s t i l l rather whiskered age, never

l o o k i n g inward, i n short th e V i c t o r i a n , is exquisitely

embalmed, a n d " m o u n t e d " as is, I th ink , the term

f o r mic roscop y. The book is just th e right length as a

volume, but one mourns there no t being twenty

more, fo r here is the unfinished work . . . no t i n The

Sense of the Past, fo r there the pe n was weary, as i t

had been i n The Outcry, and the talent tha t was never

most worth i t sow n wh il e wh en gone off on connoi sseur-

ship, was, conceivably, finished; b ut here in his

depict ion of his earlier s e l f the verve returned, un

diminished.

T H E TWO UNFINISHED NOV EL S *R E V I E W E D B Y E N R I Q U E G O M E Z

THE t w o unfinished novels of James m a y easily

be called t h e grave of hi s genius; i t should be

added, an impressive tomb; a n d they are as

important as documents as the otherwise far more

val uable reminiscences. They w i l l at least enable

every one to judge fo r himself h o w far he ca n go i n

the at tempt to come t o terms w i t h James's later

novels. Pr obab l y th e most instruc tiv e poi nt abo ut

them is th e progressive devouring of th e novel b y the

rapacious "sc enar io ." This is not, one feels, the

* The Sense of the Past, The Ivory Tower. By Henry James.Collins, 6s. net each.

w a y i n w h i c h t h e earlier books were co nstruct ed ; i t

i s t he last stage of a method tha t grew v i s i b l y upon

the novel ist ; ye t accept ing these boo ks gratefully,

as one accepts t he last work of such a wri ter as James,

we can hardly deplore th e malady to w h i c h h is writ ing

succumbed. Fo r i n the case of these t w o volumes

the novels are, w i t h ex ce pt io nal flashes, ve ry d u l l ;

the scenarios, t h e wor d of mouth b y w h i c h James

revealed h is plans and h is solicitudes, ar e intenselyinteresting. No t so much w i t h The Ivory Tower;

here t he scenario is much concerned w i t h names,

w i t h dates, w i t h the spotting about of the scenes—

Newport, o r Boston, o r L e n o x ? B u t i n The Sense

of the Past t a lk one sees how b y touch after touch t h e

novelist would probably have gone o n obl i terat ing the

outline w h i c h had in co nce pt io n such unusual sharp

ness an d dist inct ion. The Sense of the Past, however,

is even i n i ts present state i n f i n i t e l y more important

than The Ivory Tower. In the latter James is probably

at tempting no more than the social study to w h i c h an

earlier manner is better adap t ed ; i n the former he is

reach ing out, audacio usly and unconq uerab ly rea chi ng

out to war d someth ing Jame sian beyo nd Jame s,

something so d i f f i c u l t tha t one holds one's breath

s t i l l at the terrifying risk of th e experiment.

I n both books, however, the scenario is not only

more interesting than th e novel , but the novels

themselves tend tow ard the scenario as their l a w f u l

form. Th e disappearance of conversation, noticeable

i n James's later novels, is more noticeable here; I

do no t mean disappearance of inverted commas, fo r

the personages ar e often observed to be i n v o c a l

communication, but I mean that these personages

are flooded b y some awareness of the whole point

as i t is displayed to the author's mind before

being realized b y th ei r actio ns. The re is not , in deed, enough th ick ness of s k i n and s k u l l between

them; they are all playing up to their prevision of

what th e wr it er means. Thei r obed ience to the

author is represented rather b y " influence" exer ted

upon them than b y a common p u l l i n g of puppet-

strings. A s for th e tw o "wonder fu l " young m e n ,

R a l p h i n The Sense of the Past and Graham i n The

Ivory Tower, the perception of Ral ph 's impecunious

E n g l i s h relatives, and the percept ion of Graham's

predatory American friends of th e respective wonder-

fulness of these adolescents of th i r ty , seems an echo of

the paternal fondness of th e author, and only renders

the t w o characters i n s i p i d .

The Sense of the Past is one whole side of James—

the side w h i c h connects h i m w i t h Hawthorne, con

trasted w i t h t he Turgenev side. The Sense of the

Past might be compared w i t h The Seven Gables o r

even the inferior Faun; and i t might have been a

finer novel. Th e tr ic k— an influence emanat ing

from, o r started off by, a portrai t—is an o l d one, bu t

i t was to have been used for a new purpose, and i t

might have been th e pat tern for a story w h i c h would

have giv en James's final wor d on the c i v i l i z e d A m e r i -

c a n . That curious " s e n s e " so pecul iar ly American

(none th e less so because so rare even i n America),

so different from t he p o l i t i c a l sense of th e Faubourg

Saint-Germain or the simpler land-tenure sense of th eE n g l i s h , the sense apparent in touches of Hawthorne's

Pyncheon f a m i l y , is something w h i c h ought certainly

to have been done b y James. A n d here we should

have h ad i t i n i ts most comp le x form, i n v o l v e d w i t h

an equally acute and imperat ive sense of th e Present,

a sense of th e present beco ming more articulate a n d

pressing just as the past dominates, for it becomes

thus a sense of the Future. Th e ghostly element

here gives a substance t o The Sense of the Past w h i c h

is absent from The Ivory Tower; i t provides th e

admirable scene between R a l p h and the Ambassador,

and i t s te mpo rary departure mak es tedio us the

interminable interview between R a l p h and h is

Midmore relatives. It should, i n the fulfilment, have

been present here t o o :




T h e slow growth on the part of the others of the fear of

Ralph, even in the midst of their making much of him, as

abnormal, as uncanny, as not like, those they know of their

own kind, etc. etc. ; and his fear just of theirs, with his double

consciousness, alas, his being almost as right as possible for the

"period," and yet so intimately and secretly wrong.

A n d there was to have been a masterly turn of the

screw later (see p. 318 ff.) with the younger sister.

T h e whole thing was so d i f f i c u l t as to be perhap s jus t

wi th i n Jam es 's powers. Th e one scene with the

Ambassador would seem to show that it wa s; this is a

fragment torn from the edge of the im pos si ble .

N O T E . — Senor Gomez wishes to thank Miss Anna Louise

Babson, of New York, for revising the English version of this

review.

" T H E TURN OF T HE SCREW"

THE tw o pos thum ous novel s were hai le d as shedding, by their incompleteness, a new l ight on

Jame s' s c raft smans hip . There was a tendency to

forget an alr eady exi st i ng source of i nfo rmat io n—the

prefaces of the Collected E d i t i o n . True, the notes

wi th which The Ivory Tower terminates are contem

porary, while i n the prefaces he is su rv eyi ng his wo rk

across the g u l f of a gener ati on. B u t one does not feel

the prefaces would have been very different, if they

h a d been wr i tt en at the time. It is his pract ic e to

name in them the actual starting- poi nt from which the

conc epti on of each sto ry arose. Gene ral ly a ve ry

slight hint sufficed; which hint taken, facts ceased to

mat ter at all . H e positively shut himself away from

them: "another grain would s p o i l the preciousp i n ch . " I t seems most unlikely that he, more than

any other narrator, was always able to distinguish

between what came from outside and what had been

evolved by his own imagination.

Thus he derives The Turn of the Screw from a story

dealing with " a couple of small chi ld ren i n an out-of-

the way place, to who m the spirits of certai n ' b a d '

ser vant s, dea d in the em pl oy of the house, were be

l ieved to have appeared with the design of gett ing

hold of them."

It is not impo ssi ble that part of this plo t emanate d

from the wri ter's own i nvent i on. F or example, the

" g e t t i n g h o l d " of the children seems an idea that

belongs more to Jam es t han to the B r i t i s h ghost-

story. The Turn of the Screw was pub li shed a year

after Maisie. The similar i ty between the two tales

is ev i de nt : the exposure of childish innocence to

adul t cont ami nati on bei ng the theme of both. The

phrase "get hold o f " occurs i n connexio n with

M a i s i e herself. B u t even i f we accept James 's

account of the o r i g i n of the story, it is blankly i m

possi ble to beli eve i n his classif ic ation of i t as " a

fairy-tale pure and si mp le ." The ghosts are a mere

l iterary expedient for portraying in a v i v i d way the

last ing charac ter of the early co rrup ti on. The y are

" inf luences ," l i f t e d for dramatic purposes to a quasi-

material plane. This device of subst itut ing the

concrete for the abstract is w e l l il lust rated by t he

Private Life, i n which the publi c man l i terally and not

metaphorical ly " ha s no home l i f e . " H e simply

ceases, i n that fanta sti c tale, to have any existence

whate ver, unless he is fac ing an audienc e.

A g a i n , i n his preface to The Turn of the Screw, James

indignant ly denies the charge of "indecently ex

pa t i at i ng " ; he c la ims that he has been " s h y of

specifications," has avoi ded "t he comparative v u l -

gari ty in evi tab ly attendi ng—the ci ted act, the

l imi ted deplorable presentable inst ance."

This is quit e untrue. Whe the r ind ece ntly or no,

he ce rta i nl y expat iat es. There is no mys ter y about

the si tuati on. Peter Qui nt, for exampl e, was "s up pos ed not to be qui te i n hea lt h, " " there had been

matters i n his lif e—secret disorders, vices mor e th an

suspected—" etc. This statement is clear enough,

a n d adds to the story the motif of Ibsen's Ghosts.

Take F l o r a next. H ow , concretely, had she been

co rrup ted ? On page 290 there is a reference to her

"appa l l ing l a n g u a g e " ; which for a female seems

" b a d enough."

L i t t l e M i l e s also "s ai d th i ng s" —" to those hel i k e d . " Does James pretend that there are so many

kinds of things one can be sacked from school for

saying, that this passage leaves the reader free to fill

i n the "b l a nk " as he pleases ?

It is reasonable to i nqui re wh y the autho r' s ow n

account of the story is so palpably lacking in candour.

Those who kne w hi m pers onall y w i l l probably be

comp etent to decide. T o the outs id er i t seems

unlikely that he was eit her laughi ng at his readers or

w i l f u l l y dec eiv ing them . It is si mpl er to suppose

that, l i k e many great arti sts , he ha d no idea as to the

hind of stuff he was producing. Cézanne was sur

prised that the Salon would not hang his pictures:

James describes The Turn of the Screw as an amusette!

T o us, not handi capp ed by hav i ng wri tte n the s tory,

i t appears not to be essentiall y a ghost- story at al l .

It deals partly with the fact that chi ldr en have an

interior l i f e , carefully hidden from their elders. . . .

"She had picked up a small flat piece of wood which

happened to have i n i t a l i t t le hole that had evidently

suggested to her the idea of st icking i n anot her f rag

ment . . . . This second morsel . . . she was markedly

a n d intently attempting to tighten in its place."

H o w w e l l , i f one has l i v e d with children or re

members b ei ng one, one kno ws that attitude of simu

lated concentratio n. H o w w e l l one knows that

"i t ' s a gam e; it 's a p o l i c y and a fraud," a ruse for

seeing and hearing things that one is not mea nt to.

T h e story is not F re ud i an : it does not deal wi th

the " involuntar i ly suppr essed " memories of inf ancy,

but with experiences (c ommo n i n thi s co untr y, where

children are i n the charge of domesti cs) which are

deliberately hidden from parents and relati ves. The

children may appear to be nothing that is not nice

now as Mrs. Grose "l ugub ri ous ly plead ed," b ut (such

is James's thesis) beneath this mask of "absolutely

unnatural goodness," of " m o r e than earthly bea uty, "

the ol d conta minat io n lurks. It is this contami nati on

which James mat erial izes i n the spooks of Pe te r

Quint and M i s s Jessel.

A R T H U R W A L E Y

PASSING PARIS

IT ha d been prophes ie d that a p eri od of o b l i v i o n

fo r his work would immediately ensue upon

the dea th o f R o d i n . The denial of an o f f i c i a l

funeral, the scratch attendance at the humble cere

mony granted, the comparative indifference of the

Press and pu bl i c to the co ncl usi on of a career one

of the most si gnal i n mode rn Franc e, would seem

to be circumstances symp tom ati c of the oracle's

realization, and oracles come true more often t ha n

not. Wha te ve r the cause ma y be—gener al weari ness

o r simply lack of mutual understanding and co

ordination of enthusias m—the F re nc h people mani

fest d i f f i c u l t y , probably due more to hesitation than

to aversi on, i n hono uri ng those who serve the m best,

fo r R o d i n and such as he have served their country.

O n the other hand, to certain men popularity accrues

as constantly and as naturally as river flows into r iver .

R o d i n is given a dingy b u r i a l : one, a singl e an d last ,

opportuni ty occurs to accord hi m publi c recogni ti on,

i t is rejected, but M . E d mo nd Ro s ta nd ma y make as

frequent l i v i n g appearances as he chooses wi th ou t

boring two out of tw o tho usa nd peop le. F r o m

patriot ism, if not only from admiration, they w i l l

deliriously applaud him and his rhymes; that K o d i nclaimed regard on similar grounds , if not on similar




merits, oc curred to an insignificant mi nori ty. N o w a

days favo ur is more freely di rect ed to wards those

w h o hois t themsel ves on to the pyram id of their

country's glory th an to those w ho have been its

builders.

* * * *T h e late Gov ernment pl ayed straight i nto M . Léon

Daudet 's h and when it took upo n i t s e l f the public

revelation of a let ter pri vat el y addressed t o th e

Presid ent. H ad he h i m s e l f managed the display it

c o u l d not have been organized more entirely to

M . Daudet's satisfaction.

Léon Daudet , so n of Alp ho nse , is one of an alm os t

extinct species of journalist, common to France in

days past before A n g l o - S a x o n " p h l e g m " ha d become

fashionable, di st inguis he d by an ext reme v iol ence of

language w h i c h people should be intelligent enough

to take at its propo rtionate value. Wh e n Daude t

calls a man a sp y, a v i l l a i n , a tr ait or or wh at not,

the term does not carry h a l f the weight a much more

moderate qualification w o u l d f r o m , say, M . M a u r i c e

Barrés. As Mr. E z r a Pound repeats so excellently,

a l l " N e o s " are to be avoide d, and M . Léon Daude t

is several t imes " n e o " : "neo-monarchis t ," "neo -

C a t h o l i c , " "neo-nationalist ," "neo-abuser of l a n

guage." C o n c l u s i o n : ob vi ous . N o one seems to

know ex act ly whe th er the man acts upo n co nvic ti ons

o r whe th er he is a hyst eri cal slanderer. H e w o u l d

probably have to be questioned p u b l i c l y as to what

he understands prec ise ly b y the te rms he uses before

any counter-j udgment can be passed upo n his own

sentences upo n others. A s th is w i l l never occur he

w i l l conti nue to have bot h partisans and o pponents.

T h e most equitable manner of dealing w i t h h i m ,

w h i c h w o u l d be equitable also towards those who arethe vict ims of his intemperance, if o n l y intemperance

i t is , w o u l d be to convi ct h im upon that very inte m

perance. I f the w o r l d were ruled by rules of good

taste and propriety it w o u l d be more habitable.

M . Daud et is supp ort ed —pe rmanentl y by the one,

incidentally by the other—by two men of great dis

t inct ion of m i n d : M . Charle s Maurras and M . M a u r i c e

Barrés. The former has not his peer among contem

porary l i terary critics ; the other, whatever he does

o r may do, cannot defame his past. B o t h are superb

writers. Léon Daudet is superb in nothing.

* * * *Captain Canudo's temporary presence in Paris, on

convalescent leave f r o m Maced onia, was celebrated

by a " fe s t i va l M o n t j o i e . " When this writer, now a

b r i l l i a n t o f f i c e r i n a regiment of "Z o uav e s, " named

h is " g az e t t e " after the war-cry of the kings of

France he l i t t l e thought he w o u l d have occasion for

that practical realization w h i c h has brought him

wounds, high m i l i t a r y rank, and the L e g i o n of Honour.

A n It ali an b y bi rt h, the autho r of La Ville Sans Chef

elected to fight i n the arm y of Franc e, whose i d i o m

he has adop te d in literature.

A n édition definitive appears (at A l b i n M i c h e l ' s ) of

L'Enfer, b y H e n r i Barbusse. T h i s work, w h i c h is

t w o bo oks in one, is, i n its w ay, a work of romant ic

inspiration. There are dissertations in it as unnatural, or ex tra- natural, as any i n Lam arti ne' s

Raphaël, and, as Le Feu has pr ove d to a greater

number of readers t han has L'Enfer, it, too, is written

by a master-writer. H a d M . Barbusse, whe n com

posing his dialogues, considered how he w o u l d have

formed them for the stage, the enormous error into

w h i c h he f a l l s after the first few chapters—which

foreb ode ge nius—m ig ht hav e been i n great measure

avoided. I believe one of his intentions in this

creation was to ex po und the o bsc urity and solit ude

of se xual passio n. Lam art in e also ente rtained an

arrière-pensée i n Raphaël w h i c h was i n the intere sts

of free-lov e and fe mi nis m. A del ibe rate r e v i v a l of

the g reat Ro mant i c' s manner on a mo de rn, naturalis ti c

basis was M . Saint Georges de Bouhélier's La Route

Noire, just given popular access in La Feuille Litté-

raire at 15 c , alre ady referred to here i n co nnexi on

w i t h M . Montfo rt 's essay on lov e—bo th works writt en

at the age of t we nt y or th ereabout s.

* # * *

T h e author of La Passion de Notre Frère le Poilu

has completed some more resonant verses in the r i c h

dialect of his native A n j o u . T h i s extract has beenquoted by M . Laurent Tailhade f r o m the c o l l e c t i o n

enti t led Les Souvenirs des Tranchées d'un Poilu:

L a boue ventous', la boue vampire

Q u i vous engoul', qui vous aspire'!

I sembr, des foès, quand a vous prend,

Q u ' ça s'rait eun' bête et qu'a comprend,

E t qu'a veut, après vous r'vanchée,

Venger la Terr' qu'a trop souffert.

L a Terr' la pauv' terr' des tranchées,

Blessé' d'partout, qu'est là couchée.

Les trip' à l'air et 1' ventre ouvert,

Tout écorchée, tout amochée,

Terjous bêchée terjous piochée,Tout' massacrée par les poilus,

Tout' lacérée par les obus

Q u i vers'ent des poésons dans ses plaies,

Ses plaies mal fermées par des claies.

Y a des jours, en regardant les trous

De c'te pauv' Terr' tout' torturée,

Que j'pense à la Terr' de cheuz nous

Qu'est si gentiment labourée,

Qu'est entret'nue avec tant d'soin ;

L a Terr' tranquill', la Terre heureuse,

Qu'est doue', qu'est boun', qu'est généreuse

Pour chacun, suivant son besoin ;

L a Terr' qui n'a point subi l'Boche ;

Où, qu'sus la paix des villag's blancs,

Les vieux clouchers, toujours tremblants,

Se renvoéy'nt des appels de cloches. . . .

* * * *

A f t e r M . Charles Maurras and seve ral lesser critics

M . André Ge rmai n writ es abo ut Renée V i v i e n , the

A n g l o - A m e r i c a n g i r l who became a great French

poet, c l o s i n g a tri nity w i t h Racine and Baudelaire.

M m e . Rachilde, for whom I have more admiration

than l o v e , writes war confessions for that unt idy

publication, La Vie, i n w h i c h there is always some

thing to be p i c k e d up. These notes, w h i c h she calls

Dans le Puits ou La Vie Inférieure, contain bo th the

charm and the tedium of personalities. T h i s w e l l is,as she says, o n l y a to wer upside d o w n; needless to

a d d , it is the w e l l of trut h " b y desce nding w h i c h she

has ris en. " I l i k e Mm e. Rach il de for not maki ng the

best of the war. A n d I l i k e M . E m i l e Bernard, the

painter-poet-critic, for w r i t i n g , i n th e same paper,

that E m i l e Deg as lac ke d the genius w h i c h w o u l d

have il luminate d, warmed , and v i v i f i e d the S i b e r i a

of his l i f e and work, and that he was, perh aps, th e

last great artistic conscience who committed suicide

f r o m honesty.

* * * *Concomitant w i t h the vogue in Shakespeare is a

craze in Bee th ov en. A recent " f e s t i v a l " devoted tothe latt er pro vo ke d enthusi asm such as no music has

experienced fo r three l o n g years. Th e publ ic 's crav

i n g for more and yet more of the greatest composer

is an emphatic response to a certain critic 's recent

discovery that Beethov en had " no t a s t e " ! It was

exactly this deficiency w i t h w h i c h Shakespeare was

taunted by V o l t a i r e and others of the " t as t e f ul "

eightee nth century. M . C.

NOW BEADY

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T R A N S L A T E D BY E Z R A P O U N D

T H E EGOIST, L t d . Price Is. 3d . net; postage




A SORDID STORY

W H E NAl ph ons e ha d been at Camb ridg e for

some t im e, he be gan to w ork and r ow hard ;

the particular kinds of things he worked at

filled h i m w i t h enthusiasm, and he soon lost all w i s h

to associate w i t h girls for nearly four years. H i s l i f e

th en rem ind ed hi m of the first part of the second

mov eme nt of Schubert 's Sym ph ony in C major. A l l

seemed to be a regular, joyous march and comrade

ship. H e made friends easily and too k friendship

seriously; so seriously tha t he spent nearly the whole

o f the Mic hael mas term f o l l o w i n g the taking of his

degree in reading A E s c h y l u s ' s Prometheus Bound and

th e Gospel according to St. Luke in the Greek w i t h

a mu ch younger man—a certain Rod eri ck Gre go ry—

wh o was i n his second year, but h ad hith ert o f a i l e d

to pass hi s L i t t l e - G o . R od d y ha d a coach—once a

wee k—b ut h ad a cheery disi ncli natio n to work,

coupled w i t h a great susc ept ibi lty to perso nal influence. Th e two were an od d p a i r; the one th in ,

not b ig , and d ar k ; the o ther a huge, broad, fair-

hai red man, who showed his dev oti on by p retendi ng

to be a sort of guard ia n to the da rk graduat e.

Alphonse was not of a saturnine di sp os it io n; he was

rat he r chee rful on the w hole . A n d he was useful in

st op pi ng Ro dd y' s senti mental theories about per

sonages in the Ne w Testame nt. So when Ro dd y

begged his fellow-lodge r—they " k e p t " together in

lodgings in Pa rk Parade—t o hear hi m translate

A E s c h y l u s and St. L u k e every morni ng, Alp honse said

the neces sary ba d word s under his breat h, and, w i t h

the aid of a crib or of the B i b l e , spent h a l f an hour

every morning in keeping Roddy to the point, ando ff his favourite theory tha t M a r y , the sister of Laz arus,

was the only woman whom Jesus really loved, and in

point ing out that, though tha t theory might interest

the so rt of perso n to wh om M i s s So-and-so's novels

appeal, it would not get mar ks i n the L i t t l e - G o .

W e l l , R o d d y passed the L i t t l e - G o tha t winter, and,

i n the L e nt term , Rod dy ' s moth er and sister took a

house in Camb ridg e for a short time. A nd , the next

day after their a r r i v a l , R o d d y took his sister for a

walk, and bro ught her to tea at his lodg ings.* * * *

That afternoon was spent by Alph onse in the

Univers i ty L i b r a r y , reading Quain's Dictionary ofMedicine. H e was not a me di cal s tudent ; he was

rea di ng it because he was a li tt le fright ened about

some things he ha d notic ed about his w a l k i n g in the

dark, or coming q u i c k l y down steps. A n d one day

a medical student discovered tha t he lac ke d wha t is

called a "k ne e je rk, " and said somet hing about a

" f o r m of atax ia. " A n d then the student asked him

abo ut his parents, and seemed surprised whe n t o l d

tha t the y behav ed normal ly. B ut he di d not t e l l

the student of the tales cur rent i n his f a m i l y about

hi s grandfath er, nor di d he t e l l hi m about his father's

last stroke, after w h i c h he ha d nurse d h i m . . .

oft en alone , he use d to be gl ad to thi nk . . .

It begi ns whe n one is betw een twe nty and thi rt y,said Q ua i n; Alp ho nse was just over t wenty-three.

Pe rhap s i n four or five years he would be thrown

aside on the hu ma n rubbi sh- heap . A n d he had

hardly begun to taste l i f e .

H e sat quite s t i l l for about h a l f an hour. Th en

four o'c loc k struc k, the clo sing ti me of the lib rary.

H e got up s l o w l y , and stood for a minute w i t h hi s

ha nd on a books helf. H e ha d noti ce d of late tha t

the b lo od seemed to rush to his he ad wh en he got up

after si tt ing for some time , and he felt gi dd y ; besides,

he felt insecure when w a l k i n g at first—it wo re off

after a few steps.

* * * *W h e n he walked into the sitting-room of his

diggings. Roddy was sitting over the fire, trying to

persuade the kettle to b o i l , and a s l i m g i r l in black

was sitting in one of the roomy, low, wicker work

arm-chairs that are, by a sort of co nve nti on, i n al l

Cambridge men's rooms.

" A h , here you are, old chap, " said Ro dd y, " l e t

me introduce my sister Beatrice."

The g i r l ros e; she was t a l l lor a g i r l , and about the

same height as Alp hons e. She had lig ht hair an ddark eyebrows and the most beauti ful vio let -co loure d

eyes Al ph ons e had ever seen.

" Roddy has t o l d us a lo t abo ut y o u, " she said .

" R e a l l y , I hope it 's to my credi t, " he answere d

mechanically.

" O h , " and she laughed, " v e ry much s o ! "

" S h a l l I make t e a ? " said Ro dd y cheerfully,

without expecting an answer, and filled up the teapot.

Alphonse sat do wn between the m—he had push ed

a chair so that he could hand cups and cake without

getting up, for he had to think of these things now;

and graduall y the wa rm th of the fire and the tea

and the friendliness of these two people made him

forget his own trouble, and woke up his old spirit

o f alertness i n conv ersat ion. Besi des , he was ve ry

strongly attract ed to Beat rice , and Beatri ce cle arly

l i k e d h i m.

Beat rice was des crib ing ho w she used to hav e a pe t

p i g , and she call ed h i m Shakesp eare, because he would

be Bacon after his d e a t ; and said tha t she had

written an elegy on him, w h i c h , however, she couldn't

remember.

" T h at is a very inspiring subject," said Alph onse,

and began to impro vise . " Y o u mig ht s ay :

Some comfort 'tis to us that you, my dear,

Peerless in life, became in death a Peer;

orNow mortal Shakespeare's roughly from us taken

We still have left to us immortal Bacon.

A n d soon all three enjoyed themselves. Ro dd y

took no great par t in the talk , but he beame d on th e

other two w i t h k i n d l y patronage. A f t e r some time

he took out his watch.

" Ju s t time to see Beatric e home before H a l l , "

said he ; "c om e on Bee. Alp honso , come to lunch

w i t h us to-morrow. T e l l the Mate r he's comi ng,

Bee."

Beatri ce rose to say good -bye. Qui te forg etf ul of

necessary precautions, A lp ho nse rose q u i c k l y . The n

he staggered a l i t t l e , clut che d at the mantelpie ce,

and knocked over a small chi na ornament. Th e

crash in the fender made Ro d dy tur n ro un d : he h ad

been put ti ng on his cap and gown and ha d not seen.

B ut Beat rice ha d see n; and Al pho nse saw tha t she

had seen—and had thought tha t he was drunk.

Alphonse saw an expression of horror pass over her

face, and th en one of disgust . Th e ha nd tha t she had

stretched out to him when she began to say " G o o d

b y e " drop ped to her side, and she turne d and walk ed

out of the room without a word.

" W e l l , so l o n g , ol d chap,' said Rod dy in the

passage. " Y o u see," he said to Beatr ice, " Al ph on so

dines in H a l l later, w i t h th e B . A . ' s , and works alone

after H a l l ; al l mat he mat ica l men do. So I do n'tsee hi m agai n usual ly after si x. Go t you r b r o l l y ? "

A n d the door banged , and the so und of th eir footst eps

died away on the pav em ent outsi de.

Alphonse's he ad was sunk on the mant elp iec e

betw een his hands. Th e fit of gidd iness h ad passe d,

but he stayed l i k e tha t for a minut e. Th en he lo ok ed

up w i t h w i l d , mise rable eyes. H i s glance f e l l on his

cap and gown, l y i n g on the table. E a r l i e r i n the

evening, Beatric e had trie d them o n : " D o n ' t I loo k

l i k e P o r t i a? " she had s a i d ; " t h e B . A , gown i s

muc h nicer th an the ridi culo us, short blue under

graduate's gow n R o d d y wears. A n d I beli eve he has

taken all the mortar-board out of his cap, t o o ! "

A n d no w there was a single golden hair in his cap.

He took the hair out gently, and stroked it. . . .

Then suddenly he jerked it into the fire and looked up.




H i s face was quit e whi te, an d his eyes fri ght ened an d

desperate. " O n l y a few years more," he kept saying

h a l f alo ud, and then pu t on his cap and gow n q u i c k l y

and mechanically. Wh e n he got outside he began

to run across Midsummer Common. It was badly

l ighted th en and he ke pt st um bl in g, bu t it was easier

fo r him to run than to walk in the dark . A n d besides

he need not th in k th en . . .

W h e n he got to the stiles through which one goes

from one of the paths across Midsummer Common

to get on to th e ro ad which skirts the grounds of

Jesus College, he stopped, leaning heavily with hi s

hand s on tw o of the cast -ir on posts of the stile. H e

was bre ath ing har d after his ru n, and he began to

think and feel acut ely . The nigh t was raw and foggy,

and a lamp by the fringe of the road gave a dim light

thro ugh the f og ; he could hear a drip, drip from

th e trees, and the slow rumble of the l i t t le stream

that moves sluggishly round part of the grounds of

Je sus ; and he could feel the coldness of the ra ise d

crosswise ribbing on the top of the iron posts.

Then a short, rather squat g i r l jumped q u i c k l yfrom the side of the pat h, an d clut che d his arm.

" C a n yer t e l l me what o'clock i t i s ? " she giggled.

Suddenly he went c o l d all over. The n, quite as

suddenly, he went hot and spoke with an odious calm.

" T i m e for yo u to be i n be d. " A n d she shr iek ed

with vu lg ar merr iment . Th en he took her face

between his hands, drew it near to his own, and

peered int o it . The distant lamp , shin ing d i m l y

through the fog, h a l f lighted a small round face,

rather pretty in a vulgar sort of way, with a large

mouth, th ick l i p s , and widely opened bold dark eyes.

Th e g i r l was scented strongly with musk. H e kissed

her on the l i p s , and just for a few moments she stood

silent and s t i l l . "Come a long , " said h e ; a nd she

hun g awkw ar dl y on his ar m and walked with h im.

About fifty yards farther on, two girls passed them,

going i n the opposite dir ecti on. The y stared at the

man and the g i r l . Then one of them called out :

" K e e p t ight 'old of ' i m, Je nn y; there's a prog at

the co r ne r ! "; and they vanished, shrieking with

laughter, into the fog.

It never occ urr ed to hi m to be as ha me d; she was

young an d he was y o u n g ; an d her l i p s . . . . He

could forget now.

She dropped his arm, and ran rather clumsily i n

front. " I ' l l just see if there's a pro g ro und the

corner," said sh e; an d she ra n to the corner, looked

round, and then waited for him underneath a street

lamp.

" I t ' s a w r i ' , " said she as he came up . Th en the

light f e l l f u l l on his face. " W y , wot 's the m at t e r ? "

. . . and then as he took her arm, she showed terror

for th e first t ime. " N o , no," she said shrinking

back.

" Y e s , yes," he said, ve ry lo w.

She hesit ated, and then tossed her head. " A w

r i ' , then," said she defiantly, " d o w n to the other end

o f Jesus La n e . "

* * * *A t half-past seven the next morn ing , Alp hon se

had a queer whim that he must go back to his digs

exact ly the same way that he ha d come. H e ha d an

appal l ing sense of loss, and his jaw felt almost para

lysed, and it seemed to require constantly a great

effort of w i l l to preve nt the lower jaw projecti ng

and then moving upwards and backwards so as to

lock his teet h t ogether .

There was nobody visible about Alphons e's lodgings

as he walked i n, went u p to his bed roo m, locked the

door, and sat down on his bed to try to think things

out. Hi s la ndl ady was bou nd to repor t to his tut or

the fact that he ha d been out all ni gh t ; and t hen

there would probably be no chance of a Fellowship,

and he might have to leave Cambridge with his work

there only just begun. A n d his wor k seemed to hi m

the n the one abid in g passio n of his l i f e . The blank

future filled h i m with horror. . . .

Suddenly there came a sharp k no ck at his door .

Perh aps after all the land la dy thou ght he ha d slept

i n his roo m al l nigh t. H e dro pped his hea d on t he

p i l l o w , said " A l l right, thanks," in a sleepy and

muffled voice, disarranged the bed, had a c o l d bath,

and went dow n to breakfast. Down sta ir s R o d d y

was waiting. "Sorry, but—oh, good morning—I

promised my sister to go out to breakfast with some

friends of hers. A n d we hav e got to lunch with the

Master—beastly nu is an ce ; so come some other

t ime, w i l l you ?"

Ro d d y kept his back to the table, and looked out

o f the window. The last words he spoke as if he

were gett ing r e d ; he di d not lie w e l l . A n d he said

" m y sister." Yesterday Roddy would have said

" B e a t r i c e . " Ro d d y was one of those men who use

Christ ian names—even men' s—wi th unnecessary and

i r r i tat ing frequ ency. The re were ve ry few men wh om

Alphonse could bear to c a l l by their Christ ian names,

but he loved to c a l l women by their Christ ian namesand to hear their brothers or husbands so c a l l t h e m :

and if he thoug ht t he names ugly or unsuitable, he

made up others. To say " m y sis te r" inst ead of

"Bea t r i ce " seemed a small rebuff.

Ther e was a short silence. Th en Ro d d y asked :

" W h e r e were you last n i g h t ? "

Alphonse hesitated, and then met lie with h e :

" I was at Wilson 's of John's—twenty-firster."

There seemed to be an unbridgeable chasm opening

between them.

" D o n ' t know h i m ; I know a W i l s o n of Jesus,"

said Roddy.

F or a moment Alp hon se thoug ht he had been

trapped. " D a m n y o u — , " he bega n ; an d t hen

stopped, angry with himself at havi ng betra yed even

so much.

This explosion gave Ro d d y courage. " D r u n k ? "

he queried.

" Y e s , " l ie d Alphonse calmly. H e l i k e d R o d d y to

talk l i k e this.

" T h e n i t ' s lucky I shut your bedroom door, and

to ld the landlady you were in b e d ! " flung out Roddy ,

and walked from the room.

Alphonse suddenly felt tender towards Ro d d y .

Then he l i f t e d the coffee-pot and the tin dish of bacon

and eggs from the hea rt h, and al tho ugh the eggs

were covered with a tou gh, glassy substance, he ate

quite a lot.

* * * *About si x o'clock that evening Ro d d y came in,

and asked, in a quiet, friendly sort of vo ice : " G o i n g

to H a l l ? "

" N o . "

" N o r am I."

A f t e r a minute, Alphonse s tammered ou t: "S in ce

this morn ing, I' ve want ed to t e l l you—I 'v e wanted to

t e l l y o u . "

A n d then he to ld him—some of it.

* * * *" T e l l you what, old man," said Roddy, " I ' l l ask

Joe and Stephe n to come ro un d with me to-night

and give that g i r l something on condition she goes

into the count ry or somethi ng. I say, ho w mu ch

cash have you g o t ? "

" A b o u t t h i r ty shillings," said Alphonse, smiling

at R od dy ' s ideas of refor m.

" A n d I've got eighteen shillings. W e ' l l give her

—two pounds five!"

Roddy ' s combi ned generosity and retre nchment

made Al pho nse smile again. S t i l l R o d d y got his

main point , and promised to make cer tain inquiri es

and f o l l o w certain instructions.

" Y o u had better not go with u s ! " said he, so

solemnly that Alphonse choked.

A t half-past seven, Ro d d y , Joe M a n s f i e l d , and




Stephen Bancrof t came in . " N o good ," sa id Rod dy ,

t h r o w i n g the mone y do wn on the tabl e, "s he was

t he re aga in, but she th oug ht I was a prog an d J oe

a nd Ste phe n my two bulldogs, and fled."

" R o d d y , make some coffee for M a n s f i e l d and

B a n c r o f t . B a c k i n h a l f an hour ," sa id Al pho ns e;

and gathering up the money and his cap and gown,

he we nt out in to the nig ht.H e crossed Mi dsu mme r Commo n, keeping a sharp

look-out for her. B u t he di d not see her, an d so he

came to the house where she l i v e d . When he knocked

the door opened almost dir ectl y, and she whisper ed

l o w and eagerly :

" O h , I was 'o pi ng y e r 'd come . I . . . I . . .

we nt ou t to look for y er, an ' the n I got f rig hte ned

an ' came 'ome to w y t e ! "

Th er e was an uns hade d gas-flame i n the passage,

w h i c h li ght ed up harshly and cruell y the cheap,

peel ing, y e l l o w marbled wall-paper, the bare and dirty

passage an d staircas e, and, whe n she mov ed farthe r

into the passage, her tea r-s tai ned face. . . . She

showe d hi m int o her comfortless, unti dy litt le room ,

h a l f s i t t ing-room, h a l f bedroom, an d divid ed in two

b y a ra msh ac kl e screen. The tabl e was h a l f covered

b y a dirty table-c loth , and there was a dry bit of

cheese, a knife, h a l f a loaf, a bott le of vinega r, an d

an unus ed plat e an d glass on it . There was an un

shaded oi l la mp, w i t h a white glass reservoir, on the

tab le, the wi ndo ws were hid den by curtai ns of faded

mo re en , an d i n the fireless grate was a dust y b undl e

o f wh it e an d gol d paper s trips. There was a look

ab ou t th e roo m as if it ha d been furnis hed by some

one of the low er mid dl e class, an d then eve ryt hin g

w h i c h was not either necessary or unsaleable ha d

been stripped from it. . . .

She hun g on his ar m, and loo ked up at hi m w i t h

the eyes of a spaniel who wanted a stick thrown for

her to fet ch. " I 'ope d ye r' d come ," she said. A

feeling of u t t e r lo at hi ng came over hi m. She pause d

and trie d to speak. . . . At last broken sentences

came.

" I t was Fl o. She was my sister. El de r' n me.

I n a 'at shop she was. A n ' she to ld me wot . . .

' o w . . . I swear yo u was the first."

H e ha d ta ken out the money , an d now it d ropp ed

o n the table and a sovereign r o l l e d on to the floor.

Th er e was a gre edy lo ok i n her eyes, but then she

spoke in sudde n fear.

" Y e r ' l l come b a c k; yer '11 come b a c k ! I sweary o u wa s the first. I ' l l mov e to better lodgings if

ye r l i k e . "

" I di dn 't kn ow I was the first," he said wre tc he dl y;

" I can ' t me nd things, but I ' l l t r y . "

She d i d not un de rs ta nd at first. She lo ok ed

triumphant, and then her face f e l l , as she gra spe d the

im po rt of his hagga rd, mi serabl e face.

" Y e r don't want t e r ! " she said sullenly, and

m o v e d away from him so t ha t her face was in darkness.

T h e n she seemed to mak e up her mi nd , an d her voi ce

sounded almost t ender .

" Y e r were n't the first, t h e n ! " she said.

A n d it was only years afterwards t ha t he knew

t ha t she had l i e d to him.

* * * *Perhaps it is not par t of a very high code of morality

merely to t ake care not to be th e first to help to send

a wom an downwa rds ; but Alphonse fe lt i t honestly

the n. A n d whe n he came int o his sit ting -room , he

felt an inde scr ibab le relief. The fire was bur ni ng

br igh t ly , the lights were f u l l on, the blin ds an d

cur tai ns und ra wn , an d he cou ld see the lon g pro

cession of gas-l amps goi ng alo ng the Cheste rton ro ad

an d across the foot-bri dge ; M a n s f i e l d and Bancroft

were gone and Ro dd y coul d be heard fai ntly through

the doors prac ti si ng his 'cell o in his bedr oom, an d the

coffee-pot was keepi ng wa rm in the heart h, a nd apac ket of twe nty -fi ve gratis copies, in pale blue covers,

o f a pape r he had pu bli she d in the Quarterly Journal

of Mathematics had arrived from Metcalfe 's t h a t

after noon. A l l his ol d passi on for wor k came ba ck

to him w i t h a rus h. H e stoo d for a mi nut e a nd

looked dow n at the cosy ro om an d the pleasant cha irs

and books, and repeated to himself the only line of

B r o w n i n g which drew him to t ha t author :

"I know so well what I mean to do when the long dark

evenings come."

It was not par tic ula rly appropria te, for spri ng was

coming now. H e felt curio usly light- heart ed. Fi rs t

he addressed ten newspaper wra pper s to fri ends,

r o l l e d up ten copies of his paper, and then fastened

the wrappe rs. The n he dra nk coffee. Th en —l ea ni ng

sl ight ly on the back of a chai r—he re tur ned to hi s

desk—the 'cello ha d sto pped —and wrot e far in to the

morning.

Y o u w i l l remember that there is a sudden bre ak

i n the second move ment of Schub ert 's C m aj or

Symphony, and , for a space, the o ld ma rc h seems dead

and unrememb ered. B u t soon, at first hes it at ing ly,

i t comes back. J .

EL IZABETHAN CLASSICISTS

B y E Z R A P O U N D

V

T H E R E is a cert ain resonance i n Certain Bokes

of Virgiles AEnaeis by Henry Earl of Surrey

(apud Ricardum Totte l , 1 5 5 7 ) .

They whisted all, with fixed face attent

When prince iEneas from the royal seat

Thus gan to speak, O Queene, it is thy will,

I should renew a woe can not be told :

How that the Grekes did spoile and overthrow

The Phrygian wealth, and wailful realm of Troy,

Those ruthful things that I myself beheld,

And whereof no small part fel to my share,

Which to expresse, who could refraine from teres,

What Myrmidon, or yet what Dolopes?

What stern Ulysses waged soldiar?

And loe moist night now from the welkin falles

And sterres declining counsel us to rest.

S t i l l there is hardly enough here to persuade one

to reread or to read the Mneid. Besides, it is so

" M i l t o n i c . " Tho. Phaer, D oct eur of Phi si ke in 1562,published a vers ion in older mou ld , whereof thi s

tenebrous sample :

Even in ye porche, and first in Limbo iawes done Wailings dwell

And Cares on couches lyen, and Settled Mindes on vengeans fell

Diseases leane and pale and combrous Age of dompishe yeres

As Scillas and Centaurus, man before and beast behind

In every doore they stampe, and Lyons sad with gnashing sound

And Bugges with hundryd heades as Briary, and armid round

Chimerafightes with flames and gastly Gorgon grim to see,

Eneas sodenly for feare his glistering sword out toke.

H e uses inner rhy me, and alli tera tion app aren tly

without any design, merely because they happen.

Such lines as

For as at sterne I stood, and steering strongly held my helme

do not compare favourably w i t h the relatively free

Saxon fragments. B u t whe n we come to " T h e X I I I

B U K E S OF E N E A D O S of the famose Poète V i r g i l l ,

t ranslatet out of La ty ne verses int o Scott ish me tir

b y the Rever end Fat her i n Go d Mays te r G a w i n

Douglas, Bishop of D u n k e l , u n k i l to the E r i e of

Angus every book havi ng hys particular pro log e"

(printed in 1553),* we have to deal w i t h a highly

different mat ter .

The battellis and the man I will discrive

F r a Troyis boundis, first that fugitive

* Written about 1512.




B y fate to Italie, came coist lauyne

Over land and se, cachit with meikill pyne

B y force of goddis above, fra every stede

O f cruel Juno, throw auld remembrit feid

Grete payne in battelles, sufferit he also

O r he his goddis, brocht in latio

A n d belt the ciete, fra qu ham of nobil fame

Th e latyne peopil, taken has thare name.

H i s commas are not punctuation, but indicate his

caesurae. Approaching the passage concerning the

"hundryd headed Bugges" of Dr. Phaer, Douglas

translates as fo l lows :

F r r a thine strekis the way profound anone

Depe un to hellis flude, of Acherone

With holebisme, an d hidduous swelth unrude

Drumly of mude, an d skaldand as it war wode.

Thir riueris and thir watteris kepit war

Be ane Charone, ane grisly ferrear

Terribyl of schape, and sluggard of array

Apo un his chin feill, Chanos haris gray.

I am i n c l i n e d to think that he gets more poetry

out of V i r g i l than any other translator. At least

he gives one a clue to Dante's respect for the Mantuan.

I n the second book AEneas w i t h the "traist Achates"

i s w a l k i n g by the sea-board:

Amid the wod, his mother met them tuay

Semand an d made, in vissage and array

With wappinnis, like the Virginis of spartha

O r the stowt wensche, of trace Harpalita

Haistand the hors, her fadder to reskewe

Spediar than hebroun, the swift flude di d persew.

F o r Venus efter the gys, and maner thare

An e active bow, spoun her schulder bare

As sehe had bene, ane wilde huntreis

With wind wafnng, hir haris lowsit of trace.

This is not spoiled by one's memory of Chaucer's

a l l u s i o n .Goyng in a queynt array

As she hadde ben an hunteresse,

With wynd blowynge upon hir tresse ;

Douglas continues:

H i r skirt kiltit, till her bare knee

A n d first of other, unto them, thus speike sehe.

F r o m A E n ea s ' answer, these lines:

Quhidder thou be diane, phebus sister brychtO r than sum goddis, of thyr Nymphyis kynd

Maistres of wod dis beis to, us happy and kynd

Relief our lang travel], quhat ever thow be.

A n d after her prophecy:

Vera incessu patuit dea.

Thus sayd sehe, an d turned incontinent

H i r nek schane, like unto the Rose in may

H i r heuinly haris, glitterand bricht an d gay

Kest from her forehead, ane smell glorious an d sueit

H i r habit fell doune, covering to her feit

A n d in hir passage, ane verray god did her kyith

A n d fra that he knew, his moder allwith.

Bu t Venus with ane sop, of myst baith tway

A n d with ane dirk cloud closit round about

That na man suld tham se. . . .

H i r self op lyft, to paphum past swyth

T o vesy her resting place, joly and blyth

There is ther tempill, in Cipirland

Quharin thare dois ane hundreth altaris stand

Hait burning full of saba, sence al l houris

An e smelland swete, with fresch gar land an d flouris.

Caxton's Virgil (1490) is a prose reduction of a

French version. The eclogue beginning

Tityrus, happilie thou lyste, tumbling under a beech-tree

is too f a m i l i a r to quote here.

T he celebrated dis tych :

A l l trauellers doo gladlie report great praise of Vlysses

F o r that he knewe manie mens manners, and saw many citties

is quoted by W m. Webbe in 1586, as a perfect example

of E n g l i s h quantity, and ascribed to "Master Watson,

F e l l o w of S. John 's ," forty years earlier. If Master

Watson continued his Odyssey there is, alas! no

further trace of it.

Conclusions after this reading :

(1) The quality of translations declined in measure

as the t ranslators ceased to be absorbed i n the subject-

matter of their o r i g i n a l . They ended in the " M i l t o -

n i an " cliché, in the stock and stilted phraseology of

the usual E n g l i s h verse as it has come down to us.

(2) This " M i l t o n i a n " cliché is much less M i l t o n ' sinvention than is usually supposed.

(3) His visualization is probably better than I had

thought. The credi t due him for developing the

resonance of the E n g l i s h blank verse paragraph is

probably much less than most other people have

u n t i l now supposed.

(4) Gawine Douglas, his works, should be made

accessible by reprinting.

(5) This w i l l probably be done by some d u l l dog,

who wi l l thereby receive cash and great scholastic

distinction.

POEMS

B y L E I G H H E N R Y

For R. Herdman Pender

T A E - K W A E

TH E w i l d geese fade in the distance . . .

. . . faint scent of dead leaves from the

orchard. . . .

H e r palanquin waits at the gate.

B R O K E N T R Y S T

S H E waits by the fountain,

alone in the silent garden;

motionless hang her t r a i l i n g s i l k e n sleeves.

T he crouching bronze dragons

are mirrored in the wat er ;

the ir black fangs gleam between the floating leaves.

T S U Y A D R E A M S

T H E plum-blossom sways on the branches . . .

. . . her fingers t r a i l through the water. . . .

T he go ld f i sh gleam in the depths. . . .

E N N U I

G R E A T y e l l o w roses

hang heavi ly upon their stems

i n the sun-dappled shadowy arcades . . .

. . . pale princesses,

i n shimmering s i l k e n dresses

that brush the dew from the long tangled blades^

move past massed flower-beds,w i t h drooping heads

beneath their golden diadems . . .

past the great copper gates

the white road twines,

over grey cliffs half-hidden in w h i r l i n g surf,

through the wind-crushed turf ;

. . . and in the distance, where the water shines,

move many-coloured sails . . .

wide steps of marble,

where f a l l en leaves, l i k e tarnished metal, lie,

lead upward to the empty terraces,

where, under the cypresses,dark against the sky,

lonely white peacocks walk w i t h t r a i l i n g tails. . . .




SHORT REVIEWS

THE F ORT UNE . By G o l d r i n g . M a u n s e l land Co. 5s. net.

IT is usually presumed that a moral or p o l i t i c a lmotive is a detriment to a n o v e l , but here is

evidence that the question cannot be stated

i n such simple terms. Fo r M r . Goldring's book w o u l dbe c a l l e d definitely propagandi st; it is a pacifist

n o v e l ; and it is a novel w i t h b r i l l i a n t things and weak

things in it . But the weakest things are not the

propagandist things. G o l d r i n g has a definite point

of v i e w toward the war w h i c h is exposed in the

second part of the book, and probably his conviction

here gives him an interest in what he is doing w h i c hholds this par t of the book together. The first h a l fof the book is bor ing . It is a hasty biog raphy of a

young Pendennis from the time of leaving school up to

his establishment as a successful playwright at the

beginning of the wa r; it is chief ly a notebook of the

author' s own intellectual development and a catalogue of al l the shams he got t ired of between school

days and mat uri ty . It is not unintell igent , but it is

unimpor tant, and it is not literary art. James, the

hero, or rather the hero's hero (cf. George Warrington),

the strong c y n i c a l enemy of nonsense, is unfor

tunately also M r . Goldring's hero, and therefore rather

wooden. He is real o n l y as he is seem through the

eyes of the high l ife into w h i c h H a r o l d (the Pendennis,

the admirer of James) marries. Harold' s wife has a

friend, G w e n , who remarks of James:

There's no getting away from it that Murdoch is an out-and-

out bad man. . . . It is unfortunate that poor, dear Harold

should have fallen so completely under his domination. I

always thought there was something uncanny about it. . . .

It's my belief the man used hypnotic influence. . . .

James at once l i v e s , and he l i v e s also in the admiration

of H a r o l d . T h i s , and the character of Harold's w i fe ,are extremely w e l l done. There is a remarkably w e l l -

sustained chapter on Harold' s sensations and ideas

i n the trenches. But the most successful part of the

book is the presentation of the m i n d of E n g l i s hSociety in August 1914; a t e l l i n g and restrained satire.

V e r y often in the w r i t i n g there is a sentence too

much; but this is unquestionably a b r i l l i a n t n o v e l .

S U M M E R . B y E d i t h Wharton. M a c m i l l a n and Co.

6 s. net.E v e n Mrs . Whar ton 's parerga have importance,

a n d this parergon, a very brief n o v e l , offers interest

as a work in a curious k i n d of satire w h i c h Mrs.

Wharton has made her own; and just the k i n d of

satire, it may be remarked, that her literary training

a n d sympathies might have made most difficul t for her.

T h e book is, in fact—or should be—the death-blow

to a k i n d of novel w h i c h has flourished in New E n g land, the novel in w h i c h the w i n d whistles through

the stunted firs and over the granate boulders into the

white farmhouses where pale gaunt women sew rag

carpets. Mrs . Whart on does the trick by a deliberate

an d consistent realism, by refraining from the slightest

touch of irony, by suppressing al l evidence of European

culture. She even allows herself to be detected i n

just the slight smile of an inhabitant of Boston

(where the type of novel in question is read) at the

name of the Honorius Hatchard M e m o r i a l L i b r a r y ,1 8 3 8 , in the v i l l a g e of North Dormer . The young

m a n comes up from the c i t y (Springfield), Charity

gives him al l she has, and the young man returns to

marry Annabel B a l c h of S p r i n g f i e l d . The scene of

the county f a i r at Nett leton is one of unrelieved

horror. This novel w i l l certainly be considered

"disgus t ing" in A m e r i c a ; it is certain that not one

reader in a thousand w i l l apprehend the author's

point of v i e w . But it should add to Mrs. Wharton'sreputat ion as a novelist the dis tinc tion of being the

satirist's satirist.

ALFRED DE VIGNY ON T H E ART OF

T H E S T A G E

IT does not seem impossible that the none-too-

w e l l - k n o w n theories held by the poet A l f r e d

de V i g n y on dramatic art, though a century

o l d , w i l l be of interest to-day.

A l f r e d de V i g n y shares this peculiarity w i t h George

Bernard Shaw that he wrote prefaces to his plays no

less important and arresting than the plays that

c a l l e d for them. Bu t the difference dist inguishing

A l f r e d de V i g n y from Bernard Shaw distinguishes

also plays and prefaces.

T he preface to Chatterton is one of the finest pieces

of thinking and w r i t i n g in the w o r l d ; his " Reflexions

on truth in art," w h i c h prefaced Cinq-Mars; the

"Le t te r on a Dramatic System to L o r d —,"

prefacing his translation of Othello, w h i c h enlightens

o n errors of the past and warns against errors in the

future, probe as far as any dramatic c r i t i c i s m hasever done since. They should be univer sal ly f a m i l i a r .

When A l f r e d de V i g n y translated Othello the French

knew this masterpiece through the agency merely of

an emasculated translation in monotonous, rhymed

Alexandrines by a certain zealous Ducies who had

the impudence to omit Iago from the dramatis

personam" As w e l l omit the Serpent from the B o o kof Genesis," said V i g n y . This ridiculous expurgat ion

responded to a prevalent fear of marked characteriza

tion w h i c h expressed i t se l f in a taste for attenuation

and a singular prudishness w h i c h A l f r e d de V i g n yillustrates in his letter on a dramatic system by

various incredible instances. No one had dared

translate Shakespeare—for the French suspected himof a barbarous ruggedness v i o l a t i n g their laws of art

an d taste in the appropriate spirit " i n w h i c h each

character speaks according to his peculiar na ture ,

passing, in art as in l ife, from customary s i m p l i c i t yto impassioned exaltation, from récitatif to song,"

a nd w h i c h it is to A l f r e d de V i g n y ' s honour to have

introduced.

A l t h o u g h V i g n y ' s f a i t h f u l translation, so new to

the Par isians, was enthusiastica lly received by them,

the prudishness of w h i c h he complains, but w h i c hhe had thought nearly obsolete, suddenly revived on

hi s account so late as 1848 when the censor put an

abrupt end to a run of most successful performances

of his exquisite l i t t l e play Quitte pour la Peur, w h i c his of the f a m i l y of M a r i v a u x , Sheridan, and G o l d smith. The theme is no more scabrous than that

of Candida, but was pronounced a v i o l a t i o n of

morality by the Government authorities. This in

France, the home of Brantôme and L a c l o s .

A l f r e d de V i g n y did not, therefore, fo l l o w up his

intention never to use the theatre for the expression

of his own ideas, as he stated in the f o l l o w i n g preface.

Quitte pour la Peur, in its way, and Chatterton, in

another way, each express ideas.

Some slight omissions have been made from the

translation of the "Letter to L o r d —," passages

not of direct interest to the foreign reader, and whose

absence does not disturb the lines of the thesis

developed, w h i l e r e l i e v i n g it of weight unnecessary

here.

MURIEL CIOLKOWSKA

A L F R E D D E V I G N Y ' S L E T T E R TO L O R D —

O N TH E PERFORMANCE OF OCTOBER 24, 1829, AND ON

A DRAMATIC S YST EM

Y o u make a great mistake if you think that France

i s occupied w i t h me, she who to-day hardly remembers

Emperor Nicholas's conquest over the decrepit

Empire of the Turks, w h i c h conquest dates fromyesterday. I have had my evening, my dear L o r d

—, and that is al l. One evening decides the exist-




ence or the destruction of a tragedy, it is even, I

assure you , all its l i f e ; for if you examine the question

closely you w i l l find that one hour before it was

everything, one hour after, nothing. A n d this is the

reason:

A tragedy is a thought w h i c h is suddenly metamor

phosed into a machine; as compl icated a mechanism

as was the machine of M a r l y , of royal memory, ofw h i c h you have seen some beams floating on mud.

This mechanism is put into action at great expense

o f time, ideas, words, gestures, painted cardboard,

canvases, and embroidered draperies. A great m u l t i -tude comes to see it . Wh en the evening has arrived,

a button is pressed, and the machine works alone for

about four ho ur s: words fly, the gestures are made,

the cardboard works backwards and forwards, the

curtain goes up and down, the draperies are unfolded,

and i n al l this medley the ideas do thei r best; and

if , by great luck, nothing goes wrong, at the end of

four hours the same person presses the same button,

and the machinery stops. E v e r y one retires, al l is

said. The next day the multitude is exactly h a l f as

numerous and the machine begins to stiffen. A

l i t t l e wheel or a lever is changed, it rolls on a certain

number of times mo re ; after w h i c h f ri c t io n wears

out the parts, w h i c h become disjointed and creak in

the hinges. A f t e r a certain number of evenings more,

the machine having always declined in quality, and

the multitude in quantity, its action suddenly comes

to a stop.

That is more or less the fate of al l ideas reduced to

a dramatic mechanism, and usually named tragedies,

comedies, drama, opera, etc. etc., and there is not

a student in Paris but can t e l l you w i t h i n a couple

o f days how often this or that one can work consecut i v e l y ; this one a hundred times, it is, they say, the

maximum; the other si x ; this one more often, that

one less.

It cannot, therefore, be denied that to produce a

tragedy is nothing more than to prepare an evening,

and the true title is the date of the performance.

A c c o r d i n g to this theory, instead of As You Like It

as Shakespeare wrote, I , in his place, being embar

rassed for a title w o u l d have headed the play

"J an ua ry 6th, 1600." A n d as far as I personally

a m concerned, The Moor of Venice is called "October

24th, 1829."

To-day the noise is over , the fireworks are ex tin

guished. I won't hide from you that when this idea

struck me l i k e a flash of light I found the prepara tion

fo r this k i n d of evening "some what very l o n g , " as

our great Molière says so often. For instance, t o

arrange this 24th of October I had, to my great

regret, to leave off worki ng at a history, or the histo ry

(as you l i k e ) , after the manner of Cinq-Mars, w h i c h I

was occupied w i t h to amuse m y s e l f or, if I can,

amuse lit tle childr en. Thi s inte rrup tion was a sacri

fice. B u t it was necessary. I had something urgent

to t e l l the pub lic , and the machine I spoke to you

about is the quickes t agent. It is, really, an excellent

method for addressing some three thousand persons

assembled together witho ut their being able in an yw a y to avoid hearing what one has to say. A reader

disposes of all kinds of reasons for defending himself

against us ; he can, for instance, throw his book into

the fire or out of the window: there is no known

repression against the expression of indignation, but

w i t h the spectator one is muc h st ronger : once in he

is caught as in a trap and he w i l l find it d i f f i c u l t to

make an exi t if his neighbours are ill-tempe red, and

noise is found disturbing . There are seats where he

cannot even reach his handkerchief. In this state of

contradiction and suffocation he must listen . Wh en

the evening is over three thousand intelligences have

been filled w i t h your ideas. Is not that a marvellous

invention?

N o w this is the sum of what I had to say to these

intelligences on the 24th of October, 1829:

" A simple question waits for a solu tion . Here it

i s. Is the French stage open to a modern tragedy

producing: in its conception, a broad v i e w of l i f e ,instead of the nar row pictu re of a plot : in its composi

t i o n , characters instead of parts, calm scenes without

drama, mingled w i t h comic and tragic scenes : in its

execution, a f a m i l i a r style, comic, tragic , and some

times epic?" T o solve this threefold query an invented tragedy

w o u l d not answer the purpose because, at a first

performance, the publ ic, concen trating its att ention

o n the plot, progresses b l i n d l y and, being ignorant of

its general scheme, f a i l s to understand the reason for

the variations of style.

" A novel theme has not the authority requisite to

concentrate execution equally new, and necessarily

succumbs under double censure; wor thy attempts

have proved it.

" A new work only shows that I have invented

either a good or a bad tragedy ; but disputes are

bound to arise on the point as to whether it is a

satisfactory example of the system to be established,

and these disputes w o u l d be interminable for us, the

o n l y arbiter being posterity.

"P os te ri ty havi ng pronounced at Shakespeare's

death the words w h i c h make the great man ; there

fore, one of his works constructed on the system in

w h i c h , I believe, is the on ly satisfactory example.

" B e i n g , this first time, only preoccupied w i t h the

question of style I chose a work consecrated by

several centuries and all nations.

" I submit it , not as a model for our time, but as

the demonstration of a foreign monument, erected

b y the most powerful hand that ever wrote for the

stage, and according to the system I consider suit edto our period, exempt ing the differences the progress

i n the general mind have introduced in philosophy

and science, in a few stage customs and in chastity

o f speech.

" L i s t e n , this night, to the language w h i c h I think

should be that of modern tragedy in w h i c h each charac

ter speaks according to his peculia r nature, passing, in

art as in l i f e , from customary s i m p l i c i t y to impas

sioned exa lt ati on; from récitatif to song."

Such was the object of this, on my part and in

spite of its success, entirely disinterested ente rpri se;

fo r it is possible that, after havi ng touched, trie d and

examined, that hundred-voiced instrument called the

theatre w i t h a Shakespeare prelude, I shal l never use

i t for the expression of my own ideas. Dramat ic art

is too active not to disturb the poet's meditations;

apart from that it is the narrowest of ar ts ; bound in

the scope of its philosophic possibilities owing to the

impatience of the audience and the restrictions of

time, it is l i m i t e d by all kinds of impediments. The

heaviest are those of dramatic censure w h i c h always

prevents the sounding of the characters on whom the

whole of modern c i v i l i z a t i o n rests—the priest and the

k i n g : these may only be sketched in, w h i c h is

unwor thy of every serious man feeling the need

to fathom to its very foundations everything heapproaches. I do not take into account the innumer

able and obscure resistances w h i c h must be overcome

when but a transitory result is desired. Th is modest

translation of mine, which was announced as such,

an d is as inoffensive as are al l my wr iti ngs , has been

tried by so many obstacles and of such unexpected

ness, that I s t i l l ask m y s e l f through what miracle it

has obtained success. A n d yet the evening of the 24th

o f October consecrated it. The fact that a dozen

more such f o l l o w e d it , that there are others to come,

is of lit tle consequence; from what I have t o l d you

those are supp lementary evenings. Since the success

o f a tragedy assumes the shape of a mermaid, desinit

in piscem mulier formosa superne, that its fish's t a i lbegins to lessen from the waist downwards, or above,

o r below, the difference is im ma te ri al ; the question



1 2THE EGOIST January 1918

is, will it continue to s w i m and if, having dived, as is

the custom, it will reappear o n the surface. As this

belongs to the future, and o n l y affects m y s e l f and

about it general gestion, I have nothing to say

L e t us speak about the p u b l i c .L e t us, for once, do justice to it, for it has eloquently

manifested that it desired to hear and see that truth

for w h i c h al l strong men fight in all arts to-day. I

do not know who is the public unless it is the majority,

a n d it wants what we want. Something t o l d me its

hour had come, and I have long been waiting to hear

i t r i n g . Routine has withdrawn i t s e l f a hundred

times, that routine w h i c h is an e v i l often a f f l i c t i n gour country, and w h i c h is opposed to art w h i c hdepends on movement w h i l e routine depends on

i m m o b i l i t y . There is no country where there are

more people in literature and the arts nailed to the

same spot than in ours, w h i c h yo u think so mobile.

[The actual word in the French text is légers.] Yes,

great France is sometimes neglectful and in all things

slumbers oft; that is a good thing for the world'srepose for, when she awakens, she invades or fires it

w i t h her l ight; but the remainder of the time she

too often receives p o l i t i c a l direction from the most

incapable, an d intellectual direction from the most

ordinary. Now and again the healthy and active

majority of the public feels the necessity to march

forward, and claims men ready to advance; but

nearly always a crowd of crippled, l a z y minds holding

hands form a chain w h i c h impedes and envelops i t ;

the ir soporific galvanism extends, stupefying it, so itlies down w i t h them and f a l l s asleep for a long time.

These invalids (good people nevertheless) l i k e to hear

to-day what they heard yesterday: the same ideas,

expressions, sounds; every novelty seems ridiculous

to th em; everything uncustomary barbarous; tout

leur est aquilon ["everything is hurricane to them," a

quotation from La Fontaine]. B e i n g debilitatedand

delicate, being accustomed to gentle, lukewarm

draughts, they cannot endure generous wines; it is

these I have endeavoured to cure, for their palor and

feebleness excites my compassion. Sometimes I have

hurt them to the point of making them scream; but,

owing to some calming potions specially designed for

them, they are now in much better health; I w i l l

occasionally keep yo u informed as to their condition.

L e t us forsake the puerile question of the per

formances about w h i c h I spoke to you l i g h t l y as atopic of light significance. We may sometimes smile

i n speaking about men, but we must never do sowhen dealing w i t h ideas. We w i l l speak about

systems in general and, in particular, about the

system of dramatic reform.

It is inconceivable how, through the misrepresenta

tion of words, this word-system is misinterpreted.

System means, by its root and if my memory in

Greek does not deceive me, order, the connexion of

principles an d consequences forming a doctrine ordogma. An y man who has ideas and does not

connect them into a system of unity is an incomplete

m a n ; his production w i l l be vague; if he brings

forth anything acceptable it w i l l be due to chancea n d as it were, by fits and starts; his advance w i l l

be testy as though in a fog. Observe, on the other

hand, how a new thought w h i c h has germinated in awell-organized brain w i l l m u l t i p l y and become co

ordinated in the most admirable fashion and in asingle moment, the heat and continuous activityof

a powerful m i n d causing it to ripen rapidly; being

b o l d l y fecundated it gives birth, in its turn, to

uninterrupted generation of thoughts resembling it

a n d entirely depending from it . Involuntary as is

the poet's inspiration, it w i l l often carry him along,

unknown to him and without his realizing it, in a

succession of ideas forming an unbroken system, aperfect co-ordination, without w h i c h he w o u l d be

nothing, he w o u l d not even be . Therefore I think

that such a m an, who may appear quite instinctive

to you andunable to write a theory on hisown works,

so soon as the intoxication of enthusiasm has passed

— a man who might swear he had no system—is

more dependent on system than any other man,precisely because he does not know himself, has notanalysed the system carrying him along, and is notfree to destroy it to construct a second superior tothe first.

T he history of the w o r l d is but that of several

systems in action, and each of these systems being

reduced to its primary thought, the history i t s e l fmight be reduced to a score of ideas at most. No ta great man , be he man of action or of intellect, buthas founded and carried out a system; w i t h this

difference, that the man of intellect is far superior

to the other in so far that he l i v e s w i t h his ideas, rules

w i t h his ideas, and exposes them unadorned, pure ofcontact w i t h l i fe , free from its accidents, and indebted

to them for nothing; w h i l e the other, soldier orlegislator, being thrown into an ocean of c i r c u m -

stances, thrust here by one wave, there by another,carried along by a current w h i c h he w o u l d turn tohi s advantage, changes his course twenty times,

forgetting the principle he wanted to bring to light,

a n d often s a c r i f i c i n g convictions to fortune.

T he word being thus justified, let us return for itsapplication to the two dramatic systems occupying

certain minds, the one by its agony, the other by itsbirth.

I w o u l d f o l l o w the order established above andspeak first and foremost of the composition of works.

Thanks be to Heaven the old tripod of the unities

o n w h i c h Melpomene used to sit, w i t h l i t t l e ease

sometimes, preserves but the one s o l i d basis of w h i c hi t cannot be deprived: unity of interest in thedevelopment. [The French classical theory exacted

that a play should f o l l o w sequence of time andplace: one plot, one place, one period ; this obser

vance was c a l l e d " the three unities."] One smiles

w i t h pity in reading from one of our authors: " T h espectator remains but three hours at the play; theplot must therefore not last more than three hours."

Y o u might as w e l l say: The reader reads such apoem or novel in four hours; the plot must, therefore,

not last more than four hours. This sentence sums

up all the errors that are due to the foregoing one.B u t it does not suffice to have freed oneself from these

heavy impedimenta; the narrow spirit w h i c h engendered them must also be effaced.

Consider, first and foremost, that in the system

w h i c h has just died out every tragedy was a catas

trophe and the solution of a situation w h i c h wasalready ripe at the raising of the curtain, holding o n l yb y a thread and ready to drop. To this is due themistake in French tragedy w h i c h strikes you and al lforeigners : this parsimony in scenes and develop

ments, the false delays, and then the haste to finishmingled w i t h the fear, making i t s e l f nearly everywhere

felt, that there w i l l not be enough material to goround the five acts. Far from diminishing my esteem

fo r the men who have adhered to this system, this

consideration increases it, for each tragedy requireda prodigious turn of hand and much ruse to hide thepoverty to w h i c h the author was condemned; it wasl i k e trying to rise and to stretch the last rag of anotherwise lost and wasted purple for covering.

T he dramatic poet of the future w i l l not proceed

thus. First, he w i l l take an ample handful of time

a n d whole l i v e s w i l l be enacted therein; he w i l l

create man not as a species but as an i n d i v i d u a l ,w h i c h is the o n l y way of interesting humanity; hew i l l let his creatures lead their own l i v e s an d w i l l

o n l y throw into their hearts such germs of passion asprepare great events ; then, when the hour w i l l have

rung, and o n l y then, and without one's feeling that

hi s finger has hastened it, he w i l l show fate knotting

inextricable and innumerable knots around its v i c t i m s .




Then, far from finding his characters too s m a l l for

their space he w i l l groan, and cry out that they lack

air and spac e; for art s ha l l be quite s i m i l a r to l i fe ,

and in life a man's action in volve s a w h i r l of necessary

and innumerable events. The n the autho r s h a l l find

i n his characters a sufficient num ber of heads to

propagate al l his ideas, enough of hearts to beat

under al l his sentiments, and his soul w i l l make i t s e l f

apparent in every part of his work. Mens agitat

molem.

I am just : everything was harmon ious enough in

the late system of tra ged y; but everythin g was

equally in agreement in the feudal and theocratic

system and yet it is no more. To carry out a long

catastrophe w h i c h had body o n l y because it was

swollen, parts had to be substituted for character;

abstractions of passion personified took the place of

m e n ; now nature has never produced a f a m i l y of

men, an entire house in the sense of the ancients

(domus) where father and sons, masters and servants

were equally sensible to, and moved to an equivalent

degree by the same event, t hrowing themselves i ntoi t wholeheartedly, taking seriously and in good faith

the most obvious surprises and p i t f a l l s , experiencing

solemn satisfaction, pain or indignation; preserving

the one sentiment w h i c h animated them at the first

phase of the event u n t i l its c l i m a x , occupied w i t h but

one business, that of beginning a plot and delaying it

without ceasing to speak about it.

Thus in tales leading nowhere, w i t h characters

going nowhere, speaking of l i t tl e w i t h no definite

ideas and vague terms, somewhat agitated by m i t i gated sentiments, ca l m passions, and gradually

attaining a graceful death or a false sigh.

O v a i n phantasmago ria! Shadows of men in the

shadow of natur e! Em pt y ki ngdo ms ! . . . Inania

regna!

A n d it c o u l d o n l y be w i t h the force of their genius

or sk i l l that the greatest of each per iod have succeeded

i n throwing some light on this shade, in defining a

few beautiful forms in this chao s; the ir works were

magnificent exceptions, they were mistaken for the

rule. The remainder have f a l l en into the common

ditch of this wrong road.

It is, however, not impossible that there s t i l l are

men able to speak this language w e l l . In the fifteenth

century discourses were written in L a t i n w h i c h were

h i g h l y estimated.

F o r my part I believe it w o u l d not be dif f icul t toprove that the power w h i c h retained us so long in

this w o r l d of convention, that the muse of this

inferior art was the muse of Pol iteness. Yes, it was

certainly she. She alone was empowered to banish

at the same time true as w e l l as coarse characters,

simple as w e l l as t r i v i a l language, the ideality of

philosophy and the passions as extravagance, and

poetry as incongruity.

Politeness, though a c h i l d of the courts, was and

ever w i l l be l ev e l l in g , it effaces and smoothes down

everything; its motto is "neither too high nor too

l o w . " It does not hear Nature c r y i n g from every

where to genius as did Ma cb et h : "Co m e high or

l o w ! "M a n is exal ted or sim pl e; otherwise he is false.

T he poet of the future w i l l realize, therefore, that to

show man as he is is sure to move. V e r i l y I have no

need to seize at once the always foreseen thread of

the plot, to take an interest in a truthfully drawn

charac ter; I am already mo ved by the image of any

of God's creatures. An d this because it is, because

I recognize it by its walk, its language, its manner,

for a l i v i n g being thrown into this w o r l d as I have

been, as food for fat e; but this being must be, or I

break w i t h hi m. Le t hi m not try to appear what the

nurse of politeness in her falsely noble i d i o m calls a

"h er o ." Let hi m not try to be more than a manfo r otherwise he w i l l be far le ss; let hi m act according

to the mortal heart and not according to the imagined

representation of an i l l - i m a g i n e d character, for it is

then that the poet truly deserves the name of "phan

tom imitator whom Plato w o u l d expel from his

R e p u b l i c . "

It is, especia lly, in the details of style that yo u w i l l

be able to judge the man ner of the pol ite school we

f ind so completely d u l l to-day. I do not think a

foreigner can even understand the degree of artifice

att ained by certa in of our versificators for the stage—I cannot c a l l them poets. To give yo u an instance

in a hundred thousand, when one wanted to say spy,

one said, l i k e D u c i s : "Those mortals whose vigilance

the State rewards."

Y o u realize that no thing but extreme politeness

towards the corporation of spies c o u l d have given

birth to so elegant a periphrase, and that all such

mortals who, peradventure, happened to be in the

audience, must necessarily have felt much obliged.

A natural style, moreover, for you do not easily

conceive that a k i n g , instead of saying s i m p l y to the

ch i e f of p o l i c e : "Se n d a hundred spies to the

frontier" should say: " M y L o r d , send a hundredmortals whose vigilance is rewarded by the State."

Th at is noble, polite, and harmonious.

M a n y authors and mostly s k i l f u l ones—the one

whom I have quoted was so—have been carr ied along

by this desire to attain what is c a l l e d harmony,

seduced by the example of a great master who o n l ydealt w i t h classical themes where the L a t i n and

Greek phrase was suitable . Through the desire to

preserve they have debased, obliged, as they were,

by the changes w h i c h carried them along in spite of

themselves to deal w i t h modern subjects, they have

used language imitated from the classical (and not

even purely classical); thence has emanated this

style in w h i c h each word is an anachronism, where

Chinese, Turks, and Red Indians speak in classical

circumlocution.

T he har mo ny sought for is applicable , I should

think, to poetry rather tha n to drama. The l y r i c a lpoet may chant his lines, I believe even he ought to

do so, carried away as he is by his inspiration . To

hi m may be applied this dictum:

Poetry by lyre bred,

Should be sung and not read.

B u t a drama w i l l never show anything but a

number of characters grouped together to discuss

their affai rs; the y should, therefore, speak. Thesimple, open récitatif of w h i c h Molière is the leading

example in our language, should be written for i t ;

when passion or g r i e f s ha l l animate their hearts then

le t the lines rise for a moment to the sublime move

ments of sentiment w h i c h seem l i k e a song w h i l eraising the soul in us!

H a s not each man in his habit ual speech, pet terms,

customary words w h i c h are due to his education, his

profession, his tastes, learnt at home an d inspired by

hi s natural preferences or aversions, by his nature,

be it sour, choleric, or nervous, dictated by a c o ld or

passionate temper, a calculat ing or a candid he art ?

Does he not make favourite comparisons and w o u l d

not a friend recognize hi m by his vocabulary, by theturn of his phrase, without even hearing his voice?

M u s t each character use the same words, the same

metaphors as the res t? No , he must be concise or

diffuse, neglectful or on his guard, prodigal or

avaricious of epithe t according to his nature, his age,

hi s inclinations. Molière never f a i l ed to put those

firm, frank touches w h i c h are taught by close observa

tion ; and Shakespeare does not emit a proverb or

an oath with out reason. Bu t neither of these great

men c o u l d have framed true language in the epic

metre of our tragedies; or, had they, for their mis

fortune, adopted it, they w o u l d have had to disguise

the word under a cloak of périphrase or the mask ofthe classical term. It is a c i r c l e whence no power

c o u l d have extricated the m. . . .




Can you believe, you English, you who know whatwords are used in Shakespeare, that the muse ofFrench tragedy took ninety years to make up her

mind to say out loud " a pocket-handkerchief," she

who said "dog" and "sponge" quite openly? Thestages through w h i c h she passed, w i t h 'amusing

prudishness and embarrassment, are as fo l lows:

I n the year 1732 Melpomene, at the marriagecelebrations of a virtuous T u r k i s h lady . , . needing

her pocket-handkerchief, but not daring to p u l l it out

of the pocket of her paniers, drew out a letter instead.

In 1792, Melpomene again needed this same hand

kerchief for the hymen of a Venetian. . . . This

time, now thirty-seven years ago, Melpomene was on

the point of taki ng this handk erchief; but. either

because in those days it was s t i l l too daring to appear

w i t h a handkerchief, or that more luxury was exacted,

she did not hesitate, but put a tiara of diamonds on

her head w h i c h she even kept on in bed for fear of

appearing in too marked négligé.

I n 1820, French tragedy, at last frankly g i v i n g

up its nickname Melpomene, trans lat ing from theGerman, had again to deal w i t h a handkerchief over

the w i l l of a certain Queen of Scotland ; she was

actually brave enough to p u l l it forth, h o l d it in her

hand before every one, frown and c a l l it out l o u d :

" w e b " and "gift." This meant a great stepforward.

A t last, in 1829, thanks to Shakespeare, the big

word has been uttered, to the terror and fainting of

the feeble who threw forth long and dolorous cries of

protest, but to the grat ifica tion of the public who,

taken on the whole, are accustomed to c a l l a hand

kerchief a handkerchief. The word has made its

en tr y: absurd triump h. W i l l all genuine words

want a century each to find their way to the stage?

A t last this prudishness provokes laughter. Thank s

be to God , the poet w i l l be able to fo l low his inspira

tion as freely as in prose, and run over the whole

scale of his ideas without fearing to feel the steps

give way under him. We are not fortunate enough

to be able to mingle prose w i t h blank and rhymed

verse; you in England may play on these three

octaves and obtain a harmony w h i c h cannot be

procured in Fr ench . To translate it , it was necessary

to distend the Alexandrine to the most f a m i l i a rnegligence (récitatif), and then raise it to the highest

l y r i c i s m (song); it is this I have attempted. Prose

when rendering epic passages has the great fault—apparent especially on the stage—of appearing

inflated, stiff, and melodramatic, wh i l e verse, being

more elastic, adapts i t s e l f to all forms : when it takes

w i n g it does not surpr ise ; for when it walks one

realizes it can also fly.

Y o u are a l i t t l e younger than I and far more

t i m i d . Do not be more particular about what you

c a l l my name than I am myself. I am not ashamed

to have made this translation though I suffered

somewhat from the l i m i t s I had imposed upon

myself: after al l, if the work l i v e s it means one

more diamond in the F rench treasure, a rough

diamond, if you w i l l , but having its price, were it

o n l y for having given us a portrait of Iago, the Iagowh o had been removed from betwixt Othello and

Desdemona. Just as w e l l take the Serpent out of

the B o o k of Genesis.

O ur period is one of, at once, renascence and

rehabilitation; I do not contend that the new law

s h a l l not perish; it w i l l pass away w i t h us, perhaps

before us, and w i l l be replaced by one better; it must

suffice for the name of one man to mark one step in

progress. As c i v i l i z a t i o n advances so one must

resign oneself to see ideas one sows, l i k e fertile seeds,

grow, ripen, wither, and f a l l to leave room for a new,

more abundant, and sturdier harvest under the very

eyes of the first husbandman. This philosophic

disinterestedness has, unfortunately, f a i l e d many of

those who remain to us of the two generations pre

ceding ours ; as though desirous of g i v i n g reality to

the infamous saying of one of our writers, they have

wished to answer their sons as though they were their

enemies, and their grandsons as the enemies of their

sons. . . .

What has happened? The young men have risen

up against their unjust forerunners, they have counted

the white hairs on the heads of the aged, and, in theirimpatience, have drawn up mortuary tables to com

fort one another by impious hope. I have groaned

over this cruel ty; but why were they per sec uted!

Were they responsible for the law w h i c h drives them

on w i t h the rest of humanity?

F a r from wishing to destroy great reputations I

say one must be grateful to each for his work in relation

to his time; the best proof I can give is this ungrati-

f y i n g labour of mine, new homage to an old not o n l yEuropean but universal name, for, wh i l e the Moor of

Venice was being played in Paris, it was being given

at the same time in L o n d o n , in V i e n n a , and in the

U n i t e d States. When you take a wrong turning you

are obliged to retrace your steps to j o i n the right

one. Tragedy comprised o n l y "polite" verse, sub

ject moreover to the anachronisms of w h i c h I have

spoken to you. To arm Shakespeare worthily I have

been obliged to take from our arsenal the rusty

weapon of our old French poets. C o r n e i l l e , the

immortal Co r n e i l l e , ha d given the C id Othello' s true

modern sword whose Spanish blade had been dipped

i n Ebro 's temper. Consult Shakespeare, why di d he

use it but for one day?

This time I have achieved nothing more than a

work of f o r m . The instrument (style) had to be

remade and tried on the public before attempting a

tune of one's own invention. Ha d I known a storymore f a m i l i a r , more often read, represented, sung,

danced, more expurgated, more embellished, more

spoilt than the Moor of Venice, I should have chosen

i t purposely so that the attention be drawn to a

single point, the execution.

Y o u , my L o r d , must abstain from reading my

translation for you w i l l find it as imperfect as I do

myself. For I must add this truth that there is

not in the w o r l d a single good translation for any one

acquainted w i t h the o r i g i n a l , if by this word is

understood the l i t e r a l rendering of each word, each

verse, each phrase, in words, verse, and phrases of

another language. A translation is intended to

appeal solely to those who do not know the mothertongue: a fact critics lose sight of too often. If the

translator were not an interpreter he w o u l d be

useless. A translation is to the o r i g i n a l what a

portrait is to nature. A nd what young man being

enabled to see his mistress herself w o u l d glance at

the image of her? But in absence or death the

picture satisfied. Here it is the same. V a i n l y you

may repeat the same song in your tongue, it is

another inst rument ; it has, therefore, another sound

and another touch, other modulations, other har

monies, w h i c h must be used to render, to naturalize

the foreign tu ne ; but one thi ng w i l l be always

missing: the intimate union between a man's thought

and his mother tongue.I have, therefore, endeavoured to render the spirit

rather than the text. E v e r y one di d not grasp t hi s ;

I had foreseen as much; for those who are ignorant

of E n g l i s h I have been too l i t e r a l ; for others, those

wh o do not know it, I have not been l i t e r a l enough.

So this bronze cast after the great Othello has just

been squeezed, beaten, and twi sted by the critics

betwixt the E n g l i s h a n v i l and the French hammer.

I n book form the Moor w i l l , no doubt, be attacked,

but : parve sine me, liber, ibis in urbem. I s h a l l not

know better than you. F r o m here and there I am

t o l d that a pamphleteer has scr ibbled, a buffoon has

sung, or some incurable censor has perorated against

me . They do not trouble me par ticu larly and I

know not what they do or who they are.




I have here o n l y given you an aspect of this li terary

attempt. The whole system is better explained by

words than by theories. In poetry, philosophy,

action, what is system, manner, characteristic, tone,

or st yle? These questions are o n l y solved by one

word, and this word a name. E a c h one's brain is a

mould moulding a mass of ideas. When death has

broken the mould, do not attempt to recompose a

s i m i l a r aggregate. It is destroyed for ever.A n imitator of Shakespeare w o u l d be as a r t i f i c i a l

i n our times as those who imitate Athalie.

A g a i n , let it be said, we advance and though

Shakespeare has perhaps at tained the highest degree

attainable by modern tragedy, he attained it according

to his pe ri od ; the poet and moralist are as perfect

as ever, since inspiration does not progress, and

i n d i v i d u a l nature does not change; but divine or

human philosophy must correspond to the needs of

the society among w h i c h the poet l i ve s , and society

changes.

Nowadays the movement is so rapid that a man of

thirty has seen two contrary centuries each of tenyears, the one all of extreme action and warfare,

conquering, rude, strong, and glorious, but without

l i fe , and as it were frozen interiorly , almost w h o l l ydeficient in progress and poetry, philosophy and the

arts, or o n l y showing a movement of transi tion ; the

other, immobile and ex teriorly languishing, of unde-

cided and l i m i t e d ac ti on; without resolution, without

b r i l l i a n c y of deeds, but agitated, int eriorly devoured

by a prodigious intel lectua l labour, and fermentation

without example in history and dissembling a g l o w i n gfurnace, recasting, elaborating, founding, and co-

ordinating all thought, in all its forms, moulds, and

diverse orders ; the one al l body, the other all spi rit .

Such a double spectacle must give birth to a newrace of ideas. Who can be surprised at al l that is

achieved unless he be, l i k e Jerusalem, without eyes

to see? A p p l y i n g this o n l y to dramatic art I fancy

that in the future this art w i l l be more than ever

di f f icul t in France, precisely because it is freed from

the heaviest rules. Formerl y there was some merit

i n having produced something in spite of them and

to have fo l lowe d them might bring fame. Bu t

henceforth created tragedy wil l be considered from

another point of v i e w ; she w i l l need the more natural

beauties since she w i l l possess less conventional

ones. . . .

L i b e r t y , y i e l d i n g everything at once, i n f in i t e lymultiplies the diff icu l t ies of selection and removes ail

supports. It is perhaps for this reason that since

Shakespeare Engla nd counts but a very s m a l l number

of tragedies and not one drama worthy of that great

man's system, w h i l e we possess a great number of

secondary authors who have produced their theatre, a

respectable co l l e c t ion on the Racinean model.

I have insisted on thi s remark because I foresee

that when the examples come, the critics w i l l , at the

performance, arm themselves w i t h them, and their

fate to combat the entire rules and system, without

considering the new diff icu l t ies and much vaster scale

b y w h i c h future works w i l l be gauged. Fo r indeed,

to al l Shakespeare's poetry and gifts of observationmust be added the sum or flower of contemporary

philosophy and science. The attempts w i l l be

numerous and courageous and w i l l not carry shame,

fo r in this new w o r l d , author and publi c must educate

each other anew. I hope that, after a ll I have t o l dyou, you w i l l not again reproach me and my friends

w i t h too ardent zeal after innovat ion.

D o you remember that big old c lock I used often

to show you? If so let it serve to express m y

thought, for it is to me the exact image of society at

a l l times.

Its face, w i t h its column l i k e Roman figures, is

scoured by three hands. The one: large, broad,

powerful, the colour of w h i c h is l i k e that of a lance

and the shape l i k e a sheaf of weapons, advances so

s l o w l y that its movement might be denied ; the most

acute and steady and persevering eye cannot discern

any motion from i t ; one w o u l d think it seated,

incrustated, riveted to its place for al l eternity, and

yet at the end of an hour it has travelled round the

twelfth part of the face. Does not this hand seem

to represent the people whose progress is accompl ished

without revolution, steadily but imperceptibly?

T he other hand, more rapid, advances quietly

enough for its movement to be discernible without

extraordinary at tent ion; this one makes the same

journey in five minutes that the other makes in an

hour and gives the exact proportion of the progress

of the enlightened over and beyond the crowd

f o l l o w i n g them.

B u t above these two hands is another far more

agile whose progress is f o l l o w e d w i t h d i f f i c u l t y ; it

has covered sixty times the space before the second

has walked and the third dragged i t se l f to it.

I have never considered this hand indicating the

seconds, this arrow so swift, anxious, b o l d , andquivering, thrusting i tself forward as though conscious

of its audacity, as though taking pleasure in its

conquest over time, never have I looked at i t without

thinking that the poet always has had and must thus

promptly anticipate the centuries and the general

spirit of his nature, beyond even its most enlightened

section.

A n d the heavy pendulum governing them by its

unchanging motion, does it not represent the perfect

symbol of the i n f l e x ib le law of progress whose advance

carries away w i t h it the three degrees of the human

m i n d w h i c h are indifferent to it and o n l y serve, after

a l l , to mark successively its step towards an, alas,

unknown goal?November 1, 1829. A L F R E D D E V I G N Y

CORRESPONDENCEB A L M O N T

To the Editor of T H E EGOIST

M A D A M ,— O n the point on which I have been "pulled up,"

I am informed that Mme. de Holste in and M. René Gh i l

preceded the translator mentioned by Mr. Montagu Natha n,

for they published extracts from his works in Les Ecrits pour l' Art

as far back as 1905. Th e following year they were asked to

translate al l Balmont's poetic works for La Toison d'Or, a

publication appearing in Fre nch and Russian at Moscow.

Subsequently Mr . Balmont authorized these collaborators to

publish an anthology not of various Russian poets, such as

Sir. Chuzeville'S, in whic h Mr . Bal mon t only figures in the

number, but of his own works exclusively. This remains the

first and only French edition of poems by Balmont. The

earliest translator of certain extracts was, it is supposed, Mme.

Raix-Savitzy. But this is a point not entirely clear. Th e

other is. " Y O U R CORRESPONDENT."

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1 6

THE EGOIST January 1918

PRUFROCKB y T. S. E L I O T

W E S T M I N S T E R G A Z E T T E :

A poet who finds even poetry laughable, who views life with a dry

cool derision a nd comments on it with the tru e disengagement of

wit. He is not like an y other poet, not even the Imagists whom he

seems at first sight to f o l l o w — H e writes in an apparent vers libre

which has a decidedly rhy thmica l effect; his ha ndlin g of languageis pointed and often brilliant.

N E W S T A T E S M A N :

M r . Eliot may possibly give us the quintessence of twenty-first

century poetry. Much of what he writes is unrecognizable as poetry

at present, but it is al l decidedly amusing. . . . He has a keen eye

as well as a shar p pen an d draws wittil y whatever his capricious

glance descends upon.

D A I L Y N E W S :

A witty an d dissatisfying book of verse . . . which flourishes man y

images that are quite startling in their originality.

S O U T H P O R T G U A R D I A N :

O n e of the moderns ; an imagist ; an impressionist. . . . Inevitably

as impressions these poems are very un equal. Some are strangely

vivid.

L I T E R A R Y W O R L D :

T h e subjects of the poems, the imagery , the rhythms, have the

wilful outlandishness of the youn g revolutionar y idea. . . . With

h i m it seems to be a case of missing the effort by too much clever

ness . . . the strangeness overbalances the beauty.

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