No More Learning

We have ceased to believe that we conquer an)rthing by having Alexander the Great make a gigantic "joy- ride"throughIndia. Weknowthatconquestsaremade in the laboratory, that Curie with his minute fragments of things seen clearly in test tubes in curious apparatus, makes conquests. So, too, in these novels, the essential qualities which make up the national qualities, are found and set working, the fundamental oppositions ttiade clear. This is no contemptible labor. No other writer had so essayed three great nations or even thought of attempt- ing it.
Peacecomesofcommunication. Nomanofourtime has so labored to create means of communication as did the late Henry James. The whole of great art is a strug-
? HENRY JAMES iii
gle for communication. All things that oppose this are evil, whether they be silly scoffing or obstructive tariffs.
And this communication is not a leveling, it is not an elimination of differences. It is a recognition of differ- ences, of the right of differences to exist, of interest in finding things different. Kultur is an abomination phi-
;
lology is an abomination, all repressive uniforming edu- cation is an evil.
A SHAKE DOWN
I have forgotten the moment of lunar imbecility in which I 'conceived the idea of a "Henry James" num- ber. * Thepileoftypescriptonmyfloorcanbutannoy- ingly and too palpably testify that the madness has raged for some weeks.
Henry James was aware of the spherical form of the planet, and susceptible to a given situation, and to the tone and tonality of persons as perhaps no other author in all literature. The victim and the votary of the "scene," he had no very great narrative sense, or at the least, he attained the narrative faculty but per aspera, through very great striving.
It is impossible to speak accurately of "his style," for he passed through several styles which differ greatly one from another; but in his last, his most complicated and elaborate, he is capable of great concision; and if, in it, the single sentence is apt to turn and perform evolutions for almost pages at a time, he nevertheless manages to say on one page more than many a more "direct" author would convey only in the course of a chapter.
*Little Review, Aug. , 1918.
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His plots and incidents are often btit adumbrations or symbols of the quality of his "people," illustrations invented, contrived, often factitiously and almost trans- parently, to show what acts, what situations, what con-
tingencieswouldbefitordisplaycertaincharacters. We are hardly asked to accept them as happening.
He did not begin his career with any theory of art for art's sake, and a lack of this theory may have dam- aged his earlier work.
If we take "French Poets and Novelists" as indication of his then (1878) opinions, and novels of the nineties showing a later bias, we might contend that our sub- ject began his career with a desire to square all things to the ethical standards of a Salem mid-week Unitarian prayer meeting, and that to almost the end of his course he greatly desired to fit the world into the social exigen- cies of Mrs. Humphry Ward's characters.
Out of the unfortunate cobwebs he emerged into his greatness, I think, by two causes : first by reason of his hatred of personal intimate tyrannies working at close range ; and secondly, in later life, because the actual mechanism of his scriptorial processes became so bulky, became so huge a contrivance for record and depiction, that the old man simply couldn't remember or keep his mind on or animadvert on anything but the attthenticity of his impression.
I take it as the supreme reward for an artist; the supreme return that his artistic conscience can make him after years spent in its service, that the momentum of his art, the sheer bulk of his processes, the (si licet) size of his fly-wheel, should heave him out of himself, out of his personal limitations, out of the tangles of heredity and of environment, out of the bias of early training, of early predilections, whether of Florence,
? HENRY JAMES 113
A. D. 1300, or of Back Bay of 1872, and leave him simply the great true recorder.
And this reward came to Henry James in the ripeness of his talents; even further perhaps it entered his life and his conversation. The stages of his emergence are marked quite clearly in his work. He displays himself in French Poets and Novelists, constantly balancing over the question of whether or no the characters presented in their works are, or are not, fit persons to be received in the James family back-parlor.
In The Tragic Muse he is still didactic quite openly. The things he believes still leap out nakedly among the people and things he is portraying; the parable is not yet wholly incarnate in the narrative.
To lay all his faults on the table, we may begin with his self-confessed limitation, that "he never went down town," He displayed in fact a passion for high life comparable only to that supposed to inhere in the read- ers of a magazine called Forget-me-not.
Hardy, with his eye on the Greek tragedians, has pro- duced an epic tonality, and The Mayor of Casterbridge is perhaps more easily comparable to the Grettir Saga than to the novels of Mr. Hardy's contemporaries. Hardy is, on his other side, a contemporary of Sir Wal- ter Scott.
Balzac gains what force his crude writing permits him by representing his people under the avayKti of modernity, cash necessity James, by leaving cash neces-
;
sity nearly always out of the story, sacrifices, or rather fails to attain, certain intensities.
He never manages the classic, I mean as Flaubert gives us in each main character: Everyman. One may con- ceivably be bored by certain pages in Flaubert, but one takes from him a solid and concrete memory, a prop-
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erty. Emma Bovary and Frederic and M. Arnoux are respectively every woman and every man of their period. Maupassant's Bel Ami is not. Neither are Henry James'speople. Theyarealways,ornearlyalways,the bibelots.
But he does, nevertheless, treat of major forces, even of epic forces, and in a way all his own. If Balzac tried to give a whole civilization, a whole humanity, James was not content with a rough sketch of one country.
As Armageddon has only too clearly shown, national qualities are the great gods of the present and Henry James spent himself from the beginning in an analysis of these potent chemicals ; trying to determine from the given microscopic slide the nature of the Frenchness, Englishness, Germanness, Americanness, which chemi- cals too little regarded, have in our time exploded for want of watching. They are the permanent and fun- damental hostilities and incbmpatibles. We may rest our claim for his greatness in the magnitude of his pro- tagonists, in the magnitude of the forces he analyzed andportrayed. Thisisnotthebarematterofanumber of titled people, a few duchesses and a few butlers.
Whatever Flaubert may have said about his Educa- tion Sentimentale as a potential preventive of the debacle of 1870, if people had read itj and whatever Gautier's friend may have said about Emaux et Camees as the last resistance to the Prussians, from Dr. Rudolph Staub's paragraph in The Bundle of Letters to the last and al- most only public act of his life, James displayed a steady perception and a steady consideration of the qualities of different western races, whose consequences none of us can escape.
And these forces, in precisely that they are not polit- ical and executive and therefore transient, factitious,
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but in precisely that they are the forces of race temper- aments, are major forces and are indeed as great pro- tagonists as any author could have chosen. They are firmer ground than Flaubert's when he chooses public events as in the opening of the third part of Education Sentimentale.
The portrayal of these forces, to seize a term from philology, may be said to constitute "original research'' --^to be Henry James's own addendum; not that this greatlymatters. Hesaw,analyzed,andpresentedthem. He had most assuredly a greater awareness than was granted to Balzac or to Mr. Charles Dickens or to M. Victor Hugo who composed the Legende des Siecles.
His statement that he never went down town has been urged greatly against him. A butler is a servant, tem- pered with upper-class contacts. Mr. Newman, the American, has emerged from the making of wash-tubs; the family in The Pupil can scarcely be termed upper- class, however, and the factor of money, Balzac's, avayKTi, scarcely enters his stories.
WemayleaveHardywritingSagas. Wemayadmit that there is a greater rohustezza in Balzac's messiness, simply because he is perpetually concerned, inaccurately, with the factor of money, of earning one's exiguous living.
We may admit the shadowy nature of some of James's writing, and agree whimsically with R. H. C. (in the New Age) that James will be quite comfortable after death, as he had been dealing with ghosts all his life.
James's third donation is perhaps a less sweeping affair and of more concern to his compatriots than to any one who might conceivably translate him into an alien tongue, or even to those who publish his writings in England.
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He has written history of a personal sort, social his- tory well documented and incomplete, and he has put America on the map both in memoir and fiction, giving to her a reality such as is attained only by scenes re- corded in the arts and in the writing of masters. Mr. Eliot has written, and I daresay most other American admirers have written or will write, that, whatever any one else thinks of Henry James, no one but an American can ever know, really know, how good he is at the bot- tom, how good his "America" is.
No Englishman can, and in less degree can any con- tinental, or in fact any one whose family was not living on, say. West 23rd Street in the old set-back, two-story- porched red brick vine-covered houses, etc. , when Henry James was being a small boy on East 23rd Street; no one whose ancestors had not been presidents or profes- sors or founders of Ha'avwd College or something of that sort, or had not heard of a time when people lived on 14th Street, or had known of some one living in Lexington or Newton "Old Place" or somewhere of that sort in New England, or had heard of the New York that produced "Fanny," New York the jocular and un- critical, or of people who danced with General Grant or something of that sort, would quite know Washing-
ton Square or The Europeans to be so autochthonous, so authentic to the conditions. They might believe the things to be "real," but they would not know how closely they corresponded to an external reality.
Perhaps only an exile from these things will get the range of the other half of James's presentations! Europe to the Transpontine, New York of brown stone that he detested, the old and the new New York in Crapey Cornelia and in The American Scene, which more than any other volumes give us our peculiar heri-
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tage, an America with an interest, with a tone of time not overstrained, not jejunely over-sentimentalized, which is not a redoing of school histories or the laying out of a fabulous period; and which is in relief, if you like, from Dickens or from Mark Twain's Mississippi. He was not without sympathy for his compatriots as is amply attested by Mr. and Mrs. B. D. Hayes of New York (vide The Birthplace) with whom he succeeds, I think, rather better than with most of his princely con- tinentals. They are, at any rate, his bow to the Happy
Genius of his country--as distinct from the gentleman who displayed the "back of a banker and a patriot," or the person whose aggregate features could be designated only as a "mug. "
In his presentation of America he is greatly atten- tive, and, save for the people in Coeur Simple, I doubt if any writer has done more of "this sort of tning" for his country, this portrayal of the typical thing in timbre and quality--balanced, of course, by the array of spit- toons in the Capitol ("The Point of View").
Still if one is seeking a Spiritual Fatherland, if one feels the exposure of what he would not have scrupled to call, two clauses later, such a wind-shield, "The American Scene" greatly provides it. It has a mermaid note, almost to outvie the warning, the sort of nickel- plate warning which is hurled at one in the saloon of any great transatlantic boat; the awfulness that engulfs one when one comes, for the first time unexpectedly on a pile of all the Mtvrkhn Magazines laid, shingle-wise on a brass-studded, screwed-into-place, baize-covered steamer table. The first glitter of the national weapons for driving off quiet and all closer signs of intelligence. *
* I differ, beyond that point, with our author. I enjoy ascent as much as I loathe descent in an elevator. I do not mind the
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Attempting to view the jungle of the work as a whole, one notes that, despite whatever cosmopolitan upbringing Henry James may have had, as witness "A Small Boy's Memoirs" and "Notes of Son and Brother," he neverthe- less began in "French Poets and Novelists" with a pro- vincial attitude that it took him a long time to work free of. Secondly we see various phases of the "style" of his presentation or circumambiance.
There is a small amount of prentice work. Let us say "Roderick Hudson," "Casamassima. " There are lucky first steps in "The American" and "Europeans," a pre- cocity of result, for certainly some of his early work is as permanent as some of the ripest, and more so than adealoftheintervening. Wefind(forinthecasebe- fore us criticism must be in large part a weeding-out) that his first subject matter provides him with a number of good books and stories : "The American," "The Euro- peans," "Eugene Pickering," "Daisy Miller," "The Pu-
pil," "Brooksmith," "A Bundle of Letters," "Washing- ton Square," "The Portrait of a Lady," before 1880, and rather later, "Pandora," "The Four Meetings," perhaps "Louisa Pallant. " He ran out of his first material.
We next note a contact with the "Yellow Book," a dip into "cleverness," into the epigrammatic genre, the bare epigrammatic style. It was no better than other writers, not so successful as Wilde. We observe him to be not so hard and fine a satirist as is George S. Street.
We come then to the period of allegories ("The Real Thing,""DominickFerrand,""TheLiar"). Thereen-
click of brass doors. I had indeed for. my earliest toy, if I was not brought up in it, the rather slow and well-behaved elevator in a quiet and quietly bright huge sanatorium. The height of high buildings, the chasms of New York are delecta- ble; but this is beside the point; one is not asked to share the views and tastes of a writer.
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sues a growing discontent with the short sentence, epi- gram, etc. , in which he does not at this time attain dis- tinction; the clarity is not satisfactory, was not satisfac- tory to the author, his donne being radically different from that of his contemporaries. The "story" not be- ing really what he is after, he starts to build up his me- dium; a thickening, a chiaroscuro is needed, the long sentence; he wanders, seeks to add a needed opacity, he overdoes it, produces the cobwebby novel, emerges or justifies himself in "Maisie" and manages his long- sought form in "The Awkward Age. " He comes out the triumphant stylist in the "American Scene" and in all the items of "The Finer Grain" collection and in the posthumous "Middle Years. "
This is not to damn incontinent all that intervenes, but I think the chief question addressed to me by people of good-will who do not, but are yet ready and willing to, read James, is : Where the deuce shall I begin ? One cannot take even the twenty-four volumes, more or less selected volumes of the Macmillan edition all at once, and it is, alas, but too easy to get so started and entoiled as never to finish this author or even come to the best of him.
The laziness of an uncritical period can be nowhere more blatant than in the inherited habit of talking about authors as a whole. It is perhaps the sediment from an age daft over great figures or a way of displaying social gush, the desire for a celebrity at all costs, rather than a care of letters.
To talk in any other way demands an acquaintance with the work of an author, a price few conversation- alists care to pay, ma che! - It is the man with inherited opinions who talks about "Shelley," making no distinc- tion between the author of the Fifth Act of "The Cenci"
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andofthe"SensitivePlant. " Notbutwhattheremay be a personal virtu in an author--appraised, however, from the best of his work when, that is, it is correctly appraised. PeopleaskmewhatJamestoread. Heisa very uneven author; not all of his collected edition has marks of permanence.
One can but make one's own suggestion:
"The American," "French Poets and NoveHsts," "The Europeans," "Daisy Miller," "Eugene Pickering," "Washington Square," "A Bundle of Letters," "Portrait of a Lady," "Pandora," "The Pupil," "Brooksmith," "What Maisie Knew," and "The Awkward Age" (if one is "doing it all"), "Europe," "Four Meetings," "The Ambassadors," "The American Scene," "The Finer Grain" (all the volume, i. e. , "The Velvet Glove," "Mona Montravers," "Round of Visits," "Crapey Cornelia," "Bench of Desolation"), "The Middle Years" (post- humous) and "The Ivory Tower" (notes first).
I "go easy" on the more cobwebby volumes; the most Jamesian are indubitably "The Wings of a Dove" and "The Golden Bowl"; upon them devotees will fasten, but the potential devotee may as well find his aptitude in the stories of "The Finer Grain" volume where cer- tain exquisite titillations will come to him as readily as anywhere else. If he is to bask in Jamesian tickle, noth- ing will restrain him and no other author will to any such extent afford him equal gratifications.
If, however, the reader does not find delectation in the list given above, I think it fairly useless for him to embark on the rest.
Part of James is a caviare, part I must reject accord- ing to my lights as bad writing; another part is a spe- cialite, a pleasure for certain temperaments only; the part I have set together above seems to me maintain-
;
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able as literature. One can definitely say : "this is good" hold the argumentative field, suffer comparison with other writers; with, say, the De Goncourt, or De Mau- passant. Iamnotimpertinentlythrowingbooksonthe scrap-heap; there are certain valid objections to James; there are certain standards which one may believe in, and having stated them, one is free to state that any author does not comply with them; granting always that there may be other standards with which he complies, or over which he charmingly or brilliantly triumphs.
James does not. "feel" as solid as Flaubert; he does not give us "Everyman," but on the other hand, he was aware of things which Flaubert was not aware of, and in certain things supersedes the author of "Madame Bovary. "
He appears at times to write around and around a thing and not always to emerge from the "amorous plan" of what he wanted to present, into definite presentation.
He does not seem to me at all times evenly skillful in catching the intonations of speech. He recalls the New England "a" in the "Lady's" small brothers "Ha-ard" (Haahr-d) but only if one is familiar with the phonetics, described; but (vide the beginning of "The Birthplace") one is not convinced that he really knows (by any sure instinct) how people's voices would sound. Some re- marks are in key, some obviously factitious.
He gives us more of his characters by description than he can by any attribution of conversation, save perhaps by the isolated and discreet remarks of Brook- smith.
His emotional centre is in being sensitive to the feci of the place or to the tonality of the person.
It is with his own so beautiful talk, his ability to hear his own voice in the rounded paragraph, that he is aptest
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to charm one. I find it often though not universally hard to "hear" his characters spearking. I have noted various places where the character notably stops speak-
ing and the author interpolates words of his own; sen- tences that no one but Henry James could in any cir- cumstances have made use of. Beyond which state- ments I see no great concision or any clarity to be gained by rearranging my perhaps too elliptical comments on individual books.
Honest criticism, as I conceive it, cannot get much further than saying to one's reader exactly what one would say to the friend who approaches one's bookshelf asking: "What the deuce shall I read? " Beyond this there is the "parlor game," the polite essay, and there
is the official pronouncement, with neither of which we are concerned.
Of all exquisite writers James is the most colloquial, yet in the first edition of his "French Poets and Novel- ists," his style, save for a few scattered phrases, is so little unusual that most of the book seems, superficially, as if it might have been written by almost any one. It contahis some surprising lapses . . . as bad as any in Mr. Hueffer or even in Mr. Mencken. It is interesting largely in that it shows us what our subject had to escape from.
Let us grant at once that his novels show him, all through his life, possessed of the worst possible taste in pictures, of an almost unpunctured ignorance of painting, of almost as great a lack of taste as that which he attributes to the hack-work and newspaper critiques ofTheophileGautier. Letusadmitthat"painting"to Henry James probably meant, to the end of his life, the
worst possible late Renaissance conglomerations.
Let us admit that in 1876, or whenever it was, his
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taste in poetry inclined to the swish of De Musset, that it very likely never got any further. By "poetry" he very possibly meant the "high-falutin" and he eschewed it in certain forms; himself taking still higher falutes in a to-be-developed mode of his own.
I doubt if he ever wholly outgrew that conception of the (by him so often invoked) Daughters of Memory. He arrived truly at a point from which he could look back upon people who "besought the deep blue sea to roll. " Poetry to him began, perhaps, fuUfledged, spring- ing Minerva-like from the forehead of George Gordon, Lord Byron, and went pretty much to the bad in Charles Baudelaire; it did not require much divination by 1914
("The Middle Years") to note that he had found Tenny- son rather vacuous and that there "was something in" Browning.
James was so thoroughly a recorder of people, of their atmospheres, society, personality, setting; so wholly the artist of this particular genre, that it was impossible for him ever to hold a critical opinion of art out of key with the opinion about him--except possibly in so far as he might have ambitions for the novel, for his own partic- ular metier. His critical opinions were simply an ex- tension of his being in key with the nice people who "impressed" themselves on his gelatine "plate. " (This is a theoretical generalization and must be taken cum grano. )
We may, perhaps, take his adjectives on De Musset as a desperate attempt to do "justice" to a man with whom he knew it impossible for him to sympathize. There is, however, nothing to hinder our supposing that he saw in De Musset's "gush" something for him impossible and that he wished to acknowledge it. Side by side
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with this are the shreds of Back Bay or Buffalo, the mid-week-prayer-meeting point of view.
His most egregious sHp is in the essay on Baudelaire, thesentencequotedbyHueffer. * Notwithstandingthis, he does effectively put his nippers on Baudelaire's weak- ness :
"A good way to embrace Baudelaire at a glance is to say that he was, in his treatment of evil, exactly what Hawthorne was not--Hawthorne, who felt the thing at its source, deep in the human consciousness. Baude- laire's infinitely slighter volume of genius apart, he was a sort of Hawthorne reversed. It is the absence of
this metaphysical quality in his treatment of his favorite subjects (Poe was his metaphysician, and his devotion sustained him through a translation of 'Eureka! ') that exposes him to that class of accusations of which M. Edmond Scherer's accusation of feeding upon pourriture is an example; and, in fact, in his pages we never know withwhatwearedealing. Weencounteraninextricable confusion of sad emotions and vile things, and we are at a loss to know whether the subject pretends to appeal to our conscience or--we were going to say--to our olfac- tories. 'Le Mai ? ' we exclaim ; 'you do yourself too much honor. This is not Evil ; it is not the wrong ; it is simply thenasty! ' Ourimpatienceisofthesameorderasthat which we should feel if a poet, pretending to pluck 'the flowers of good,' should come and present us, as speci- mens, a rhapsody on plum-cake and eatt de Cologne. "
Here as elsewhere his perception, apart from the read- ability of the work, is worthy of notice.
* "For a poet to be realist is of course nonsense", and, as Hueffer says, such a sentence from such a source is enough to make one despair of human nature.
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Hueffer says * that James befauds Balzac. I cannot see it. I can but perceive Henry James wiping the floor with the author of "Eugenie Grandet," pointing out all his qualities, but almightily wiping the floor with him. He complains that Gautier is lacking in a concern about supernatural hocus-pocus and that Flaubert is lacking. If Balzac takes him to any great extent in, James with his inherited Swedenborgianism is perhaps thereby laid open to Balzac.
It was natural that James should write more about the bulky author of "La Comedie Humaine" than about the others; here was his richest quarry, here was there most to note and to emend and to apply so emended to processes of his own. From De Maupassant, De Gon- court or Baudelaire there was nothing for him to ac- quire.
His dam'd fuss about furniture is foreshadowed in Balzac, and all the paragraphs on Balzac's house-fur- nishing propensities are of interest in proportion to our interest in, or our^ boredom with, this part of Henry James's work.
What, indeed, could he have written of the De Gon- courts save that they were a little dull but tremendously right in their aim? Indeed, but for these almost auto- biographical details pointing to his growth out of Balzac, all James would seem but a corollary to one passage in a De Goncourt preface:
"Le jour ou I'analyse cruelle que mon ami, M. Zola, et peutetre moi-meme avons apportee dans la peinture du bas de la societe sera reprise par un ecrivain de talent, et employee a la reproduction des hommes et des femmes du monde, dans les milieux d' education et de distinction
* Ford Madox Hueflfer's volume on Henry James.
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--ce jour-la seulement le classicisme et sa queue seront tues. . . .
"Le Realisme n'a pas en eflfet I'unique mission de decrire ce qui est bas, ce qui est repugnant. . . .
"Nous avons commence, nous, par la canaille, parce que la femme et I'homme du peuple, plus rapproches de la nature et de la sauvagerie, sont des creatures simples et peu compliquees, tandis que le Parisien et la Parisienne
' de la societe, ces civilises excessifs, dont I'originalite tranchee est faite toute de nuances, toute de demi-teintes, toute de ces riens insaisissables, pareils aux riens coquets et neutres avec lesquels se fagonne le caractere d'une
' toilette distinguee de femme, demandant des annees pour qu'on les perce, pour qu'on les sache, pour qu'on les attrape--et le romancier du plus grand genie, croyez- le bien, ne les devinera jamais ces gens de salon, avec les racontars d'amis qui vont pour lui a la decouverte dans le monde. . . .
"Ce projet de roman qui devait se passer dans le grand monde, dans le monde le plus quintessencie, et dont nous rassemblions lentement et minutieusement les elements delicats et fugaces, je I'abandonnais apres la mort de men frere, convaincu de I'impossibilite de le reussir tout seul. "
But this particular paragraph could have had little to do with the matter. "French Poets and Novelists" was published in '78 and Edmond De Goncourt signed theprefaceto"LesFreresZemganno"in'79. Thepara- graphs quoted are interesting, however, as showing De Goncourt's state of mind in that year. He had prob- ably been preaching in this vein long before setting the words on paper, before getting them printed.
If ever one man's career was foreshadowed in a few
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sentences of another, Henry James's is to be found in this paragraph.
It is very much as if Ije said: I will not be a mega- therium botcher like Balzac ; there is nothing to be said about these De Goncourts, but one must try to be rather more interesting than they are in, let us say, "Madame Gervaisais. " *
Proceeding with the volume of criticism, we find that "LeJeuneH. "simplydidn't"get"Flaubert; thathewas much alive to the solid parts of Turgenev. He shows himself very apt, as we said above, to judge the merits of a novelist on the ground that the people portrayed by the said novelist are or are not suited to reception into the household of Henry James senior; whether, in short, Emma Bovary or Frederic or M. Arnoux would have spoiled the so delicate atmosphere, have juggled the so fine susceptibilities of a refined 23rd Street family at the time of the Philadelphia "Centennial. "
I find the book not so much a sign that Henry James was "disappointed," as HuefFer puts it, as that he was simply and horribly shocked by the literature of his con- tinental forebears and contemporaries.
It is only when he gets to the Theatre Franqais that he finds something which really suits him. Here there is order, tradition, perhaps a slight fustiness (biit a quite pardonable fustiness, an arranged and suitable fustiness having its recompense in a sort of spiritual quiet) ; here, at any rate, was something decorous, something not to be found in Concord or in Albany. And it is easy to imagine the young James, not illuminated by De
* It is my personal feeling at the moment that La Fille Elisa is worth so much more than all Balzac that the things are as out of scale as a sapphire and a plum pudding, and that Elisa, despite the dull section, is worth most of James's writing. This is, however, aside from the question we are discussing.
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Goncourt's possible conversation or writing, not even following the hint gvven in his essay on Balzac and Balzacian furniture, but sitting before Madame Nathalie in "Le Village" and resolving to be the Theatre Frangais of the novel.
A resolution which he may be said to have carried out to the great enrichment of letters.
II
Strictures on the work of this period are no great detraction. "French Poets and Novelists" gives us a point from which to measure Henry James's advance. Genius showed itself partly in the escape from some of his original limitations, partly in acquirements. His art at length became "second nature," became perhaps half unconscious; or in part wholly unconscious; in other partsperhapstoohighlyconscious. Atanyrateinsun- nier circumstances he talked exactly as he wrote, the same elaborate paragraph beautifully attaining its ? cli- max; the same sudden incision when a brief statement
could dispose of a matter.
Be it said for his style : he is seldom or never involved
when a direct bald statement will accurately convey his
Style apart, I take it that the hatred of tyrannies was as great a motive as any we can ascribe to Galileo or Leonardo or to any other great figure, to any other mythic Prometheus ; for this driving force we may well overlook personal foibles, the early Bostonese bias, the heritage from his father's concern in commenting Swedenborg,
He is not usually, for all his
own meaning, all of it.
wideleisure,verbose. Hemaybehighlyandbewilder- ingly figurative in his language (vide Mr. Hueffer's re- marks on this question).
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the later fusses about social caution and conservation of furniture. Hueffer rather boasts about Henry James's innocence of the classics. It is nothing to brag of, even if a man struggling against natural medievalism have entrenched himself in impressionist theory. If James had read his classics, the better Latins especially, he would not have so excessively cobwebbed, fussed, blath- ered,worriedaboutminormundanities. Wemaycon- spuer with all our vigor Henry James's concern with furniture, the Spoils of Poynton, connoisseurship, Mrs. Ward's tea-party atmosphere, the young Bostonian of theimmatureworks. Wemayrelegatethesethingsmen- tally to the same realm as the author's pyjamas and coIt lar buttons, to his intellectual instead of his physical valeting. There remains the capacious intelligence, the searching analysis of things that cannot be so relegated to the scrap-heap and to the wash-basket.
Let us say that English freedom legally and tradition- ally has its basis in property. Let us say, a la Balzac, that most modern existence is governed by, or at least interfered with by, the necessity to earn money; let us also say that a Frenchman is not an Englishman or a German or an American, and that despite the remark that the aristocracies of all people, the upper classes, are the same everywhere, racial differences are au fond dif- ferences; they are likewise major subjects.
Writing, as I am, for the reader of good-will, for the bewildered person who wants to know where to begin, I need not apologize for the following elliptical notes. James, in his prefaces, has written explanation to deafti
(with sometimes a very pleasant necrography) . Leav- ing the "French Poets and Novelists," I take the novels and stories as nearly as possible in their order of publi-
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cation (as distinct tr(jui their order as rearranged and partially weeded out m the collected edition).
1875. (U. S. A. ) "A Passionate Pilgrim and other Tales. " "Eugene Pickering" is the best of this lot and most indicative of the future James. Contains also the title story and "Madame de Mauves. " Other stories inferior.
1876. (U. S. A. ) "Roderick Hudson," prentice work. First novel not up to the level of "Pickering. "
1877. "The American"; essential James, part of the permanentwork. "WatchandWard,"discardedbythe author.
1878. "French Poets and Novelists," already dis- cussed.
1878. "Daisy Miller. " (The big hit and one of his best. ) "An International Episode," "Four Meetings," good work.
1870. Short stories first printed in England with additions, but no important ones.
1880. "Confidence," not important.
1881. "Washington Square," one of his best, "putting America on the map," giving us a real past, a real back- ground. "PensionBeaurepas"and"BundleofLetters," especially the girls' letters, excellent, already mentioned.
1881. "The Portrait of a Lady," one of his best. Charming Venetian preface in the collected edition.
1884. "Tales of Three Cities," stories dropped from the collected edition, save "Lady Barbarina. "
1884. "Lady Barbarina," a study in English blank- ness comparable to that exposed in the letters of the English young lady in "A Bundle of Letters. " There isalsoNewYorkoftheperiod. "Butiftherewasone thing Lady Barb disliked more than another it was de- scribing Pasterns. She had always lived with people
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who knew of themselves what such a place would be, without demanding t;hese pictorial effects, proper only, as she vaguely felt, to persons belonging to the classes whosetradewastheartsofexpression. LadyBarbof course had never gone into it ; but she knew that in her own class the business was not to express but to enjoy, not to represent but to be represented. "
"Mrs. Lemon's recognition of this river, I should say, was all it need have been; she held the Hudson existed for the purpose of supplying New Yorkers with poetical feelings, helping them to face comfortably occasions like the present, and in general, meet foreigners with confi- dence. . . . "
"He believed, or tried to believe, the salon now pos- sible in New York on condition of its being reserved en- tirely for adults; and in having taken a wife out of a country in which social traditions were rich and ancient he had done something toward qualifying his own house so splendidly qualified in all strictly material respects . . . to be the scene of such an effort. A charming woman accustomed only to the best on each side, as Lady Beau- chemin said, what mightn't she achieve by being at home --always to adults only--in an easy early inspiring com- prehensive way and on the evening of the seven, when worldly engagements were least numerous ? He laid this philosophy before Lady Barb in pursuance of a theory that if she disliked New York on a short acquaintance she couldn't fail to like it on a long. Jackson believed in the New York mind--not so much indeed in its lit- erary, artistic, philosophic or political achievements as in its general quickness and nascent adaptability. He clung to this belief, for it was an indispensable neat block in the structure he was attempting to rear. The New York mind would throw its glamour over Lady Barb if
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she would only give it a chance; for it was thoroughly bright, responsive and sympathetic. If she would only set up by the turn of her hand a blest social centre, a temple of interesting talk in which this charming organ might expand and where she might inhale its fragrance in the most convenient and luxurious way, without, as it was, getting up from her chair; if she would only just try this graceful . good-natured experiment--which would make every one like her so much too--he was sure all the wrinkles in the gilded scroll of his fate would be smoothed out. But Lady Barb didn't rise at all to his conception and hadn't the least curiosity about the New Yorkmind. Shethoughtitwouldbeextremelydisagree- able to have a lot of people tumbling in on Sunday eve- ning without being invited, and altogether her husband's sketch of the Anglo-American salon seemed to her to suggest crude familiarity, high vociferation--she had al- ready made a remark to him about 'screeching women'
--andrandomextravagantlaughter. Shedidn'ttellhim --for this somehow it wasn't in her power to express and, strangely enough, he never completely guessed it that she was singularly deficient in any natural, or in- deed, acquired understanding of what a salon might be. She had never seen or dreamed of one--and for the most part was incapable of imagining a thing she hadn't seen. She had seen great dinners and balls and* meets and runs and races; she had seen garden-parties and
bunches of people, mainly women--who, however, didn't screech--at dull stuffy teas, and distinguished companies collected in splendid castles ; but all this gave her no clew to a train of conversation, to any idea of a social agree- ment that the interest of talk, its continuity, its accu- mulations from season to season shouldn't be lost. Con- versation, in Lady Barb's experience, had never been
;
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133
continuous; in such a case it would surely have been a bore. It had been occasional and fragmentary, a trifle jerky, with allusions that were never explained; it had a dread of detail--it seldom pursued anything very far or kept hold of it very long. "
1885. "Stories Revived," adding to earlier tales "The Author of Beltraffio," which opens with excess of thie treading-on-eggs manner, too much to be borne for twen- ty-four volumes. The pretense of extent of "people" in- terested in art and letters, sic : "It was the most complete presentation that had yet been made of the gospel of art it was a kind of aesthetic war cry. 'People' had endeav- ored to sail nearer "to truth,' etc. "
He implies too much of art smeared on limited multi- tudes. One wonders if the eighties did in any great aggregate gush up to this extent. Doesn't he try to spread the special case out too wide?
The thinking is magnificently done from this passage up to page sixteen or twenty, stated with great concision. Compare it with "Madame Gervaisais" and we find Henry James much more interesting when on the upper reaches. Comparehisexpressiveness,theexpressiveness of his indirectness with that of constatation. The two methods are curiously mixed in the opening of "Beltraf- fio. " Such sentences as (page 30) "He said the. most interesting and inspiring things" are, however, pure waste, pure "leaving the thing undone," unconcrete, un- imagined; just simply bad writing or bad novelisting. As for his special case he does say a deal about the au- thor or express a deal by him, but one is bothered by the
fact that Pater, Burton, Hardy, Meredith were not, in mere history, bundled into one ; that Burton had been to the East and the others had not; that no English novel- ist of that era would have taken the least notice of any-
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thing going on in foreign countries, presumably Euro- pean, as does the supreme author of "Beltraffio. "
Doubtless he is in many ways the author Henry James would have liked to meet and more illustrative of certain English tones and limitations than any historical portrait might have been. Still Henry James does lay it on . . . more, I think, than the story absolutely requires. In "Beltraffio" he certainly does present (not that he does not comment to advantage) the two damn'd women ap- pended to the gentlemanly hero of the tale. The most violent post-Strindbergian school would perhaps have called them bitches tout bonnement, but this word did not belong to Henry James's vocabulary and besides it is of too great an indistinctness. Author, same "bloody"
(in the English sense) author with his passion for "form" appears in "Lesson of Master," and most of H. J. 's stories of literary milieux. Perpetual Grandisonism or Grandisonizing of this author with the passion for form, all of 'em have it. Ma che! There is, however, great intensity in these same "be-deared" and be-"poor- old"-edpages. Hehasreallygotamaintheme,agreat theme, he chooses to do it in silver point rather than in the garish colors of,--well, of Cherbuliez, or the terms of a religious maniac with three-foot long carving knife.
Novel of the gilded pill, an aesthetic or artistic message, dogma, no better than a moral or ethic one, novel a (Cumbrous camouflage substitute not for "that parlor game" * the polite essay, but for the impolite essay or conveyance of ideas; novel to do this should completely
incarnate the abstraction.
Finish of "Beltraffio" not perhaps up to the rest of it.
Not that one at all knows how else . . . *T. S. Eliot.
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Gushonpage42*frombothconversationalists. Still an adumbration of the search for the just word emerges on pages 43-44, real cut at barbarism and bigotry on the bottom of page 45 (of course not labeled by these mon- strous and rhetorical brands, scorched on to their hides and rump sides). "Will it be a sin to make the most of that one too, so bad for the dear old novel? " Butler and James on the same side really chucking out the fake ; Butler focused on Church of England ; opposed to him the fakers booming the Bible "as literature" in a sort of last stand, a last ditch; seeing it pretty well had to go as history, cosmogony, etc. , or the old tribal Daddy- slap-'em-with-slab of the Jews as anything like an ideal :
"He told me more about his wife before we arrived at the gate of home, and if he be judged to have aired overmuch his grievance I'm afraid I must admit that he had some of the foibles as well as the gifts of the artistic temperament; adding,however,instantlythathitherto,to the best of my belief, he had rarely let this particular cat out of the bag. 'She thinks me immoral--that's the long and short of it,' he said, as we paused outside a moment and his hand rested on one of the bars of his gate; while his conscious, expressive, perceptive eyes the eyes of a foreigner, I had begun to account them, much more than of the usual Englishman--viewing me now evidently as quite a familiar friend, took part in the declaration. 'It's very strange when one thinks it all over, and there's a grand comicality in it that I should like to bring out. She's a very nice woman, extraordi- narily well-behaved, upright and clever and with a tre-
mendous lot of good sense about a good many matters. Yet her conception of a novel--she has explained it to
* Page numbers in Collected Edition.
135
--I
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me once or twice, and she doesn't do it badly as exposi- tion--is a thing so false that it makes me blush. It's a thing so hollow, so dishonest, so lying, in which life is so blinked and blinded, so dodged and disfigured, that it makes my ears burn. It's two different w^ays of looking at the whole affair,' he repeated, pushing open the gate. 'And they're irreconcilable ! ' he added with a sigh. We went forward to the house, but on the walk, halfway to the door, he stopped and said to me : 'If you're going into this kind of thing there's a fact you should know beforehand; it may save you some disappointment. There's a hatred of art, there's a hatred of literature-- meanofthegenuinekinds. Oh,theshams thosethey'll swallow by the bucket ! ' I looked up at the charm- ing house, with its genial color and crookedness, and I answered with a smile that those evil passions might exist, but that I should never have expected to find them there. 'Ah, it doesn't matter, after all,' he a bit nervously laughed ; which I was glad to hear, for I was reproaching myself with having worked him up. "
Really literature in the XlXth and the beginning of the XXth centuries is where science was in the days of Galileo and the Inquisition. Henry James not blinking it, neither can we. "Poor dears" and "dear olds" always a little too plentiful.
1885. (continued) "Pandora," of the best. Let it pass as a sop to America's virginal charm; as counter- weight to "Daisy Miller," or to the lady of "The Por- trait. " Henry James alert to the German.
"The process of enquiry had already begun for him, in spite of his having as yet spoken to none of his fellow passengers; the case being that Vogelstein enquired not only with his tongue, but with his eyes--that is with his spectacles--with his ears, with his nose, with his palate,
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withallhissensesandorgans. Hewasahighlyupright young man, whose only fault was that his sense of comedy, or of the humor of things, had never been spe- cifically disengaged, from his several other senses. He vaguely felt that something should be done about this, and in a general manner proposed to do it, for he was on his way to explore a society abounding in comic aspects. This consciousness of a missing measure gave him a certain mistrust of what might be said of him; and if circumspection is the essence of diplomacy our young aspirant promised well. His mind contained several millions of facts, packed too closely together for the light breeze of the imagination to draw through the mass. He was impatient to report himself to his superior in Washington, and the loss of time in an English port could only incommode him, inasmuch as the study of English institutions was no part of his mission.