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diff --git a/75230-h/75230-h.htm b/75230-h/75230-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..fb5843f --- /dev/null +++ b/75230-h/75230-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,11865 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <title> + The Doctor Looks at Literature | Project Gutenberg + </title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <style> + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + + h1,h2 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; font-weight: normal; +} + + h2 {margin-top: 4em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +p { + margin-top: .51em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .49em; +} + +.p1 {margin-top: 1em;} +.p1b {margin-bottom: 1em;} +.p2 {margin-top: 2em;} +.p2b {margin-bottom: 2em;} +.p4 {margin-top: 4em;} +.p6 {margin-top: 6em;} +.p6b {margin-bottom: 6em;} + +.half-title +{ + margin-top: 6em; + text-align: center; + font-size: 145%; +} + +hr.tb {width: 45%; margin-left: 27.5%; margin-right: 27.5%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +hr.r5 {width: 5%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em; margin-left: 47.5%; margin-right: 47.5%;} + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always;} +h2.nobreak {page-break-before: avoid;} + +/* Poetry */ +/* uncomment the next line for centered poetry */ + .poetry-container {display: flex; justify-content: center;} +.poetry-container {text-align: center; margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +.poetry {text-align: left; margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%;} + + +.blockquot { + margin-top: 1em; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-bottom: 1em; + font-size: 0.9em; +} + +.big1 {font-size: 110%; } +.big2 {font-size: 130%; } +.big3 {font-size: 140%; } + + .autotable{ + margin-left: 22.5%; + margin-right: 22.5%; + width: 55%; +} + +table.autotable { border-collapse: collapse; } +table.autotable td, +table.autotable th { padding: 0.25em; } + +.tdl {text-align: left;} +.tdr {text-align: right;} +.tdc {text-align: center;} + +.x-ebookmaker .autotable{ + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + width: auto; +} + +.pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + visibility: hidden; + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: small; + text-align: right; + font-style: normal; + font-weight: normal; + font-variant: normal; + text-indent: 0; +} /* page numbers */ + + +.center {text-align: center;} + +.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + +/* Images */ + +img { + max-width: 100%; + height: auto; +} + +img.w100 {width: 100%;} + +.caption {font-weight: normal;} + +.figcenter { + margin: auto; + text-align: center; + page-break-inside: avoid; + max-width: 100%; +} + + +.allsmcap {font-variant: small-caps; text-transform: lowercase; font-size: 1.2em;} + +/* Transcriber's notes */ + .tnote {border: dashed 1px; margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; padding-bottom: 1.5em; padding-top: 1.5em; + padding-left: 1.5em; padding-right: 1.5em; margin-top: 4em; margin-bottom: 4em; } + +/* Illustration classes */ + +.illowe22 {width: 22em;} +.illowe25 {width: 25em;} +.illowe5 {width: 5em;} +.illowe50 {width: 50em;} + + + </style> +</head> +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75230 ***</div> + +<figure class="figcenter illowe50" id="cover"> + <img class="w100" src="images/cover.jpg" alt="cover" title="bcover"> +</figure> + +<div class="chapter"> +<div class="tnote"> + <p class="center p2 big2">TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:</p> + +<p>In the plain text version text in <em>italics</em> is enclosed by underscores +(_italics_), <span class="smcap">Small Capitals</span> are represented in upper case as in SMALL +CAPS and the sign ^ before any letter or text, like ^e, represents "e" +as a superscript.</p> + +<p>A number of words in this book have both hyphenated and non-hyphenated +variants. For the words with both variants present the one more used +has been kept.</p> + +<p>Obvious punctuation and other printing errors have been corrected.</p> + +<p>The original cover art has been modified by the transcriber and is +granted to the public domain.</p> + +</div> +</div> + +<hr class="tb x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h1 class="p4">THE DOCTOR LOOKS AT LITERATURE</h1> +</div> + +<p class="center">PSYCHOLOGICAL STUDIES OF LIFE AND LETTERS</p> + +<p class="center">BY</p> +<p class="center big3">JOSEPH COLLINS</p> + +<p class="center">AUTHOR OF “THE WAY WITH THE NERVES,”<br> +“MY ITALIAN YEAR,” “IDLING IN ITALY,” ETC.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowe5" id="title_page-ilo"> + <img class="w100 p4" src="images/title_page-ilo.jpg" alt="ikotp" title="tpilo"> +</figure> + +<p class="center p6">NEW YORK<br> +<span class="big1">GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY</span></p> + + + + +<div class="chapter"> +<p class="center p4" >COPYRIGHT, 1923, BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY</p> +</div> + + +<p class="center p4 big1" >THE DOCTOR LOOKS AT LITERATURE. I</p> + +<p class="center p1" >PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA</p> + + + + + +<div class="chapter"> +<p class="center p4 big1" ><em>In Memoriam</em></p> +</div> + + + +<p class="center big2 p2">PEARCE BAILEY</p> + +<p class="center">DEVOTED COLLEAGUE<br> +LOYAL COADJUTOR<br> +INDULGENT FRIEND</p> + + + + + + + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" >ACKNOWLEDGMENT</h2> +</div> + + +<p>The author wishes to express his thanks to the editors +of the <em>North American Review</em>, the <i>New York Times</i> +and the <em>Literary Digest International Book Review</em> +for permission to elaborate material used by them into +certain chapters of this volume.</p> + + + + + +<div class="chapter"> +<p class="center p4 big2" >CONTENTS</p> +</div> + + + + +<table class="autotable"> + +<tr> +<td class="tdc"><small>CHAPTER</small></td> +<td class="tdl"> </td> +<td class="tdc"><small>PAGE</small></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdr" style="vertical-align: top; padding-right: 2em;">I</td> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Psychology and Fiction</span></td> +<td class="tdr" style="padding-right: 1em;"><a href="#Page_15">15</a> </td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdr" style="vertical-align: top; padding-right: 2em;">II</td> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Ireland's Latest Literary Antinomian: James Joyce</span></td> +<td class="tdr" style="padding-right: 1em;"><a href="#Page_35">35</a> </td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdr" style="vertical-align: top; padding-right: 2em;">III</td> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Feodor Dostoievsky: Tragedist, Prophet, and Psychologist</span></td> +<td class="tdr" style="padding-right: 1em;"><a href="#Page_61">61</a> </td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdr" style="vertical-align: top; padding-right: 2em;">IV</td> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Dorothy Richardson and Her Censor</span></td> +<td class="tdr" style="padding-right: 1em;"><a href="#Page_96">96</a> </td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdr" style="vertical-align: top; padding-right: 2em;">V</td> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Marcel Proust: Master Psychologist and Pilot of<br> +the “Vraie Vie”</span></td> +<td class="tdr" style="padding-right: 1em;"><a href="#Page_116">116</a> </td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdr" style="vertical-align: top; padding-right: 2em;">VI</td> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Two Literary Ladies of London: Katherine Mansfield and<br> +Rebecca West</span></td> +<td class="tdr" style="padding-right: 1em;"><a href="#Page_151">151</a> </td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdr" style="vertical-align: top; padding-right: 2em;">VII</td> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Two Lesser Literary Ladies of London: Stella Benson<br> +and Virginia Woolf</span></td> +<td class="tdr" style="padding-right: 1em;"><a href="#Page_181">181</a> </td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdr" style="vertical-align: top; padding-right: 2em;">VIII</td> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Psychology of the Diarist: W. N. T. Barbellion</span></td> +<td class="tdr" style="padding-right: 1em;"><a href="#Page_191">191</a> </td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdr" style="vertical-align: top; padding-right: 2em;">IX</td> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Psychology of the Diarist: Henri-Frédéric Amiel</span></td> +<td class="tdr" style="padding-right: 1em;"><a href="#Page_219">219</a> </td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdr" style="vertical-align: top; padding-right: 2em;">X</td> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Georges Duhamel: Poet, Pacifist, and Physician</span></td> +<td class="tdr" style="padding-right: 1em;"><a href="#Page_237">237</a> </td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdr" style="vertical-align: top; padding-right: 2em;">XI</td> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Even Yet It Can't Be Told—the Whole Truth<br> +about D. H. Lawrence</span></td> +<td class="tdr" style="padding-right: 1em;"><a href="#Page_256">256</a> </td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdr" style="vertical-align: top; padding-right: 2em;">XII</td> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Joy of Living and Writing about It: John St.<br> +Loe Strachey</span></td> +<td class="tdr" style="padding-right: 1em;"><a href="#Page_289">289</a> </td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdr" style="vertical-align: top; padding-right: 2em;">XIII</td> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The King of Gath unto His Servant: Magazine Insanity</span></td> +<td class="tdr" style="padding-right: 1em;"><a href="#Page_307">307</a> </td> +</tr> + +</table> + + + + + + +<div class="chapter"> +<p class="center p4 big2" >ILLUSTRATIONS</p> +</div> + + + +<table class="autotable"> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"> </td> +<td class="tdc"><small>PAGE</small></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="allsmcap">JAMES JOYCE</span></td> +<td class="tdr" style="vertical-align: top; padding-right: 1.7em;"><a href="#Page_37">37</a> </td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="allsmcap">FEODOR DOSTOIEVSKY</span></td> +<td class="tdr" style="vertical-align: top; padding-right: 1.7em;"><a href="#Page_63">63</a> </td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="allsmcap">MARCEL PROUST IN 1890</span></td> +<td class="tdr" style="vertical-align: top; padding-right: 1.7em;"><a href="#Page_119">119</a> </td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="allsmcap">A PAGE OF CORRECTED PROOF SHOWING MARCEL PROUST'S METHOD<br> +OF REVISION</span></td> +<td class="tdr" style="vertical-align: top; padding-right: 1.7em;"><a href="#Page_127">127</a> </td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="allsmcap">KATHERINE MANSFIELD</span></td> +<td class="tdr" style="vertical-align: top; padding-right: 1.7em;"><a href="#Page_153">153</a> </td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="allsmcap">REBECCA WEST</span><br> +<span style="padding-left: 2em">Photograph</span> by <em>Yevonde, London</em></td> +<td class="tdr" style="vertical-align: top; padding-right: 1.7em;"><a href="#Page_173">173</a> </td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="allsmcap">STELLA BENSON</span></td> +<td class="tdr" style="vertical-align: top; padding-right: 1.7em;"><a href="#Page_183">183</a> </td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="allsmcap">HENRI-FRÉDÉRIC AMIEL</span></td> +<td class="tdr" style="vertical-align: top; padding-right: 1.7em;"><a href="#Page_221">221</a> </td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="allsmcap">GEORGES DUHAMEL</span><br> +<span style="padding-left: 2em">From a Drawing</span> by <em>Ivan Opffer</em> in <em>THE BOOKMAN</em></td> +<td class="tdr" style="vertical-align: top; padding-right: 1.7em;"><a href="#Page_239">239</a> </td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="allsmcap">D. H. LAWRENCE</span></td> +<td class="tdr" style="vertical-align: top; padding-right: 1.7em;"><a href="#Page_259">259</a> </td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="allsmcap">D. H. LAWRENCE</span><br> +<span style="padding-left: 2em">From a drawing</span> by <em>Jan Juta</em></td> +<td class="tdr" style="vertical-align: top; padding-right: 1.7em;"><a href="#Page_267">267</a> </td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="allsmcap">J. ST. LOE STRACHEY</span><br> +<span style="padding-left: 2em">From a Drawing</span> by <em>W. Rothenstein</em></td> +<td class="tdr" style="vertical-align: top; padding-right: 1.7em;"><a href="#Page_291">291</a> </td> +</tr> + +</table> + + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</span></p> + + + +<div class="chapter"> +<p class="half-title p6b"> +THE DOCTOR LOOKS AT LITERATURE</p> +</div> + + + + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</span></p> + +<p class="center p2 big2" >THE DOCTOR LOOKS AT LITERATURE</p> +</div> + + + + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" >CHAPTER I<br> +<small>PSYCHOLOGY AND FICTION</small></h2> +</div> + +<p>Few words attract us like the word psychology. It has the +call of the unknown, the lure of the mysterious. It is used +and heard so frequently that it has come to have a definite +connotation, but the individual who is asked to say what it is +finds it difficult either to be exact or exhaustive. Psychologists +themselves experience similar difficulty. Psychology means the +science of the soul, but we have no clearer conception of the +soul today than Aristotle had when he wrote his treatise on it.</p> + +<p>Professor Palmer states that William James once said that +psychology was “a nasty little subject,” and that “all one cares +to know lies outside.” Doubtless many who have far less +knowledge of it have often felt the same way. The present fate +of psychology, or the science of mental life, is to be handled +either as a department of metaphysics, or as subsidiary to so-called +intelligence testing. The few remaining true psychologists +are the physiological psychologists and a small group of +behaviourists. In this country Woodworth, who takes the +ground of utilising the best in the arsenal of both the intro-spectionists +and the behaviourists, and calls the result +“dynamic psychology,” leads the former; and Watson the latter.</p> + +<p>Psychology has no interest in the nature of the soul, its +origin or destiny, or in the reality of ideas. Nor does it concern +itself with explanation of mental phenomena in terms of forces<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</span> +which can neither be experienced nor inferred from experience. +It is concerned with the facts of mental life and with describing, +analysing, and classifying them. When it has done this it +hands the results over to the logician who occupies himself +with them from a purposeful rather than a causal point of view; +and he makes what he may of them, or he puts them at the +disposal of fellow scientists who use them to support conjectures +or to give foundation to theories.</p> + +<p>It is universally admitted that when we want to get a true +picture of human life: behaviour, manners, customs, aspirations, +indulgences, vices, virtues, it is to the novelist and historian +that we turn, not to the psychologist or the physiologist. +The novelists gather materials more abundantly than the psychologists, +who for the most part have a parsimonious outfit +in anything but morbid psychology. Psychologists are the most +indolent of scientists in collecting and ordering materials, James +and Stanley Hall being outstanding exceptions.</p> + +<p>Fiction writers should not attempt to carry over the results +of psychological inquiries as the warp and woof of their work. +They should study psychology to sharpen and discipline their +wits, but after that the sooner they forget it the better. The +best thing that fiction writers can do is to depict the problematic +in life in all its intensity and perplexity, and put it up +to the psychologists as a challenge.</p> + +<p>In the fifty years that psychology has had its claims as a +science begrudgingly allowed, there have arisen many different +schools, the most important of which are: (1) Those that +claim that psychology is the science of mental states, mental +processes, mental contents, mental functions. They are the +“Functionalists.” There is an alternative to the consciousness +psychology—the psychology of habit—touched on its edges by +Professor Dewey in “Habit and Conduct.” And (2) those that +claim the true subject matter of psychology is not mind or +consciousness, but behaviour. They refuse to occupy themselves +with “consciousness,” and for introspection they substitute<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</span> +experiment and observation of behaviour. Their theoretical +goal is the prediction and control of behaviour. They are +the “Behaviourists.” The literature infused with interest in +psychological problems—fiction, criticism, and to a small extent +social economics—has little connection with the older psychology +based on subjectivities, except as it takes over the +vagaries of technique and terminology of the psychoanalysts. +The literature of greatest merit seems to avail itself most +profitably of definite psychological materials when it turns to +the behaviourist type. Indeed, it is with this school that the +novelist most closely allies himself. Or it was, until the “New +Psychology” seduced him.</p> + +<p>This last school claims that consciousness and all it implies +is a barren field for the psychologist to till. If he is +to gather a crop that will be an earnest of his effort, he must +turn to the unconscious, which we have with us so conspicuously +eight hours out of every twenty-four that even the most +benighted recognise it, and which is inconspicuously with us +always, looking out for our self- and species-preservation, +conditioning our ends, and shaping our destinies.</p> + +<p>The New Psychology, which is by no means synonymous +with the teachings of Dr. Sigmund Freud of Vienna, regards +the human mind as an intricate and complex mechanism +which has gradually evolved through the ages to suit the +needs of its possessor. The adaptation has, however, not been +perfect, and the imperfections reveal themselves in frequent, +startling, and embarrassing lapses from the kind of mind which +would best enable its possessor to adjust himself to the conditions +and demands of modern civilisation. It recognises that +it deals with a mind which sometimes insists upon behaving +like a savage, but which is nevertheless the main engine of the +human machinery, human personality, from which society expects +and exacts behaviour consistent with the ideals of advanced +civilisation. The practical psychologist realises that +he has to cope with this wayward mind, and if he is to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</span> +be of service in effecting a reconciliation between it and the +requirements of civilisation, he cannot ignore it, spank it, or +coerce it by calling it bad names. He must understand it first; +then he may train it. The trouble with the New Psychology, +whether it is “New Thought” or one of the mutually antagonistic +schools of psychoanalysis, is that it almost inevitably +runs off into what James terms “bitch-philosophy.” </p> + +<p>Through this tangled web of vagaries there is a thin thread +of work that is not only fiction, but literature; and this is +usually characterised by obvious parade of psychological +technique.</p> + +<p>Just as civilised man's body has been evolved gradually +from more primitive species and has changed through the various +stages of evolution to meet the changing conditions of the +environment and necessities, so has his mind. In this advance +and transformation the body has not lost the fundamental +functions necessary for the preservation of the physical being. +Neither has the mind. But both the body and the mind, or +the physical and psychical planes of the individual, have been +slowly developed by environment and life in such a way that +these fundamental functions and instincts have been brought +more and more into harmony with the changing demands of +life. This process, outwardly in man's circumstances and his +acts, inwardly in his ability to shape one and perform the +other, constitutes civilisation. It is doubtful if the instincts +are quite as definite as some of our professors, McDougall and +his followers, claim, and they lack utility when used as a basis +for social interpretation either in essays or fiction.</p> + +<p>Dr. Loeb's forced movements as a basis for a structure of +interests is far more plausible. It is the interplay of interests, +rather than of instincts, which is the clay our practical activities +are pottered from, and should be the reliable source of materials +for literature. Whenever fiction cuts itself down to +instincts it becomes ephemeral as literature.</p> + +<p>The two fundamental and primitive instincts of all living<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</span> +organisms, civilised man included, are the nutritional urge and +the creative urge, or the instinct of self-preservation and that +of the preservation of the species. To these there is added, +even in the most primitive savages, the herd instinct, which +leads men to form groups or tribes, to fight and labour for the +preservation of them, and to conform to certain standards or +symbols of identification with the tribe. The Freudians do not +recognise the herd instinct as anything but sublimated bi-sexuality, +attributing the tendency to regard the opinion of +one's associates to the psychic censor, instead of to an instinct. +These three instincts are recognised in their commonest and +most normal expression today as the tendency to provide for +oneself and one's family; the tendency to marry and rear children +under the best conditions known; and the tendency to +regard the opinion of one's associates and to be a consistent +member of the social order to which one acknowledges +adherence.</p> + +<p>It is small wonder, then, that the realist and the romanticist, +whose arsenal consists of observation and imagination, find +in narration of dominancy and display of these instincts and +tendencies the way to the goal for which they strive: viz., +interest of others, possibly edification. Certain novelists, +Mr. D. H. Lawrence for instance, pursue discussion of the +fundamental ones with such assiduity and vehemence that the +unsophisticated reader might well suspect that life was made +up of the display and vagaries of these essences of all living +beings. But without cant or piety it may be said there is such +a thing as higher life, spiritual life, and readers of psychoanalytic +novels must keep in mind the fact that the Freudian +psychology denies the reality of any such higher life, accounting +for the evidences of it which are unescapable in terms of +“subliminations,” such as “taboos.” Though these three instincts +form the basis upon which the whole of man's mental +activity is built, they by no means form its boundary. At some +prehistoric period it is possible that they did, but during countless<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</span> +ages man's mind has been subject to experiences which +called for other mental activity than the direct and primitive +expression of these urges, and he has had to use his mental +machinery as best he could to meet these demands. He had +no choice. He could not scrap his old machinery and supply +his mind with a new equipment better fitted to do the complex +work civilisation demanded.</p> + +<p>The result is that the working of these instincts on the +experience presented to the mind has brought about innumerable +complications. These are known in the New Psychology +as mental complexes. They have been to some modern +novelists what the miraculous food given to Israel in the +Wilderness was—their sole nutriment. Complexes, or conflicts +resulting from adaptation of the primitive mental machinery +to more intricate and varied processes than those with which it +was originally intended to cope, determine much of man's +mental life.</p> + +<p>To understand the workings of a mind is like trying to +unravel a tangled skein of thread. The two main difficulties +are: (1) That up to this time our mental training, our perceptions, +our consciousness, our reason, have been exercised for +the specific purpose of maintaining ourselves in the world. +They have not been concerned with helping us to understand +ourselves; (2) That there are parts of our minds whose existence +we do not recognise, either because we will not or because +we cannot, for the reason that they have come to be regarded +as being in conflict with other parts which we have long admitted +as having the first claim to recognition. In other words, +not having known how to adapt certain parts of our mental +machinery to the newer purposes for which we needed them, +we have tried to suppress them or ignore them. In doing so +we have only deceived ourselves, because they are still connected +up with the main engine and influence all of the latter's +output, harmoniously or jarringly—sometimes to the extent of +interfering seriously with its working.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</span></p> + +<p>The work of the practical psychologist is to learn how to +overcome these two difficulties and to teach others how to use +the knowledge. This is the task novelists frequently set themselves, +and some, Willa Cather in “Paul's Case” and Booth +Tarkington in “Alice Adams,” accomplish it admirably. Like +the teacher and the priest, they have learned that surplus energy +of the mind may be diverted from the biologically necessary +activities into other fields of useful and elevating effort. They +have learned that the second difficulty can be best overcome +by facing the truth about our minds, however unpleasant and +unflattering it may at first sight appear to be. Recognition +of the existence of the two primitive urges, the instincts of self-preservation +and of the preservation of the race, is the first +step toward appreciation of their reasonable limitations and +the extent to which they may be brought into harmony with the +requirements of a well-balanced life.</p> + +<p>This leads us to refer for a moment to a tremendous force +which, in any discussion of the working of the instincts, cannot +be ignored. It is a constant effort or tendency, lying behind +all instincts, to attain and maintain mental, emotional, and +spiritual equilibrium. The tendency is expressed by the interaction, +usually automatic and unconscious, which goes on +between complexes and tends to establish the equilibrium. At +the same time the working of individual instincts tends to +upset it. Whenever the automatic process is suspended to any +great degree, as by the cutting off from the rest of the mind +of one complex, the result is a one-sided development which +causes mental disturbances and often eventually mental derangement. +As the instincts and complexes incline to war +among themselves, there is a stabilising influence at work tending +to hold us in mental equilibrium and thus to keep us balanced +or sane. No one in the domain of letters has understood +this force and its potentialities like Dostoievsky. “The Possessed” +is a chart of that sea so subject to storm and agitation. +The effort toward integration is perhaps a true instinct, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</span> +rests on a sound physiological basis, so well described by +Sherrington. It furnishes a genuine theme for description of +life's activities, and well-wrought studies of integration and +disintegration take highest rank in fiction.</p> + +<p>With all their prolixity, the Victorian novelists managed to +depict progress in one direction or another. This is more than +can be said of most modern novelists, who are exhausted when +they have succeeded in a single analysis, and commit the crass +literary error of seeking to explain, when all that the most acute +psychologist could possibly do would be to catch at a pattern, a +direction, and an outcome, as mere description—problem +rather than explanation being the dramatic motive.</p> + +<p>While the novelist's business is to see life and his aspiration +is to understand what he sees, many novelists of today are, by +their work, claiming to understand life in a sense that is not +humanly possible. Human conduct affords the best raw material +for the novelist. If he represents this in such a way that +it seems to reflect life faithfully he is an artist; but the psychological +novelist goes further and feels bound to account for +what he represents. Ordinarily he accounts for it in one of +three ways: (1) by the inscrutability of Providence—as many +of the older novelists did; (2) by theories of his own; (3) by +the theories of those whose profession to understand life and +conduct he accepts. In short, he must have a philosophy of +life. The mistake many novelists are making is to confuse +such a philosophy of life with an explanation of mental processes +and a formula for regulating them. Neither philosophy +nor psychology is an exact science. If a novelist wishes to +describe an operation for appendicitis or a death from a gastric +ulcer, he can easily get the data necessary for making +the description true to fact. But if he aspires to depict the +conduct, under stress, of a person who has for years been a +prey to conflicting fear and aspiration, or jealousy and remorse, +or hatred and conscience, what psychologist can give<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</span> +him a formula for the correct procedure? Who can predict +the reactions of his closest friend under unusual conditions?</p> + +<p>With our earnest realistic novelist ready to sit at the feet +of science and avail himself of its investigations—prepared, as +Shaw would say, to base his work on a genuinely scientific +natural history—there is danger of his basing it, too, upon +psychology which is not “genuinely scientific,” because its +claims cannot be substantiated by experience. While the +novelist is in such a receptive state along comes a scientist, +hedged also with that special authority which physicians possess +in the eyes of many laymen, and offers the complete outfit +of knowledge and (as he assures the novelist) inductively +derived theory that the novelist has been sighing for. This is +Freud. He or his disciples can explain anything in the character +and conduct line while you wait. If you want to know +why a given person is what he is, or why he acts as he does, +Freud can tell you. His outfit is not, ostensibly, “metaphysical,” +like much of the older psychology that our novelist encountered +in college days. It is human, concrete, and surprisingly +easy to understand. A child can grasp the main +principles. Our novelist tests out a few of them on life as he +has known it and finds that they seem to work. If he is not +completely carried off his feet, he may grin at some of the +formulas as he might at a smutty joke, but his own observations +concerning the excessively mothered boy and his reading +of some of the great dramas of the world are to him sufficient +evidence of their soundness; and he bases the behaviour of +his characters upon them with the same assurance of their +accuracy that he would have in basing the account of a surgical +operation and its results upon the data supplied him by a +surgeon who had successfully performed hundreds of exactly +similar operations and watched their after effects.</p> + +<p>One of the rudimentary instincts of human nature is curiosity, +an urge to investigate the unknown, the mysterious. +It is mystery that constitutes romance. It is the unknown that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</span> +makes romance of one's future, fate, fortune, mind—at least +that part of the mind which we do not understand and which +is always taking us by surprise and playing us tricks. +Curiosity is forced movement developed along the lines of interest. +It is quite likely to follow the line of least resistance, +and just now there is little resistance to sex curiosity. Those +who find fascination in the New Psychology today found the +old psychology of a quarter of a century ago a stupid bore. +The old psychology dealt exclusively with what is now called +the “conscious mind:” with analysing the concept of directed +thought, with measuring the processes of the mind which +we harnessed, or believed we harnessed, and drove subject to +our wills to do our work. The old psychology was academic, +dry, as proper and conventional as the C Major scale, without +mystery, without thrills, and therefore without interest, except +to the psychologist.</p> + +<p>The New Psychology is different. And this “difference” is +exactly why it has proved to be almost as effective bait to the +feminine angler after romance which may serve her as caviar +to the prosaic diet of every-day existence as are spiritualism +and the many other cults and new religions whose attraction +and apparent potency are now explainable by what we understand +of this very psychology—or the science of the mind. +There is no reason to suppose that the current doctrines of the +subconscious will do more for civilisation or art than the older +doctrines of consciousness. The fact that they seize the +popular fancy and are espoused with enthusiasm is of no particular +significance, since the very same attitude was an accompaniment +of the older doctrines.</p> + +<p>It would be difficult to exaggerate the prevalent interest in +psychology. I shall cite three indications of it: The pastor +of one of the large and influential churches in New York asked +me a short time ago if I would give a talk on Psychology before +the Girls' Club of his church. When I suggested that some +other subject might be more fitting and helpful, he replied that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</span> +all the girls were reading books on psychology, that he was +sure none or few of them understood what they read, and +that he was convinced that their indulgence was unhealthy. +Should one go into any large general book-shop in New York +or elsewhere and survey the display, he will find that a conspicuous +department is devoted to “Books on Advanced Thinking,” +and upon inquiry he will find that it is the most popular +department of the store. The most uniform information that +a psychiatrist elicits from the families of youths whose minds +have undergone dissolution is that for some time previous to +the onset of symptoms they displayed a great interest in +books on philosophy and psychology, and many of them had +taken up psychoanalysis, or whatever passes under that name; +joined some League of the Higher Illumination; or gone in +for “mental fancy work” of some kind.</p> + +<p>Before taking up specific illustrations of psychology in +modern fiction, I wish to say to amateurs interested in the +study of psychology, that frank recognition of their own unconscious +minds or of the part of their instinctive life or memories +which may have been intentionally or automatically +pushed out of consciousness, does not call for digging into the +unconscious through elaborate processes of introspection or +through invoking the symbolism of dreams. Even were it +done, the result would probably reveal nothing more startling +than would a faithful account of the undirected thoughts which +float uninvited through the mind during any idle hour. For +most normal persons such thoughts need neither to be proclaimed +nor denied. The involuntary effort toward equilibrium +of a normal mind will take adequate care of them. The +study of such mental conditions and processes in abnormal +individuals, however, is often of great service to the psychologist +and facilitates understanding of the workings of both the +normal and the unbalanced mind.</p> + +<p>I also desire to call attention to the value of an objective +mental attitude if one would conserve mental equilibrium and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</span> +keep the working mind at its highest point of health and productivity. +One of the greatest safeguards of mental equilibrium +is the desire for objective truth. This is an indication that +the mind is seeking for harmony between itself and the external +world, and it has a biological basis in the fact that such +harmony between the organism and the external world makes +for security. The desire for objective truth is a straight pathway +between the ego-complex and the ideal of a rational unified +self. Parallel with this rational self there is an ethical +self which has freed itself from the complexes caused by the +conflict between the egoistic instincts and the external moral +codes, and uses the rational self to secure harmony of thought +and action based on self-knowledge. These two ideals may +be pursued consciously and may be made the main support of +that complete and enlightened self-consciousness which is +essential for the most highly developed harmonious personality.</p> + +<p>For a time it seemed to the casual observer that the New +Psychology was so steeped in pruriency that it could not be +investigated without armour and gas mask. Happily such +belief is passing, and many now see in it something more than +the dominancy and vagaries of the libido, which convention +has insisted shall veil its face and which expediency has suggested +shall sit at the foot of the table rather than at the head. +It has awakened a new interest in the life of the spirit, which +is in part or in whole outside consciousness, and it has finally +challenged the statement of the father of modern psychology, +Descartes: “I think, therefore I am.” </p> + +<p>The religionist advises us to “Get right with God.” At +least he is bidding for integration of interests. The humanist +in literature who tries to get life going right with its memories +is doing the same thing. To be on good terms with memory +is happiness; to be on bad terms with it is tragedy. Both are +fields for literary workmanship. The more the individual +works up his memories in contact with his experiences, the +more objective he becomes. On “Main Street” everybody<span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</span> +remembers everything about everybody else and thinking becomes +objective, with aspects no finer than the daily experiences +of the thinkers. There is no chance for romance and +adventure because the memories of the few who erred by +embarking on adventurous ways are so vivid in the minds of +their neighbours, and so often rehearsed by them, as to inhibit +the venturesome. Instead of mental equilibrium between vital +and struggling interests, there is only inertia. This makes a +good theme for a sporadic novel, but it is not a basis for a +school of novelists. Mr. Lewis set himself a task that he could +perform. On a level where life is richer and memories are +crowded out by sensational experiences the task is harder.</p> + +<p>It is a mistake to think that psychology is all introspection +and conjecture of the unconscious. Mental life in the broadest +sense is behaviour, instinctive and intelligent. Few have shown +themselves more competent to observe, estimate, and describe +such behaviour than the author of “Main Street.” That novel +was a study of temperament, a portrayal of environment, and +an attempt to estimate their interaction and to state the result. +It was recognised by those who had encountered or experienced +the temperament and who had lived, voluntarily or +compulsorily, in the environment, to be a true cross-section of +life focussed beneath a microscopic lens, and anyone who examined +it had before him an accurate representation of the +conscious experiences of at least two individuals, and a suggestion +of their unconscious experiences as well. This permitted +the reader, even suggested to him, to compare them +with his own sensations and ideas. Thus it was that emotions, +sentiments, and judgments were engendered which, given expression, +constituted something akin to public opinion. The +result was a beneficence to American literature, for the purpose +of the writer was known, and it was obvious to the +knowing that he had accomplished it.</p> + +<p>In “Babbitt” Mr. Lewis set himself a much more limited +task. The picture is life in a Middle Western city of the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</span> +U. S. A. It is as accurate as if it had been reflected from a +giant mirror or reproduced from a photographic plate. George +F. Babbitt is signalled by his fellow townsmen as an enviable +success from a financial and familiar point of view. Nevertheless +he grows more discontent with life as prosperity overtakes +him. The burden of his complaint is that he has never +done a single thing he wanted to in his whole life. It is hard to +square his words with his actions, but he convinces himself. +So having run the gamut of prosperity, paternity, applause, +wine, women, and song—in his case it is dance, not song—without +appeasement, he finally gets it vicariously through +observing his son who not only knows what he wants to do, but +does it. He summarises what life has taught him in a few +words: “Don't be scared of the family. No, nor of all Zenith. +Nor of yourself, the way I've been. Go ahead, old man! The +world is yours!”</p> + +<p>Mr. Lewis' purpose was to describe the behaviour of a +certain type of man in a certain kind of city, of which the +world is full. He gives the former a definite heredity, an education +with an amalgam of sentiment, a vague belief that +material success spells happiness, that vulgar contact with +one's fellows constitutes companionship, and that Pisgah +sights of life are to be had by gaining a social elevation just +beyond the one occupied. Then he thwarts his ambition to +become a lawyer with an incontrovertible outburst of sex and +sentimentality, and all his life he hears a bell tolling the +echoes of his thwarted ambition. He feels that he has been +tricked by circumstance and environment, and that display +of chivalry to his wife and loyalty to his chum were wasted. +They were indeed, for they had been offered, like the prayers of +the hypocrites, in clubs and in corners of the street, and displayed +for his own glory.</p> + +<p>Materialism was Babbitt's undoing. It destroyed the framework +on which man slings happiness and contentment, and +which is called morality and idealism. When that went he became<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</span> +a creature of Mr. Karel Capek's creation. Mr. Babbitt, +in common with countless benighted parents, cherished a delusion. +He believed that filial love, so-called, is an integral +part of an offspring's make-up. It is an artefact, an acquisition, +a convention: it is a thing like patriotism and creed. +One is born with a certain slant toward it and as soon as he +becomes a cognisant, sentient organism he realises that it is +proper to have it and to display it. In fact he is made to do +so during his formative years; thus it becomes second nature. +And that is just what it is—second nature. Parental love is +first nature. If this were a disquisition on love, instead of on +novelists, I should contend that there are two kinds of love: +a parent's love for its child, especially the mother's; and a +believer's love for God. When Mr. Babbitt wallows in the +trough of the waves of emotion because he doesn't get the +affection and recognition from his children which is his due, he +alienates our sympathy and Mr. Lewis reveals the vulnerable +tendon of his own psychology.</p> + +<p>Were I the dispenser of eugenic licenses to marry, I should +insist that everyone contemplating parenthood should have +read the life history of the spider, especially the female of the +species, who is devoured by her offspring. All novelists should +study spiders first-hand. Filial love, or the delusion of it, +furnishes the material for some of the finest ironies and +deepest tragedies of life, and as Mr. Lewis adopts it as a +medium for characterisation quite free from the teaching of +the Freudians who would make it a fundamental instinct, the +reader is entitled to expect from him a more reasonable treatment +of the subject.</p> + +<p>Babbitt's tragedy in the failure of his children's affection +is the tragedy of millions of parents the world over. There +is hardly a note that would be more sure of wide appeal. +But it cannot be explained by the mere fact that, despite +the Decalogue, no person of reason will ever “honour” where +honour is not merited. It is hard to pity Babbitt because<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</span> +he could not commandeer the filial respect and honour which +he had failed to inspire. If this were all, the situation would +be simple. But, like countless other deluded parents, Babbitt +believes that merely by bringing children into the world +he has staked out a claim on their love, just as the child +has a claim on the love of those who brought him into the +world. And in this belief lies the irony and the tragedy: +in the disparity between tradition and fact; between reason +and instinct. The tradition or convention that filial love corresponds +to parental love probably had its origin in the mind +of the parent who would have liked to supply the child with +such reciprocal instinct—a love that would transcend reason +and survive when respect and honour had failed—but nature +has not kept pact with the parental wish. In the realisation +and acceptance of the truth lies the Gethsemane that each +parent must face who would mount to higher heights of parenthood +than the planes of instinct. Hence the universal +appeal: the reason why the reader sympathises with Babbitt +even while condemning him. He has forfeited the right to what +he might have claimed—honour and affection—to fall back +upon more elemental rights which were a figment of the imagination. +Mr. Lewis' psychology would have struck a truer +note if he had differentiated more clearly between the universal +parent tragedy and Babbitt's own failure as a parent.</p> + +<p>With the regeneration or civic orientation of Babbitt I +am not concerned—that is in the field of ethics. But, as a student +of literary art and craftsmanship, it seems to me the +sawdust in Mr. Lewis' last doll.</p> + +<p>To depict the display of Babbitt's consciousness as Mr. +Lewis has done is to make a contribution to behaviourism, to +make a psychological chart of mental activity. One may call +it realism if one likes, because it narrates facts, but it is first +and foremost a narrative of the activities and operation of +the human mind.</p> + +<p>“Babbitt” may be construed as the American intelligence of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</span> +Mr. Lewis' generation turning on its taskmaster. All men who +live by writing, and have any regard for fine art and “belles +lettres,” or any ideals for which, in extremity, they might be +willing to get out alone with no support from cheering multitudes +and do a little dying on barricades, live and work with +the Babbitt iron in their souls. Mr. Lewis probably had his +full dose of it. He had been an advertising copy-writer, selling +goods by his skill with a pen, to Babbitts, and for Babbitts. +He had been sub-editor for a time of one of those magazines +which are owned and published by Babbitts and tricked out +and bedizened for a “mass circulation” of Babbitts. He hated +Babbitt. When he saw the favourable opportunity he meant +to turn Babbitt inside out and hold him up to scorn. But Mr. +Lewis is not savage enough, and his talent is not swinging and +extravagant enough, and he has not humour enough, to make +him a satirist. He is a photographic artist with an incomparable +capacity for the lingo of “one hundred per cent Americans.” +As he gets deeper and deeper into the odious and +contemptible Babbitt, he begins to be sorry for him, and at the +end he is rather fond of him—faithfully telling the facts about +him all the while. He pities Babbitt in Babbitt's sense of +frustration by social environment and circumstances, and +admires him for telling his son not to let himself be similarly +frustrated.</p> + +<p>To call such a book “an exceedingly clever satire” and its +leading character “an exceedingly clever caricature” is, it +seems to me, to confess unacquaintance with one's countrymen +or unfamiliarity with the conventional meaning of the words +“satire” and “caricature.” Such admission on the part of the +distinguished educator and critic who has recently applied these +terms to it is most improbable.</p> + +<p>If a photograph of a man is caricature and a phonographic +record of his internal and externalised speech constitutes satire, +then “Babbitt” is what the learned professor says it is.</p> + +<p>There is a type of novel much in evidence at present called<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</span> +psychological, which is reputed to depict some of the established +principles of psychology. It should be called the psychoanalytic +novel, and psychoanalysis is only a step-child of +psychology. There are hundreds of such novels. Some of +them are considered at length later. Here I shall mention +only one; “The Things We Are,” by John Middleton Murry. +The story is of a young man, Boston by name, who has been +unfitted for the experiences of adult life by excess of maternal +love—the most familiar of all the Freudian themes. The narrative +is developed largely through description of successive +states of mind of the subject, with only the necessary thread +of story carried by recounting outward events. After the death +of his mother, Boston finds himself unable to take hold of life +and dogged with a sense of the futility of all things. He tries +various kinds of uncongenial work as cure for the sense that +life is but a worthless experience, all of which fail. Finally +he retires to a suburban inn to live on his income, and there, +through the kindly human contact of the innkeeper and his +wife, he experiences the awakening of a latent artistic impulse +for expression and narration. He finds himself believing that +he could give years to becoming the patient chronicler of the +suburb which has provided him such beneficial retreat. Even +his small peep at community and family life gives Mr. Boston +uplift and expansion, and makes more significant the greatest +of the Commandments. He sends for his one London friend, +a literary man, who brings with him the young woman to +whom he is practically engaged. The recently released libido +of Mr. Boston focusses and remains focussed upon her. He +interests her and finally wins her, and the long “inhibited” +Mr. Boston finds himself in “normal” love. The environment +prepared him and “he effected a transformation” on +Felicia—in the language of the psychoanalyst. The thesis of +the story is that for this particular kind of neurotic suffering, +“suppression of the libido,” cure lies in “sublimation of the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</span> +libido,” best effected by art and love in this case, after work, +social service, and religion have been tried and failed.</p> + +<p>The psychology of the sick soul is a science in itself, and is +known as psychotherapy. There are many sick souls in the +world—far more than is suspected. Very few, comparatively, +of them are confined in institutions or cloistered in religious +retreats or universities. The majority of them toil to gain their +daily bread. They are the chief consumers of cloudy stuff and +mystic literature. The purveyors of the latter owe it to them +not to deceive them about psychoanalysis. As a therapeutic +measure it has not been very useful. The novelist should be +careful not to give it more potentiality for righteousness than +it possesses.</p> + +<p>It is the history of panics, epidemics, revivals, and other +emotional episodes that they always recur. The present generation +is fated to be fed on novels embodying the Freudian +theories of consciousness and personality. Like certain bottles +sent out from the pharmacist, they should have a label “poison: +to be used with care.” The contents properly used may be +beneficial, even life saving. They may do harm, great harm. +Freudianism will eventually go the way of all “isms,” but +meanwhile it would be kind of May Sinclair, Harvey J. O'Higgins +<em>et al</em> to warn their readers that their fiction is based on +fiction. A man's life may be determined for him by instincts +which are beyond the power of his reason to influence or +direct, but it has not been proven. It is hypothesis, and application +of the doctrine is inimical to the system of ethics to +which we have conformed our conduct, or tried to conform it, +with indifferent success, for the past nineteen hundred years.</p> + +<p>It is often said that man will never understand his mate. +There are many things he will never understand. One of +them is why he is attracted by spurious jewels when he can +have the genuine for the same price. Ten years ago, or thereabouts, +a jewel of literature was cast before the public and +was scorned. I recall but one discerning critic who estimated<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</span> +it justly, Mr. Harry Dounce. Yet “Bunker Bean” is +one of the few really meritorious American psychological +novels of the present generation. It is done with a lightness +of touch worthy of Anthony Hope at his best; with an insight +of motives, impulses, aspirations, and determinations equal +to the creator of “Mr. Polly”; and with a knowledge of child +psychology that would be creditable to Professor Watson.</p> + +<p>There are few more vivid descriptions of the workings of +the child mind than that given by Mr. Harry Leon Wilson in +the account of Bunker's visit to “Granper” and “Grammer,” +and the seduction of his early childhood by the shell from the +sea. Dickens never portrayed infantile emotions and reactions +with greater verisimilitude than Mr. Wilson when knowledge +of the two inevitables of life—birth and death—came, nearly +simultaneously, to Bunker's budding mind.</p> + +<p>If journals whose purpose is to orient and guide unsophisticated +readers, and to illuminate the road that prospective +readers must travel, would give the “once over” to books +when they are published and the review ten years later, it +would mark a great advance on the present method. If such a +plan were in operation at the present time “Bunker Bean” +would be a best seller and “If Winter Comes” would be substituting +in the coal famine.</p> + +<p>Force or energy in a new form has come into fictional literature +within the past decade, and I propose to consider it as it +is displayed in the writings of those who are mostly responsible +for it: James Joyce, Dorothy Richardson, Marcel Proust, and +to consider some of the younger English novelists from the +point of view of psychology.</p> + + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" >CHAPTER II<br> +<small>IRELAND'S LATEST LITERARY ANTINOMIAN: JAMES JOYCE</small></h2> +</div> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“The supreme question about a work of art is out of +how deep a life does it spring.” —<span class="smcap">Stephen Dædalus.</span></p> +</div> + + +<p>Ireland has had the attention of the world focussed on +her with much constancy the past ten years. She has +weathered her storms; she has calmed her tempests; and she +is fast repairing the devastations of her tornadoes. None but +defamers and ill-wishers contend that she will not bring her +ship of state successfully to port and that it will not find +safe and secure anchorage. During her perilous voyage one +of her rebellious sons has been violently rocking the boat of +literature. His name is James Joyce and his craft has had +various names: first “The Dubliners,” and last “Ulysses.” </p> + +<p>A few intuitive sensitive visionaries may understand and +comprehend “Ulysses,” James Joyce's mammoth volume, without +previous training or instruction, but the average intelligent +reader will glean little or nothing from it, save bewilderment +and disgust. It should be companioned with a key and a +glossary like the Berlitz books. Then the attentive and diligent +reader might get some comprehension of Mr. Joyce's +message, which is to tell of the people whom he has encountered +in his forty years of sentiency; to describe their behaviour +and speech; to analyse their motives; and to characterise +their conduct. He is determined that we shall know +the effect the “world,” sordid, turbulent, disorderly, steeped +in alcohol and saturated with jesuitry, had upon an emotional +Celt, an egocentric genius whose chief diversion has been +blasphemy and keenest pleasure self-exaltation, and whose +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</span> +life-long important occupation has been keeping a note-book +in which he has recorded incident encountered and speech +heard with photographic accuracy and Boswellian fidelity. +Moreover, he is determined to tell them in a new way, not in +straightforward, narrative fashion with a certain sequentiality +of idea, fact, occurrence; in sentence, phrase, and paragraph +that is comprehensible to a person of education and culture; +but in parodies of classic prose and current slang, in perversions +of sacred literature, in carefully metred prose with studied +incoherence, in symbols so occult and mystic that only the +initiated and profoundly versed can understand; in short, by +means of every trick and illusion that a master artificer, or +even magician, can play with the English language.</p> + +<p>It has been said of the writings of Tertullian, one of the +two greatest church writers, that they are rich in thought, and +destitute of form, passionate and hair-splitting, elegant and +pithy in expression, energetic and condensed to the point of +obscurity. Mr. Joyce was devoted to Tertullian in his youth. +Dostoievsky also intrigued him. From him he learned what +he knows of <em>mise en scene</em>, and particularly to disregard the +time element. Ibsen and Hauptmann he called master after he +had weaned himself from Aristotle and St. Thomas Aquinas. +But he calls no one master now; even Homer he calls <em>comare</em>. +It is related that “A.E.” once said to him, “I'm afraid you have +not enough chaos in you to make a world.” The poet was a +poor prophet. Mr. Joyce has made a world, and a chaotic one +in which no decent person wants to live.</p> + +<p>It is likely that there is no one writing English today who +could parallel his feat, and it is also likely that few would +care to do it were they capable. This statement requires that +it be said at once that Mr. Joyce has seen fit to use words and +phrases which the entire world has covenanted not to use and +which people in general, cultured and uncultured, civilised and +savage, believer and heathen, have agreed shall not be used +because they are vulgar, vicious, and vile. Mr. Joyce's reply +to this is: “This race and this country and this life produced +me—I shall express myself as I am.” </p> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</span></p> +</div> + +<figure class="figcenter illowe25" id="ilo_fp39"> + <img class="w100 p2" src="images/ilo_fp39.jpg" alt="ilop37" title="p37ilo"> + <figcaption class="caption p2b"><span class="allsmcap">JAMES JOYCE</span></figcaption> +</figure> + + + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[Pg 37]</span></p> +</div> + +<p>An endurance test should always be preceded by training. +It requires real endurance to finish “Ulysses.” The best training +for it is careful perusal or reperusal of “A Portrait of +the Artist as a Young Man,” the volume published six or +seven years ago which revealed Mr. Joyce's capacity to externalise +his consciousness, to set it down in words. It is the +story of his own life before he exiled himself from his native +land, told with uncommon candour and extraordinary revelations +of thought, impulse, and action, many of them of a nature +and texture which most persons do not feel free to reveal, or +which they do not feel it is decent and proper to confide to +the world.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</span></p> +<p>The facts of Mr. Joyce's life with which the reader who +seeks to comprehend his writings should be familiar are: He +was one of many children of South Ireland Catholic parents. +In his early childhood his father had not yet dissipated their +small fortune and he was sent to Clongowes Wood, a renowned +Jesuit College near Dublin, and remained there until it seemed +to his teachers and his parents that he should decide whether +or not he had a vocation; that is whether he felt within himself, +in his soul, a desire to join the order. Meanwhile he had experienced +the profoundly disturbing impulses of pubescence; +the incoming waves of genesic potency had swept over him, +submerged him, and carried him into a deep trough of sin, +from which, however, he was extricated, resuscitated, and +purged by confession, penitence, and prayer. But the state +of grace would not endure. He lost his faith, and soon his +patriotism, and he held those with whom he formerly worshipped +up to ridicule, and his country and her aspirations up +to contumely. He continued his studies in the Old Royal +University of Dublin, notwithstanding the abject poverty of +his family. He was reputed to be a poet then, and many of +the poems in “Chamber Music” were composed at this period. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</span> +He had no hesitation in admitting the reputation, even contending +for it. “I have written the most perfect lyric since +Shakespeare,” he said to Padraic Colum; and to Yeats, “We +have met too late; you are too old to be influenced by me.” If +belief in his own greatness has ever forsaken him in the years +of trial and distress that have elapsed between then and now, +no one, save possibly one, has heard of it. Mr. William +Hohenzollern in his sanguine moments was never as sure of +himself as Mr. James Joyce in his hours of despair.</p> + +<p>After graduation he decided to study medicine, and, in fact, +he did pursue the study for two or three years, one of them +in the medical school of the University of Paris. Eventually +he became convinced that medicine was not his vocation, even +though funds were available for him to continue his studies, +and he decided to take up singing as a profession, “having a +phenomenally beautiful tenor voice.” These three novitiates +furnished him with all the material he has used in the four +volumes that he has published. Matrimony, parentage, ill-health, +and a number of other factors put an end to his musical +ambitions. He taught for a brief time in Dublin and wrote +the stories that are in “Dubliners,” which his countrymen +baptised with fire; and began the “Portrait.” But he couldn't +tolerate “a place fettered by the reformed conscience, a country +in which the symbol of its art was the cracked looking-glass of a +servant,” so he betook himself to a country in the last explosive +crisis of paretic grandeur. In Trieste he gained his daily bread +by teaching Austrians English and Italian, having a mastery +of the latter language that would flatter a Padovian professor. +The war drove him to the haven of the expatriate, Switzerland, +and for four years he taught German, Italian, French, English, +to anyone in Zurich who had time, ambition, and money to +acquire a new language. Since the Armistice he has lived in +Paris, first finishing the book which is his <em>magnum opus</em> and +which he says and believes represents everything that he has +to say or will have to say, and he is now enjoying the fame<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</span> +and the infamy which its publication and three editions within +two years have brought him.</p> + +<p>As a boy Mr. Joyce's cherished hero was Odysseus. He approved +of his subterfuge for evading military service; he envied +him the companionship of Penelope; and all his latent vengeance +was vicariously satisfied by reading of the way in which +he revenged himself on Palamedes. The craftiness and resourcefulness +of the final artificer of the siege of Troy made +him permanently big with envy and admiration. But it was +the ten years of his hero's life after he had eaten of the lotus +plant, that wholly seduced Mr. Joyce and appeased his emotional +soul. As years went by he realised that his own experiences +were not unlike those of the slayer of Polyphemus and the +favourite of Pallas-Athene, and after careful deliberation and +planning he decided to write an Odyssey. In early childhood +Mr. Joyce had identified himself with Dædalus, the Athenian +architect, sculptor, and magician, and in all his writings he +carries on in the name of Stephen Dædalus. Like the original +Dædalus, his genius is great, his vanity is greater, and he can +brook no rival. Like his prototype, he was exiled from his +native land after he had made a great contribution to the +world. Like him, he was received kindly in exile, and like him, +also, having ingeniously contrived wings for himself and used +them successfully, he is now enjoying a period of tranquillity +after his sufferings and his labour.</p> + +<p>“Ulysses” is the record of the thoughts, antics, vagaries, +and actions—more particularly the thoughts—of Stephen Dædalus, +an Irishman, of artistic temperament; of Leopold Bloom, +an Irish-Hungarian Jew, of scientific temperament and perverted +instincts; and of his wife, Marion Tweedy, daughter +of an Irish major of the Royal Dublin Fusiliers stationed in +Gibraltar, and a Jewish girl. Marion was a concert singer +given to coprophilly, especially in her involutional stages, +spiritual and physical. Bloom's acquired perversion he attempted<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</span> +to conceal by canvassing for advertisements for <em>The +Freeman</em>.</p> + +<p>Dublin is the scene of action. The events—those that can +be mentioned—and their sequence are:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“The preparation for breakfast, intestinal congestion, the +bath, the funeral, the advertisement of Alexander Keyes, the +unsubstantial lunch, the visit to Museum and National Library, +the book-hunt along Bedford Row, Merchants' Arch, +Wellington Quay, the music in the Ormond Hotel, the altercation +with a truculent troglodyte, in Bernard Kierman's premises, +a blank period of time including a car-drive, a visit to a +house of mourning, a leave-taking, ... the prolonged delivery +of Mrs. Nina Purefoy, the visit to a disorderly house +... and subsequent brawl and chance medley in Beaver +Street, nocturnal perambulation to and from the cabman's +shelter, Butt Bridge.” </p> +</div> + +<p>And these are some of the things they thought and talked of:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“Music, literature, Ireland, Dublin, Paris, friendship, +woman, prostitution, diet, the influence of gaslight or the light +of arc and glowlamps on the growth of adjoining paraheliotropic +trees, exposed corporation emergency dustbuckets, the +Roman catholic church, ecclesiastical celibacy, the Irish nation, +Jesuit education, careers, the study of medicine, the past +day, the maleficent influence of the presabbath, Stephen's +collapse.” </p> +</div> + +<p>Mr. Joyce is an alert, keen-witted, educated man who has +made it a life-long habit to jot down every thought that he has +had, drunk or sober, depressed or exalted, despairing or hopeful, +hungry or satiated, in brothel or in sanctuary, and likewise +to put down what he has seen or heard others do or say—and +rhythm has from infancy been an enchantment of the +heart. It is not unlikely that every thought he has had, +every experience he has ever encountered, every person he +has ever met, one might say everything he has ever read in +sacred or profane literature, is to be encountered in the obscurities<span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</span> +and in the franknesses of “Ulysses.” If personality +is the sum total of all one's experiences, all one's thoughts and +emotions, inhibitions and liberations, acquisitions and inheritances, +then it may truthfully be said that “Ulysses” comes +nearer to being the perfect revelation of a personality than any +book I know.</p> + +<p>He sets down every thought that comes into consciousness. +Decency, propriety, pertinency are not considered. He does +not seek to give them orderliness, sequence, or conclusiveness. +His literary output would seem to substantiate some of Freud's +contentions. The majority of writers, practically all, transfer +their conscious, deliberate thought to paper. Mr. Joyce transfers +the product of his unconscious mind to paper without +submitting it to the conscious mind, or if he submits it, it is +to receive approval and encouragement, perhaps even praise. +He holds with Freud that the unconscious mind represents the +real man, the man of Nature, and the conscious mind the +artificed man, the man of convention, of expediency, the slave +of Mrs. Grundy, the sycophant of the Church, the plastic +puppet of Society and State. For him the movements which +work revolutions in the world are born out of the dreams and +visions in a peasant's heart on the hillside. “Peasant's heart” +psychologically is the unconscious mind. When a master +technician of words and phrases set himself the task of revealing +the product of the unconscious mind of a moral monster, +a pervert and an invert, an apostate to his race and his +religion, the simulacrum of a man who has neither cultural +background nor personal self-respect, who can neither be +taught by experience nor lessoned by example, as Mr. Joyce +did in drawing the picture of Leopold Bloom, he undoubtedly +knew full well what he was undertaking, how unacceptable +the vile contents of that unconscious mind would be +to ninety-nine out of a hundred readers, and how incensed +they would be at having the disgusting product thrown in their +faces. But that has nothing to do with the question: has the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</span> +job been done well; is it a work of art? The answer is in the +affirmative.</p> + +<p>The proceedings of the council of the gods, with which the +book opens, are tame. Stephen Dædalus, the Telemachus of +this Odyssey, is seen chafing beneath his sin—refusal to +kneel down at the bedside of his dying mother and pray for +her—while having an <em>al fresco</em> breakfast in a semi-abandoned +turret with his friend Buck Mulligan (now an esteemed physician +of Dublin), and a ponderous Saxon from Oxford whose +father “made his tin by selling jalap to the Zulus,” who applauds +Stephen's sarcasms and witticisms. Stephen has a +grouch because Buck Mulligan has referred to him, “O, it's +only Dædalus whose mother is beastly dead.” This Stephen +construes to be an offense to him, not to his mother. Persecutory +ideas are dear to Stephen Dædalus. In his moody +brooding this is how he welds words:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“Woodshadows floated silently by through the morning +peace from the stairhead seaward where he gazed. Inshore +and farther out the mirror of water whitened, spurned by +lightshod hurrying feet. White breast of the dim sea. The +twining stresses, two by two. A hand plucking the harp-strings +merging their twining chords. Wavewhite wedded +words shimmering on the dim tide.” </p> +</div> + +<p>Meanwhile his sin pursues him as “the Russian gentleman +of a particular kind” pursued Ivan Karamazov when delirium +began to overtake him. He recalls his mother, her secrets, +her illness, her last appeals. While breakfasting Buck and +Stephen plan a glorious drunk to astonish the druidy druids, +with the latter's wage of schoolmaster which he will receive +that day. Later Buck goes in the sea while Stephen animadverts +on Ireland's two masters, the Pope of Rome and the +King of England, and recites blasphemous poetry.</p> + +<p>Stephen spends the forenoon in school, then takes leave of +the pedantic proprietor, who gives him his salary and a paper +on foot and mouth disease. Telemachus embarks on his voyage,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</span> +and the goddess who sails with him communes with him +as follows:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“Ineluctable modality of the visible; at least that if no +more, thought through my eyes. Signatures of all things I +am here to read, seaspawn and seawrack, the nearing tide, +that rusty boot. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. +Limits of the diaphane. But he adds: in bodies. Then he was +aware of them bodies before of them coloured. How? By +knocking his sconce against them, sure. Go easy. Bald he +was and a millionaire, <em>maestro di color che sanno</em>. Limit of +the diaphane in. Why in? Diaphane, adiaphane. If you can +put your five fingers through it, it is a gate, if not a door. +Shut your eyes and see.” </p> +</div> + +<p>This is the first specimen of the saltatory, flitting, fugitive, +on-the-surface purposeless thought that Stephen produces as he +walks Sandymount Strand. From this point the book teems +with it and with Bloom's autistic thoughts. It is quite impossible +to give a synopsis or summary of them. It must +suffice to say that in the fifteen pages Mr. Joyce devotes to +the first leg of the voyage that will give him news of Ulysses, +an hour's duration, a film picture has been thrown on the +screen of his visual cortex for which he writes legends as fast +as the machine reels them off. It is Mr. Joyce's life that is +thus remembered: his thoughts, ambitions, aspirations, failures, +and disappointments; the record of his contacts and their +engenderment—what was and what might have been. On +casual examination, such record transformed into print looks +like gibberish, and is meaningless. So does shorthand. It is +full of meaning for anyone who knows how to read it.</p> + +<p>The next fifty pages are devoted to displaying the reel of +Mr. Leopold Bloom's mind, the workings of his psycho-physical +machinery, autonomic and heteronomic, the idle and purposeful +thoughts of the most obnoxious wretch of all mankind, +as Eolus called the real Ulysses. While he forages for +his wife's breakfast, prepares and serves it, his thoughts and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</span> +reflections are answers to the question “Digman, how camest +thou into the realms of darkness?” for no burial honours yet +had Irish Elpenor received.</p> + +<p>Then follows a picture of Dublin before the revolution, its +newspapers, and the men who made them, with comment and +characterisation by Stephen Dædalus, interpolations and +solicitations by Leopold Bloom. Naturally the reader who +knew or knew of William Brayden, Esquire, of Oakland, +Sandymount, Mr. J. J. Smolley whose speech reminds of Edmund +Burke's writings, or Mr. Myles Crawford whose witticisms +are founded on Pietro Aretino, would find this chapter +more illuminating, though not more entertaining, than one +who had heard of Dublin for the first time in 1914. Nor does +it facilitate understanding of the conversation there to know +the geography of an isle afloat where lived the son of Hippotas, +his six daughters, and six blooming sons.</p> + +<p>Bloom continues his apparently purposeless and obviously +purposeful thoughts after the Irish Læstrygonians had stoned +him, for another fifty pages. Everything he sees and everyone +he encounters generate them. They are connected, yet they are +disparate. I choose one of the simplest and easiest to quote:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“A procession of whitesmocked men marched slowly towards +him along the gutter, scarlet sashes across their boards. Bargains. +Like that priest they are this morning: we have sinned, +we have suffered. He read the scarlet letters on their five +tall white hats: H. E. L. Y. S. Wisdom Hely's. Y lagging +behind drew a chunk of bread from under his foreboard, +crammed it into his mouth and munched as he walked. Our +staple food. Three bob a day, walking along the gutters, +street after street. Just keep skin and bone together, bread +and skilly. They are not Boyl: no: M'Glade's men. Doesn't +bring in any business either. I suggested to him about a +transparent show cart with two smart girls sitting inside +writing letters, copybooks, envelopes, blotting paper. I bet +that would have caught on. Smart girls writing something +catch the eye at once. Everyone dying to know what she's<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</span> +writing. Get twenty of them round you if you stare at nothing. +Have a finger in the pie. Women too. Curiosity. Pillar of +salt. Wouldn't have it of course because he didn't think of it +himself first. Or the inkbottle I suggested with a false stain +of black celluloid. His ideas for ads like Plumtree's potted +under the obituaries, cold meat department. You can't like +'em. What? Our envelops. Hello! Jones, where are you +going? Can't stop, Robinson, I am hastening to purchase the +only reliable inkeraser <em>Kansell</em>, sold by Hely's Ltd., 85 Dame +Street. Well out of that ruck I am. Devil of a job it was +collecting accounts of those convents. Tranquilla convent. +That was a nice nun there, really sweet face. Wimple suited +her small head. Sister? Sister? I am sure she was crossed +in love by her eyes. Very hard to bargain with that sort of a +woman. I disturbed her at her devotions that morning. But +glad to communicate with the outside world. Our great day, +she said, Feast of Our Lady of Mount Carmel. Sweet name +too: caramel. She knew, I think she knew by the way she. +If she had married she would have changed. I suppose they +really were short of money. Fried everything in the best +butter all the same. No lard for them. My heart's broke +eating dripping. They like buttering themselves in and out. +Molly tasting it, her veil up. Sister? Pat Claffey, the pawn-broker's +daughter. It was a nun they say invented barbed +wire.” </p> +</div> + +<p>Man may not think like this, but it is up to the psychologist +to prove it. So far as I know he does. Lunatics do, in +manic “flights”; and flights of ideas are but accentuations of +normal mental activity.</p> + +<p>The following is a specimen of what psychologists call +“flight of ideas.” To the uninitiated reader it means nothing. +To the initiated it is like the writing on the wall.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“Bloom. Flood of warm jimjam lickitup secretness flowed +to flow in music out, in desire, dark to lick flow, invading. +Tipping her tepping her tapping her topping her. Tup. Pores +to dilate dilating. Tup. The joy the feel the warm the. Tup. +To pour o'er sluices pouring gushes. Flood, gush, flow, joy-gush, +tupthrop. Now! Language of love.” </p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</span></p> + +<p>In the next section Stephen holds forth on ideals and literature +and gives the world that which Mr. Joyce gave his fellow +students in Dublin to satiety, viz. his views of Shakespeare, +and particularly his conception of Hamlet. “Shakespeare is +the happy hunting ground of all minds that have lost their +balance,” one of his cronies remarked. Even in those days +Mr. Joyce's ideas of grandeur suggested to a student of +psychiatry who heard him talk that he had the mental disease +with which that symptom is most constantly associated, +and to another of his auditors that he had an <em>idée fixe</em>, and +that “the moral idea seems lacking, the sense of destiny, of +retribution.” They never hurt Mr. Joyce—such views as +these. The armour of his <em>amour propre</em> has never been +pierced; the belief in his destiny has never wavered. The +meeting in the National Library twenty years ago gives him +opportunity to display philosophic erudition, dialectic skill, and +artistic feeling in his talk with the young men and their +elders. It would be interesting to know from any of them, +or from Mr. T. S. Eliot, if the following is the sort of grist +that is brought to the free-verse miller, and can poetry be +made from it.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“Yogibogeybox in Dawson chambers. <em>Isis Unveiled.</em> Their +Pali book we tried to pawn. Crosslegged under an umbrel +umbershoot he thrones an Aztec logos, functioning on astral +levels, their oversoul, mahamahatma. The faithful hermetists +await the light, ripe for chelaship, ringroundabout him. Louis +H. Victory. T. Caulfield Irwin. Lotus ladies tend them i' the +eyes, their pineal glands aglow. Filled with his god he +thrones, Buddh under plantain. Gulfer of souls, engulfer. +He souls, she souls, shoals of souls. Engulfed with wailing +creecries, whirled, whirling, they bewail.” </p> +</div> + +<p>In contrast with this take the following description of the +drowned man in Dublin Bay as a specimen of masterly realism:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“Five fathoms out there. Full fathom five thy father lies. +At one he said. Found drowned. High water at Dublin Bar.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</span> +Driving before it a loose drift of rubble, fanshoals of fishes, +silly shells. A corpse rising saltwhite from the undertow, +bobbing landward, a pace a pace a porpoise. There he is. +Hook it quick. Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor. +We have him. Easy now. Bag of corpsegas sopping in foul +brine.... Dead breaths I living breathe, tread dead dust.... +Hauled stark over the gunwale he breathes upward the +stench of his green grave, his leprous nosehole snorting to +the sun.” </p> +</div> + +<p>There are so many “specimens” of writing in the volume +that it is quite impossible to give examples of them. Frankness +compels me to state that he goes out of his way to scoff +at God and to besmirch convention, but that's to show he is +not afraid, like the man who defied God to kill him at 9.48 p.m.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“The playwright who wrote the folio of this world and wrote +it badly (He gave us light first and the sun two days later), +the lord of things as they are whom the most Roman of +catholics call <em>bio boia</em>, hangman god, is doubtless all in all in +all of us, ostler and butcher, and would be bawd and cuckold +too but that in the economy of heaven, foretold by Hamlet, +there are no more marriages, glorified man, an androgynous +angel, being a wife unto himself.” </p> +</div> + +<p>The Dædalus family and their neighbourhood—their pawn-brokers, +shopkeepers, spiritual advisers; the people they despised, +those they envied, the Viceroy of Ireland, now come in +for consideration. Mr. Dædalus is a sweet-tempered, mealy-mouthed +man given to strong drink and high-grade vagrancy +who calls his daughters “an insolent pack of little bitches since +your poor mother died.” Their appearances and emotional +reactions, and their contacts with Stephen and Bloom who +are passing the time till they shall begin the orgy which is the +high-water mark of the book, are instructive to the student of +behaviouristic psychology.</p> + +<p>Readers of Dostoievsky rarely fail to note the fact that +occurrences of a few hours required hundreds of pages to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</span> +narrate. The element of time seems to have been eliminated. +It is the same in “Ulysses.” This enormous volume of seven +hundred and thirty-two pages is taken up with thoughts of two +men during twelve hours of sobriety and six of drunkenness. +I do not know the population of Dublin, but whatever it may +be, a vast number of these people come into the ken of Dædalus +and Bloom during those hours, and into the readers'; for it is +through their eyes and their ears that we see and hear what +transpires and is said. And so the trusting reader accompanies +one or both of them to the beach, and observes them in revery +and in repose; or to a café concert, and observes them in ructions +and in ruminations. A countryman of Mr. Joyce, Edmund +Burke, said “custom reconciles us to everything,” and +after we have accompanied these earthly twins, Stephen and +Leopold, thus far, we do not baulk at the lying-in hospital or +even the red light district, though others more sensitive and less +tolerant than myself would surely wish they had deserted the +“bark-waggons” when the occupants were invited into the +brothel.</p> + +<p>The book in reality is a moving picture with picturesque +legends, many profane and more vulgar. For a brief time +Mr. Joyce was associated with the “movies,” and the form in +which “Ulysses” was cast may have been suggested by experiences +with the Volta Theatre, as his cinematograph enterprise +was called.</p> + +<p>Mr. Joyce learned from St. Thomas Aquinas what Socrates +learned from his mother: how to bring thoughts into the +world; and from his boyhood he had a tenderness for rhythm. +It crops out frequently in “Ulysses.” </p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“In Inisfail the fair there lies a land, the land of holy +Michan. There rises a watchtower beheld of men afar. There +sleep the mighty dead as in life they slept, warrior and princes +of high renown. A pleasant land it is in sooth of murmuring +waters, fishful streams where sport the gunnard, the plaice, the +roach, the halibut, the gibbed haddock, the grilse, the dab,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</span> +the brill, the flounder, the mixed coarse fish generally and +other denizens of the aqueous kingdom too numerous to +be enumerated. In the mild breezes of the west and of the +east the lofty trees wave in different directions their first class +foliage, the wafty sycamore, the Lebanonian cedar, the exalted +planetree, the eugenic eucalyptus and other ornaments of +the arboreal world with which that region is thoroughly well +supplied. Lovely maidens sit in close proximity to the roots +of the lovely trees singing the most lovely songs while they +play with all kinds of lovely objects as for example golden +ingots, silvery fishes, crans of herrings, drafts of eels, codlings, +creels of fingerlings, purple seagems and playful insects. And +heroes voyage from afar to woo them, from Eblana to +Slievemargy, the peerless princes of unfettered Munster and +of Connacht the just and of smooth sleek Leinster and of +Cruachan's land and of Armagh the splendid and of the noble +district of Boyle, princes, the sons of kings.” </p> +</div> + +<p>At other times he seems to echo the sonorous phrasing of +some forgotten master: Pater or Rabelais, or to paraphrase +William Morris or Walt Whitman, or to pilfer from the Reverend +William Sunday.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“The figure seated on a large boulder at the foot of a +round tower was that of a broadshouldered deepchested +stronglimbed frankeyed red-haired freely freckled shaggybearded +widemouthed largenosed longheaded deepvoiced barekneed +brawnyhanded hairylegged ruddyfaced, sinewyarmed +hero. From shoulder to shoulder he measured several ells +and his rocklike mountainous knees were covered, as was +likewise the rest of his body wherever visible, with a strong +growth of tawny prickly hair in hue and toughness similar +to the mountain gorse (<em>Ulex Europeus</em>). The widewinged +nostrils, from which bristles of the same tawny hue projected, +were of such capaciousness that within their cavernous obscurity +the fieldlark might easily have lodged her nest. The +eyes in which a tear and a smile strove ever for the mastery +were of the dimensions of a goodsized cauliflower. A powerful +current of warm breath issued at regular intervals from the +profound cavity of his mouth while in rhythmic resonance the +loud strong hale reverberations of his formidable heart thundered<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</span> +rumblingly causing the ground, the summit of the lofty +tower and the still loftier walls of the cave to vibrate and +tremble.” </p> +</div> + +<p>The chapter from which these quotations are taken, when +the friends turn into Barney Kiernan's to slake their thirst, +shows Mr. Joyce with loosed tongue—the voluble, witty, +philosophic Celt, with an extraordinary faculty of words. If +an expert stenographer had taken down the ejaculations as +they spurted from the mouth of Tom and Jerry, and the +deliberations of Alf and Joe, and the other characters of impulsive +energy and vivid desire, then accurately transcribed +them, interpolating “says” frequently, they would read like +this chapter.</p> + +<p>Conspicuous amongst Mr. Joyce's possessions is a gift for +facile emotional utterance. The reader feels himself affected +by his impulses and swept along by his eloquence. He is +scathingly sarcastic about Irish cultural and political aspirations; +loathsomely lewd about their morals and habits; merciless +in his revelations of their temperamental possessions and +infirmities; and arbitrary and unyielding in his belief that +their degeneration is beyond redemption. Like the buckets +on an endless chain of a dredger, the vials of his wrath are +poured time after time upon England and the British Empire +“on which the sun never rises,” but they are never emptied. +Finally he embodies his sentiment in paraphrase of the Creed.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“They believe in rod, the scourger almighty, creator of hell +upon earth and in Jacky Tar, the son of a gun, who was conceived +of unholy boast, born of the fighting navy, suffered +under rump and dozen, was scarified, flayed and curried, yelled +like bloody hell, the third day he arose again from the bed, +steered into haven, sitteth on his beamend till further orders +whence he shall come to drudge for a living and be paid.” </p> +</div> + +<p>He recounts his country's former days of fame and fortune, +but he doesn't foresee any of the happenings of the past three +years.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</span></p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“Where are our missing twenty millions of Irish should be +here today instead of four, our lost tribes? And our potteries +and textiles, the finest in the whole world! And our wool that +was sold in Rome in the time of Juvenal and our flax and our +damask from the looms of Antrim and our Limerick lace, +our tanneries and our white flint glass down there by Ballybough +and our Huguenot poplin that we have since Jacquand +de Lyon and our woven silk and our Foxford tweeds and +ivory raised point from the Carmelite convent in New Ross, +nothing like it in the whole wide world. Where are the Greek +merchants that came through the pillars of Hercules, the +Gibraltar now grabbed by the foe of mankind, with gold and +Tyrian purple to sell in Wexford at the fair of Carmen? +Read Tacitus and Ptolemy, even Giraldus Cambrensis, Wine, +peltries, Connemara marble, silver from Tipperary, second to +none, our farfamed horses even today, the Irish hobbies, with +King Philip of Spain offering to pay customs duties for the +right to fish in our waters. What do the yellowjohns of +Anglia owe us for our ruined trade and our ruined hearths? +And the beds of the Barrow and Shannon they won't deepen +with millions of acres of marsh and bog to make us all die of +consumption.” </p> +</div> + +<p>Nowhere is his note-book more evident than in this chapter. +Krafft-Ebing, a noted Viennese psychiatrist, said a certain +disease was due to civilisation and syphilisation. Mr. Joyce +made note of it and uses it. The <em>Slocum</em> steamboat disaster in +New York, which touched all American hearts twenty years +ago; the prurient details of a scandal in “loop” circles of Chicago; +a lynching in the South are referred to as casually by +Lenehan, Wyse <em>et al</em> while consuming their two pints, as if +they were family matters.</p> + +<p>That the author has succeeded in cutting and holding up +to view a slice of life in this chapter and in the succeeding one—Bloom +amongst the Nurse-girls—it would be idle to deny. +That it is sordid and repulsive need scarcely be said. It has +this in common with the writings of all the naturalists.</p> + +<p>The author's familiarity with the Dadaists is best seen in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</span> +his chapter on the visit to the Lying-in Hospital. Some of it +is done in the pseudostyle of the English and Norse Saga; some +in the method adopted by d'Annunzio in his composition of +“Nocturne.” He wrote thousands and thousands of words on +small pieces of paper, then threw them into a basket, and +shuffled them thoroughly. With a blank sheet before him +and a dripping mucilage brush in one hand, he proceeded to +paste them one after another on the sheet. A sample of +the result is:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“Universally that person's acumen is esteemed very little +perceptive concerning whatsoever matters are being held as +most profitably by mortals with sapience endowed to be +studied who is ignorant of that which the most in doctrine +erudite and certainly by reason of that in them high mind's +ornament deserving of veneration constantly maintain when +by general consent they affirm that other circumstances being +equal by no exterior splendour is the prosperity of a nation +more efficaciously asserted than by the measure of how far +forward may have progressed the tribute of its solicitude for +that proliferent continuance which of evils the original if it be +absent when fortunately present constitutes the certain sign +of omnipollent nature's incorrupted benefaction.” </p> +</div> + +<p>Tired of this, he paraphrases the Holy Writ.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“And whiles they spake the door of the castle was opened +and there nighed them a mickle noise as of many that sat +there at meat. And there came against the place as they stood +a young learning knight yclept Dixon. And the traveller +Leopold was couth to him sithen it had happed that they had +had ado each with other in the house of misericord where this +learning knight lay by cause the traveller Leopold came there +to be healed for he was sore wounded in his breast by a spear +wherewith a horrible and dreadful dragon was smitten him +for which he did do make a salve of volatile salt and chrism +as much as he might suffice. And he said now that he should +go into that castle for to make merry with them that were +there.” </p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</span></p> + +<p>When this palls, he apes a satirist like Rabelais, or a mystic +like Bunyan. Weary of this, he turns to a treatise on embryology +and a volume of obstetrics and strains them through +his mind. One day some serious person, a disciple or a benighted +admirer, such as M. Valery Larbaud, will go through +“Ulysses” to find references to toxicology, Mosaic law, the +Kamustra, eugenics, etc., as such persons and scholars have +gone through Shakespeare. Until it is done no one will believe +the number of subjects he touches is marvellous, and +sometimes even the way he does it. For instance this on +birth control:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“Murmur, Sirs, is eke oft among lay folk. Both babe and +parent now glorify their Maker, the one limbo gloom, the +other in purge fire. But, Gramercy, what of those Godpossibled +souls that we nightly impossibilise, which is the sin +against the Holy Ghost, Very God, Lord and Giver of Life.” </p> +</div> + +<p>It is worthy of note also that Mr. Joyce defines specifically +the sin against the Holy Ghost, which for long has been a +stumbling block to priest and physician. He does not agree +with the great Scandinavian writer toward whom he looked +reverently in his youth. Ella Rentheim says to Borkman, +“The Bible speaks of a mysterious sin for which there is no +forgiveness. I have never understood what it could be; but +now I understand. The great, unpardonable sin is to murder +the love-life in a human soul.” </p> + +<p>The object of it all is to display the thought and erudition +of Stephen Dædalus, “a sensitive nature, smarting under the +lashes of an undivined and squalid way of life”; and the emotions, +perversions, and ambitions of Leopold Bloom, a devotee +of applied science, whose inventions were for the purpose of</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“rendering obsolete popguns, elastic airbladders, games of +hazard, catapults. They comprised astronomical kaleidoscopes, +exhibiting the twelve constellations of the Zodiac from<span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</span> +Aries to Pisces, miniature mechanical orreries, arithmetical +gelatine lozenges, geometrical to correspond with zoological +biscuits, globemap playing balls, historically costumed dolls.” </p> +</div> + +<p>It is particularly in the next chapter, one of the strangest +of literature, that Mr. Joyce displays the apogee of his art. +Dædalus and Bloom have passed in review on a mystic stage +all their intimates and enemies, all their detractors and sycophants, +the scum of Dublin, and the spawn of the devil. Mr. +Joyce resurrects Saint Walpurgis, galvanises her into life after +twelve centuries' death intimacy with Beelzebub, and substituting +a squalid section of Dublin for Brocken, proceeds to +depict a festival, the devil being host. The guests in the flesh +and of the spirit have still many of their distinctive corporeal +possessions, but the reactions of life no longer exist. The +chapter is replete with wit, humour, satire, philosophy, learning, +knowledge of human frailties, and human indulgences, +especially with the brakes of morality off. And alcohol or +congenital deficiency takes them off for most of the characters. +It reeks of lust and filth, but Mr. Joyce says life does, and +the morality he depicts is the only one he knows.</p> + +<p>In this chapter is compressed all of the author's experiences, +all his determinations and unyieldingness, and most of the +incidents that gave a persecutory twist to his mind, made +him an exile from his native land, and deprived him of the +courage to return. He does not hesitate to bring in the ghost +of his mother whom he had been accused of killing because +he would not kneel down and pray for her when she was +dying, and to question her as to the verity of the accusation. +But he does not repent even when she returns from the spiritual +world. In fact, the capacity for repentance is left out of Mr. +Joyce's make-up. It is as impossible to convince Mr. Joyce that +he is wrong about anything on which he has made up his mind +as it is to convince a paranoiac of the unreality of his false +beliefs, or a jealous woman of the groundlessness of her suspicions.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</span> +It may be said that this chapter does not represent +life, but I venture to say that it represents life with photographic +accuracy as Mr. Joyce has seen it and lived it; that every +scene has come within his gaze; that every speech has been +heard or said; and every sentiment experienced or thrust upon +him. It is a mirror held up to life—life which we could sincerely +wish and devoutly pray that we were spared; for it is +life in which happiness is impossible, save when forgetfulness +of its existence is brought about by alcohol, and in which +mankind is destitute of virtue, deprived of ideals, deserted +by love.</p> + +<p>To disclaim it is life that countless men and women know +would be untrue, absurd, and libellous. I do not know that +Mr. Joyce makes any such claim, but I claim that it is life +that he has known.</p> + +<p>Mr. Joyce had the good fortune to be born with a quality +which the world calls genius. Nature exacts a galling income +tax from genius, and as a rule she co-endows it with unamenability +to law and order. Genius and reverence are antipodal, +Galileo being the exception to the rule. Mr. Joyce has no +reverence for organised religion, for conventional morality, +for literary style or form. He has no conception of the word +obedience, and he bends the knee neither to God nor man. +It is interesting and important to have the revelations of such +a personality, to have them first hand and not dressed up. +Heretofore our only avenues of information concerning them +led through asylums for the insane, for it was there that revelations +were made without reserve. I have spent much time and +money in my endeavour to get such revelations, without great +success. Mr. Joyce has made it unnecessary for me to pursue +the quest. He has supplied the little and big pieces of material +from which the mental mosaic is made.</p> + +<p>He had the profound misfortune to lose his faith, and he +cannot rid himself of the obsession that the Jesuits did it for +him. He is trying to get square by saying disagreeable things<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</span> +about them and holding their teachings up to scorn and obloquy. +He was so unfortunate as to be born without a sense of duty, +of service, of conformity to the State, to the community, to +society; and he is convinced he should tell about it, just as +some who have experienced a surgical operation feel that they +must relate minutely all its details, particularly at dinner parties +and to casual acquaintances.</p> + +<p>Not ten men or women out of a hundred can read “Ulysses” +through, and of the ten who succeed in doing it for five of them +it will be a <em>tour de force</em>. I am probably the only person +aside from the author that has ever read it twice from beginning +to end. I read it as a test of Christian fortitude: to +see if I could still love my fellow-man after reading a book +that depicts such repugnance of humanity, such abhorence +of the human body, and such loathsomeness of the possession +that links man with God, the creative endowment. Also the +author is a psychologist, and I find his empiric knowledge supplements +mine acquired by prolonged and sustained effort.</p> + +<p>M. Valery Larbaud, a French critic who hailed “Ulysses” +with the reverence with which Boccaccio hailed the Divine +Comedy, and who has been giving conferences on “Ulysses” in +Paris, says the key to the book is Homer's immortal poem. If +M. Larbaud has the key he cannot spring the lock of the door +of the dark safe in which “Ulysses” rests, metaphorically, for +most readers. At least he has not done so up to this writing.</p> + +<p>The key is to be found in the antepenultimate chapter of +the book; and it isn't a key, it's a combination, a countryman +of Mr. Joyce's might say. Anyone who tries at it long enough +will succeed in working it, even if he is not of M. Larbaud's +cultivated readers who can fully appreciate such authors as +Rabelais, Montaigne, and Descartes.</p> + +<p>The symbolism of the book is something that concerns only +Mr. Joyce, as nuns do, and other animate and inanimate things +of which he has fugitive thoughts and systematised beliefs.</p> + +<p>After the Cheu-sinese orgy, Bloom takes Stephen home, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</span> +unfortunately they awaken Marion, for she embraces the occasion +to purge her mind in soliloquy. Odo of Cluny never +said anything of a woman's body in life that is so repulsive as +that which Mr. Joyce has said of Marion's mind: a cesspool +of forty years' accumulation. Into it has drained the inherited +vulgarities of Jew and gentile parent; within it has accumulated +the increment of a sordid, dissolute life in two countries, +extending over twenty-five years; in it have been compressed +the putrid exhalations of studied devotion to sense gratification. +Mr. Joyce takes off the lid and opens the sluice-way +simultaneously, and the result is that the reader, even though +his sensitisation has been fortified by reading the book, is +bowled over. As soon as he regains equilibrium he communes +with himself to the effect that if the world has many Marions +missionaries should be withdrawn from heathen countries and +turned into this field where their work will be praised by man +and rewarded by God.</p> + +<p>Mental hygiene takes on a deeper significance to one who +succeeds in reading “Ulysses,” and psychology has a larger +ceinture.</p> + +<p>Much time has been wasted in conjecturing what Mr. +Joyce's message is. In another connection he said, “My ancestors +threw off their language and took another. They allowed +a handful of foreigners to subject them. Do you fancy +I am going to pay in my own life and person debts they +made? No honourable and sincere man has given up his life, +his youth, and his affections to Ireland from the days of Tone +to those of Parnell but the Irish sold him to the enemy or +failed him in need or reviled him and left him for another. +Ireland is the old sow that eats her farrow.” </p> + +<p>“Ulysses” is in part vendetta. He will ridicule Gaelic renaissance +of literature and language; he will traduce the Irish +people and vilify their religion; he will scorn their institutions, +lampoon their morals, pasquinade their customs; he will stun +them with obscene vituperation, wound them with sacrilege and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</span> +profanity, immerse them in the vitriolic dripping from the +“tank” that he seeks to drive over them; and for what purpose? +Revenge. Those dissatisfied with the simile of the fury of a +scorned woman should try “Ulysses.” </p> + +<p>Mr. Joyce has made a contribution to the science of psychology, +and he has done it quite unbeknownst to himself, a +fellow-countryman might say. He has shown us the process of +the transmuting of thought to words. It isn't epoch making +like “relativity,” but it will give him notoriety, possibly immortality.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“A man of genius makes no mistakes; his errors are +volitional and are the portals of discovery.” —<span class="smcap">Stephen +Dædalus.</span></p> +</div> + + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" >CHAPTER III<br> +<small>FEODOR DOSTOIEVSKY: TRAGEDIST, PROPHET, AND PSYCHOLOGIST</small></h2> +</div> + +<p>A hundred years ago, in Moscow, a being manifested +its existence, who in the fullness of extraordinary vision +and intellectuality heralded a religious rebirth, became the +prophet of a new moral, ethical, and geographical order in the +world, and the prototype of a new hero. Time has accorded +Feodor Mikhailovitch Dostoievsky the position of one of the +greatest writers of the nineteenth century, and as time passes +his position becomes more secure. Like the prophet of old, +during life he was fastened between two pieces of timber—debts +and epilepsy—and sawn asunder by his creditors and his +conscience. Posterity links his name with Pushkin and Tolstoi +as the three great writers of their times. They are to +the Russian Renaissance what Leonardo, Michelangelo, and +Raphael were to the Italian Renaissance.</p> + +<p>It is appropriate now, the centenary of his birth, to make a +brief statement of Dostoievsky's position as a writer or novelist, +and in so doing estimate must be made of him as a prophet, +preacher, psychologist, pathologist, artist, and individual. +Though he was not schooled to speak as expert in any of these +fields, yet speak in them he did, and in a way that would have +reflected credit upon a professor. It is particularly the field +of morbid psychology, usually called psychiatry, that Dostoievsky +made uniquely his own. He described many of the +nervous and mental disorders, such as mania and depression, +the psychoneuroses, hysteria, obsessive states, epilepsy, moral +insanity, alcoholism, and that mysterious mental and moral +constitution called “degeneracy” (apparently first hand, for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</span> +there is no evidence or indication that he had access to books +on mental medicine), in such a way that alienists recognise +in his descriptions masterpieces in the same way that the +painter recognises the apogee of his art in Giotto or Velázquez.</p> + +<p>Not only did he portray the mental activity and output of +the partially and potentially insane, but he described the conduct +and reproduced the speech of individuals with personality +defects, and with emotional disequilibrium, in a way that has +never been excelled in any literature. For instance, it would +be difficult to find a more comprehensive account of adult infantilism +than the history of Stepan Trofimovitch, a more accurate +presentation of the composition of a hypocrite than +Rahkitin, of “The Brothers Karamazov.” No one save Shakespeare +has shown how consuming and overwhelming jealousy +may be. That infirmity has a deeper significance for anyone +familiar with the story of Katerina Ivanovna. Indeed Dostoievsky +is the novelist of passions. He creates his creatures +that they may suffer, not that they may enjoy from the reactions +of life, though some of them get pleasure in suffering. +Such was Lise, the true hysteric, who said, “I should like some +one to torture me, marry me and then torture me, deceive me +and then go away. I don't want to be happy.” </p> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</span></p> +</div> + +<figure class="figcenter illowe25" id="ilo_fp65"> + <img class="w100 p2" src="images/ilo_fp65.jpg" alt="ilop65" title="p651ilo"> + <figcaption class="caption p2b"><span class="allsmcap">FEODOR DOSTOIEVSKY</span></figcaption> +</figure> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</span></p> +</div> + +<p>Like Baudelaire and Nietzsche, whom he resembled morally +and intellectually, Dostoievsky was an intellectual romantic +in rebellion against life. His determination seemed to be to +create an individual who should defy life, and when he had +defied it to his heart's content “to hand God back his ticket,” +having no further need of it as the journey of existence was at +an end. There is no place to go, nothing to do, everything +worth trying has been tried and found valueless, and wherever +he turns his gaze he sees the angel standing upon the sea and +upon the earth avowing that there shall be time no longer; so +he puts a bullet in his temple if his name is Svidrigailov, or +soaps a silken cord so that it will support his weight when +one end is attached to a large nail and the other to his neck, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</span> +if it is Stavrogin. Dostoievsky as a littérateur was obsessed +with sin and expiation. He connived and laboured to invent +some new sin; he struggled and fought to augment some old +one with which he could inflict one of his creation, and then +watch him contend with it, stagger beneath it, or flaunt it in the +world's face. After it has wrought havoc, shipwrecked the +possessor's life, and brought inestimable calamity and suffering +to others, then he must devise adequate expiation. Expiation +is synonymous with sincere regret, honest request for +forgiveness, and genuine determination to sin no more, but +Dostoievsky's sinners must do something more; they must +make renunciation in keeping with the magnitude of their +sins, and as this is beyond human expression they usually kill +themselves or go mad.</p> + +<p>He had planned for his masterpiece “The Life of a Great +Sinner,” and the outline of it from his note-book deposited in +the Central Archive Department of the Russian Socialist +Federative Soviet Republic, has now been published. The +hero is a composite of the Seven Deadly Sins: pride, covetousness, +lust, anger, gluttony, envy, and sloth, plus the sin against +the Holy Ghost. No one has yet succeeded in defining that +sin satisfactorily, but it is what Dostoievsky's antinomian heroes +were trying to do, especially such an one as Stavrogin. Another +noteworthy feature about them is that they were all sadistic or +masochistic: they got pleasure varying from an appreciative +glow to voluptuous ecstasy and beyond, from causing pain +and inducing humiliation, or having it caused in them by +others.</p> + +<p>This was a conditioning factor of conduct of all his antinomian +heroes, and unless it be kept in mind when reading of +them, their antics and their reflections are sometimes difficult of +comprehension. He makes one of them, one of the most intellectual +and moral, Ivan Karamazov, say “You know we +prefer beating-rods and scourges—that's our national institution.... +I know for a fact there are people who at every<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</span> +blow are worked up to sensuality, which increases progressively +at every blow they inflict.” </p> + +<p>It is difficult for a psychiatrist, after reading Dostoievsky's +novels, to believe that he did not have access to the literature +of insanity or have first-hand knowledge of the insane, and the +criminologist must wonder where he got his extraordinary +knowledge of the relation between suffering and lust. It may +be that the habits of the Emperor Cheou-sin Yeow-waug were +known to him, just as those of Caligula and Claudius were +known to him.</p> + +<p>It is not with the passions of the body or of the senses alone +that his heroes contend, but with those of the mind. The fire +that burns within them is abstraction, and the fuel that replenishes +it is thought—thought of whence and whither. By it the +possessors are lashed to a conduct that surpasses that of hate, +jealousy, lubricity, or any of the baser passions as the light of +an incandescent bulb surpasses that of a tallow candle. They +are all men of parts, either originally endowed with great intelligence +or brought to a certain elevation of intellectuality +by education. Their conduct, their actions, their misdeeds, +their crimes are the direct result of their argumentation, not +of concrete, but of abstract things, and chiefly the nature and +existence of God, the varieties of use that an individual may +permit his intelligence, free-will, free determination, and of +the impositions of dogma founded on faith and inspiration +which seem contrary to reason and science.</p> + +<p>All his heroes are more or less insane. Herein lies Dostoievsky's +strength and his weakness in character creation. +None of them could be held fully responsible in a court +of justice. Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings the +Lord ordained strength, but there is no writing to show that +out of the mouths of the insane comes wisdom. Not that insanity +is inimical to brilliant, even wise, utterance; but the +pragmatic application of wisdom to life calls for sanity.</p> + +<p>Dostoievsky himself was abnormal. He was what the physician<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</span> +calls a neuropathic and psychopathic individual. In +addition, he had genuine epilepsy, that is, epilepsy not dependent +upon some accidental disease, such as infection, injury, +or new growth. He was of psychopathic temperament +and at different times in his life displayed hallucination, obsession, +and hypochondria.</p> + +<p>He wrote of them as if he were the professor, not the possessor. +The psychopathic constitution displays itself as:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“An unstable balance of the psychic impulses, an overfacile +tendency to emotion, an overswift interchange of mental +phases, an abnormally violent reaction of the psychic mechanism. +The feature most striking to the beholder in the character +of such sufferers is its heterogeneous medley of moods +and whims, of sympathies and antipathies; of ideas in turn +joyous, stern, gloomy, depressed and philosophical; of aspirations +at first charged with energy then dying away to nothing. +Another feature peculiar to these sufferers is their self-love. +They are the most naïve of egoists; they talk exclusively and +persistently and absorbedly of themselves; they strive always +to attract the general attention, to excite the general interest +and to engage everyone in conversation concerning their personality, +their ailments and even their vices.” </p> +</div> + +<p>Scores of his characters had such constitution, and in none +is it more perfectly delineated than in Katerina Ivanovna, +though Lise Hohlakov, of the same novel, had wider display +of the hysteria that grew on this fertile soil.</p> + +<p>The facts of Dostoievsky's life that are important to the +reader who would comprehend his psychopathic creations are +that his father, surgeon to the Workhouse Hospital at Moscow, +was a stern, suspicious, narrow-minded, gloomy, distrustful +man who made a failure of life. “He has lived in the +world fifty years and yet he has the same opinions of mankind +that he had thirty years ago,” wrote Feodor when seventeen +years old. His mother was tender-minded, pious, and +domestic, and died early of tuberculosis. Although much has +been written of his boyhood, there is nothing particularly interesting<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</span> +in it bearing on his career save that he was sensitive, +introspective, unsociable, and early displayed a desire to be +alone. The hero of the book “Youth” relates that in the +lowest classes of the gymnasium he scorned all relations with +those of his class who surpassed him in any way in the sciences, +physical strength, or in clever repartee. He did not hate such +a person nor wish him harm. He simply turned away from +him, that being his nature. These characteristics run like a +red thread through the entire life of Dostoievsky. A tendency +to day-dreaming was apparent in his earliest years, and he +gives graphic accounts of hallucination in “An Author's Diary.” +At the age of sixteen he was admitted to the School of Engineering +and remained there six years. During the latter part +of his student days he decided upon literature as a career. +Before taking it up, however, he had a brief experience with +life after he had obtained his commission as engineer, which +showed him to be totally incapable of dealing with its every-day +eventualities, particularly in relation to money, whose +purpose he knew but whose value was ever to remain a secret. +It was then that he first displayed inability to subscribe or to +submit to ordinary social conventions; indeed, a determination +to transgress them.</p> + +<p>From his earliest years the misfortunes of others hurt him +and distressed him, and in later life the despised and the rejected, +the poor and the oppressed, always had his sympathy +and his understanding. God and the people, that is the Russian +people, were his passion. “The people have a lofty instinct +for truth. They may be dirty, degraded, repellent, but +without them and in disregard of them nothing useful can +be effected.” The intellectuals who held themselves aloof +from the masses he could not abide, and atheists, and their +propaganda socialism, were anathema. He demanded of men +who arrogated to themselves a distinction above their fellow +men, “who go to the people not to learn to know it, but condescendingly<span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</span> +to instruct and patronise it,” not only repentance, +but expiation by suffering.</p> + +<p>His first important literary contribution was entitled “Poor +Folk.” He was fortunate enough to be praised by his contemporaries +and particularly by Bielinsky, an editor and great +critic, who saw in the central idea of the story corroboration +of his favourite theory, viz.: abnormal social conditions distort +and dehumanise mankind to such an extent that they lose +the human form and semblance. As the result of this publication, +Dostoievsky made the acquaintance of the leading literary +lights of St. Petersburg, many of whom praised him too +immoderately for his own good, as he produced nothing worthy +of his fame until many years after the event in his life which +must be looked upon as the beginning of his mental awakenment—banishment +and penal servitude in Siberia.</p> + +<p>Toward the middle of the nineteenth century the doctrines of +the Frenchman, Charles Fourier, were having such acceptance +in this country, where the North American Phalanx in New +Jersey and the Brook farm in Massachusetts were thriving, as +to encourage the disciples of that sentimental but wholly mad +socialist in other lands, particularly in Russia, that their hopes +of seeing the world dotted with <em>Phalansteres</em> might be fulfilled. +Dostoievsky later stated most emphatically that he never believed +in Fourierism, but nibbling at it nearly cost him his life. +In fact, all that stood between him and death was the utterance +of the word “Go,” which it would seem the lips of the executioner +had puckered to utter when the reprieve came. Dostoievsky +was suspected of being a Revolutionary. One evening +at the Petrashevsky Club he declaimed Pushkin's poem +on Solitude:</p> + +<p> +“My friends, I see the people no longer oppressed,<br> +And slavery fallen by the will of the Czar,<br> +And a dawn breaking over us, glorious and bright,<br> +And our country lighted by freedom's rays.” <br> +</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</span></p> + +<p>In discussion he suggested that the emancipation of the peasantry +might have to come through a rising. Thus he became +suspected. But it was not until he denounced the censorship +and reflected on its severity and injustice that he was taken +into custody. He and twenty-one others were sentenced to +death. He spent four years in a Siberian prison and there +became acquainted with misery, suffering, and criminality that +beggars description.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“What a number of national types and characters I became +familiar with in the prison; I lived into their lives and so I believe +I know them really well. Many tramps' and thieves' +careers were laid bare to me, and above all the whole wretched +existence of the common people. I learnt to know the Russian +people as only a few know them.” </p> +</div> + +<p>After four years he was, through the mediation of powerful +friends, transferred for five years to military service in +Siberia, chiefly at Semipalatinsk. In 1859 he was permitted +to return to St. Petersburg, and in the twenty years that followed +he published those books upon which his fame rests; +namely, “Crime and Punishment,” “The Idiot,” “The Possessed,” +“The Journal of an Author,” and “The Brothers +Karamazov.” In 1867 he was obliged to leave Russia to +escape imprisonment for debt, and he remained abroad, chiefly +in Switzerland, for four years.</p> + +<p>In his appeal to General Todleben to get transferred from +the military to the civil service and to be permitted to employ +himself in literature, he said:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“Perhaps you have heard something of my arrest, my trial +and the supreme ratification of the sentence which was given +in the case concerning me in the year 1849. I was guilty and +am very conscious of it. I was convicted of the intention +(but only the intention) of acting against the Government; +I was lawfully and quite justly condemned; the hard and painful +experiences of the ensuing years have sobered me and +altered my views in many respects, but then while I was still<span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</span> +blind I believed in all the theories and Utopias. For two years +before my offense I had suffered from a strange moral disease—I +had fallen into hypochondria. There was a time even +when I lost my reason. I was exaggeratedly irritable, had a +morbidly developed sensibility and the power of distorting the +most ordinary events into things immeasurable.” </p> +</div> + +<p>While Dostoievsky was in prison his physical health improved +very strikingly, but, despite this, his epilepsy, which had +previously manifested itself only in vague or minor attacks, +became fully developed. Attempts have been made to prove +that prison life and particularly its hardships and inhumanities +were responsible in a measure for Dostoievsky's epilepsy; +but such allegations are no more acceptable than those which +attribute it to his father's alcoholism. His epilepsy was a part +of his general make-up, a part of his constitution. It was an +integral part of him and it became an integral part of his +books.</p> + +<p>The phenomena of epilepsy may be said to be the epileptic +personality and the attack with its warning, its manifestations, +and the after-effects. The disease is veiled in the same mystery +today as it was when Hercules was alleged to have had it. +Nothing is known of its causation or of its dependency, and all +that can truthfully be said of the personality of the epileptic +is that it is likely to display psychic disorder, evanescent or +fixed. Attacks are subject to the widest variation both as to +frequency and intensity, but the most enigmatic things about +the disease are the warnings of the attack, and the phenomena +that sometimes appear vicariously of the attack—the epileptic +equivalent they are called. Dostoievsky had these <em>auræ</em> and +equivalents in an unusual way and with extraordinary intensity, +and narration of them as they were displayed in the +different characters of his creation who were afflicted with +epilepsy, and of their effects and consequences is an important +part of every one of his great books. Dostoievsky would seem<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</span> +to have been of the belief that a brain in which some of the +mechanisms are disordered may yet remain superior both intellectually +and morally to others less affected, and that the +display of such weakness or maladjustment may put the possessor +in tune with the Infinite, may permit him to blend momentarily +with the Eternal Harmony, to be restored temporarily +to the Source of its temporal emanation. Although he +describes this in his “Letters,” as he experienced it, he elaborates +it in his epileptic heroes, and in none so seductively as in +“The Idiot.” He makes Prince Myshkin say:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“He thought amongst other things how in his epileptic +condition there was one stage, just before the actual attack, +when suddenly in the midst of sadness, mental darkness and +oppression his brain flared up, as it were, and with an unwonted +outburst all his vital powers were vivified simultaneously. +The sensation of living and of self-consciousness +was increased at such moments almost tenfold. They were +moments like prolonged lightning. As he thought over this +afterward in a normal state he often said to himself that all +these flashes and beams of the highest self-realisation, self-consciousness +and “highest existence” were nothing but disease, +the interruption of the normal state. If this were so, then +it was by no means the highest state, but, on the contrary, +it must be reckoned as the very lowest. And yet he came at +last to the very paradoxical conclusion: What matter if it is a +morbid state? What difference can it make that the tension +is abnormal, if the result itself, if the moment of sensation +when remembered and examined in the healthy state proves +to be in the highest degree harmony and beauty, and gives an +unheard-of and undreamed-of feeling of completion, of balance, +of satisfaction and exultant prayerful fusion with the +highest synthesis of life? If at the last moment of consciousness +before the attack he had happened to say to himself +lucidly and deliberately “for this one moment one might give +one's whole life,” then certainly that moment would be worth +a lifetime. However, he did not stand out for dialectics; +obfuscation, mental darkness and idiocy stand before him as +the obvious consequences of those loftiest moments.” </p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</span></p> + +<p>It is a question for the individual to decide whether one +would give his whole life for a moment of perfection and bliss, +but it is probable that no one would without assurance that +some permanent advantage, some growth of spirit that could +be retained, some impress of spirituality that was indelible, +such as comes from an understanding reading of “Hamlet” or +a comprehended rendering of “Parsifal,” would flow from it +or follow it. But to have it and then come back to a world +that is “just one damn thing after another” it is impossible to +believe. Dostoievsky was right when he said that Myshkin +could look forward to obfuscation, mental darkness, and imbecility +with some certainty, for physicians experienced with +epilepsy know empirically that the unfortunates who have +panoplied warnings, and especially illusions, are most liable +to become demented early. But that all epileptics with such +warnings do not suffer this degradation is attested by the life +of Dostoievsky, who was in his mental summation when death +seized him in his sixtieth year.</p> + +<p>Another phenomenon of epilepsy that Dostoievsky makes +many of his characters display is detachment of the spirit +from the body. They cease to feel their bodies at supreme +moments, such as at the moment of condemnation, of premeditated +murder, or planned crime. In other words, they +are thrown into a state of ecstasy similar to that responsible +for the mystic utterances of St. Theresa, or of insensibility to +obvious agonies such as that of Santa Fina. He not only +depicts the phenomena of the epileptic attack, its warnings, and +its after-effects in the most masterful way, as they have never +been rendered in literature, lay or scientific, but he also +describes many varieties of the disease. Before he was exiled, +in 1847, he gave a most perfect description of the epileptic constitution +as it was manifested in Murin, a character in “The +Landlady.” The disease, as it displays itself in the classical +way, is revealed by Nelly in “The Insulted and Injured,” but +it is in Myshkin, in “The Idiot,” that we see epilepsy transforming<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</span> +the individual from adult infantilism, gradually, +almost imperceptibly, to imbecility, the victim meantime displaying +nobility and tender-mindedness that make the reader's +heart go out to him.</p> + +<p>The first fruits of Dostoievsky's activities after he had obtained +permission to publish were inconsequential. It was not +until the appearance of “Letters from a Deadhouse,” which +revealed his experiences and thoughts while in prison, and the +volume called “The Despised and the Rejected,” that the +literary world of St. Petersburg realised that the brilliant +promise which he had given in 1846 was realised. Some of +his literary adventures, especially in journalism, got him into +financial difficulties, and he began to write under the lash, as +he described it, and against time.</p> + +<p>In 1865 appeared the novel by which he is widely known, +“Crime and Punishment,” in which Dostoievsky's first great +antinomian hero, Raskolnikov, a repentant nihilist, is introduced +to the reader. He believes that he has a special right +to live, to rebel against society, to transgress every law and +moral precept, and to follow the dictates of his own will +and the lead of his own thought. Such a proud, arrogant, +intellectual spirit requires to be cleansed, and inasmuch as the +verity, the essence of life, lies in humility, Dostoievsky makes +his hero murder an old pawnbroker and his sister and then +proceeds to put him through the most excruciating mental +agony imaginable. At the same time his mother and sister +undergo profound vicarious suffering, while a successor of +Mary Magdalene succours him in his increasingly agonised +state and finally accompanies him to penal servitude. Many +times Raskolnikov appears upon the point of confessing his +crime from the torments of his own conscience, but, in reality, +Svidrigailov, a strange monster of sin and sentiment, and the +police officer, Petrovitch, a forerunner of Sherlock Holmes, +suggest the confession to him, and between the effect of their<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</span> +suggestion and the appeal of Sonia, whose love moves him +strangely, he confesses but does not repent. He does not +repent because he has done no sin. He has committed no +crime. The scales have not yet fallen from his eyes. That is +reserved for the days and nights of his prison life and is to be +mediated by Sonia's sacrificial heroism.</p> + +<p>It is interesting to contemplate Dostoievsky at the state +of development when he wrote “Crime and Punishment,” or +rather the state of development of his idea of free will. Raskolnikov +has the same relation to Stavrogin of “The Possessed” +and to Kirillov, the epileptic of the same book, as one of the +trial pictures of the figures in the Last Supper has to Leonardo's +masterpiece. Dostoievsky apparently was content to +describe a case of moral imbecility in its most attractive way, +and then when he had outlined its lineaments, to leave it and +not adjust it to the other groupings of the picture that was +undertaken. It would seem that his interest had got switched +from Raskolnikov to Svidrigailov, who has dared to outrage +covenants and conventions, laws and morality, and has measured +his will against all things. Svidrigailov knows the difference +between good and evil, right and wrong; indeed he realises +it with great keenness, and when he finds that he is up against +it, as it were, and has no escape, he puts the revolver to his +temple and pulls the trigger. Death is the only thing he has +not tried, and why wait to see whether eternity is just one little +room like a bathhouse in the country, or whether it is something +beyond conception? Why not find out at once as everything +has been found out? Svidrigailov is Dostoievsky's symbol +of the denial of God, the denial of a will beyond his own.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“If there is a will beyond my own, it must be an evil will +because pain exists. Therefore I must will evil to be in harmony +with it. If there is no will beyond my own, then I must +assert my own will until it is free of all check beyond itself. +Therefore I must will evil.” </p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</span></p> + +<p>Raskolnikov represents the conflict of will with the element +of moral duty and conscience, and Svidrigailov represents its +conflict with defined, deliberate passion. This same will in +conflict with the will of the people, the State, is represented by +Stavrogin and Shatov, while its conflict with metaphysical and +religious mystery is represented by Karamazov, Myshkin, and +Kirillov. Despite the fact that they pass through the furnace +of burning conflicts and the fire of inflaming passions, the +force of dominant will is ever supreme. Their human individuality, +as represented by their ego, remains definite and +concrete. It is untouched, unaltered, undissolved. Though +they oppose themselves to the elements that are devouring +them, they continue to assert their ego and self-will even when +their end is at hand. Myshkin, Alyosha, and Zosima submit to +God's will but not to man's.</p> + +<p>“Crime and Punishment” and “The Brothers Karamazov” +are the books by which Dostoievsky is best known in this +country, and the latter, though unfinished, was intended by +him to be his great work, “a work that is very dear to me for +I have put a great deal of my inmost self into it,” and it has +been so estimated by the critics. Indeed, it is the summary +of all his thoughts, of all his doubts, of all his fancies, and such +statement of his faith as he could formulate. It is saturated +in mysticism and it is a <em>vade mecum</em> of psychiatry. It is the +narrative of the life of an egotistic, depraved, sensuous monster, +who is a toad, a cynic, a scoffer, a drunkard, and a profligate, +the synthesis of which, when combined with moral +anæsthesia, constitutes degeneracy; of his three legitimate +sons and their mistresses; and of an epileptic bastard son who +resulted from the rape of an idiot girl.</p> + +<p>The eldest son, Dimitri, grows up unloved, unguided, unappreciated, +frankly hostile to his father whom he loathes and +despises, particularly when he is convinced that the father has +robbed him of his patrimony. He has had a rake's career, but +when Katerina Ivanovna puts herself unconditionally in his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</span> +power to save her father's honour he spares her. Three months +later, when betrothed to her, he has become entangled in Circe's +toils by Grushenka, for whose favour Fyodor Pavlovitch, his +father, is bidding.</p> + +<p>The second son, Ivan, half brother to Dimitri, whose mother +was driven to insanity by the orgies staged in her own house +and by the lusts and cruelties of her husband, is an intellectual +and a nihilist. He is in rebellion against life, but he has +an unquenchable thirst for life, and he will not accept the +world. To love one's neighbours is impossible; even to conceive +of it is repugnant. He will not admit that all must +suffer to pay for the eternal harmony, and he insists “while +I am on earth, I make haste to take my own measures.” He +does not want forgiveness earned for him vicariously. He +wants to do it himself. He wants to avenge his suffering, +to satisfy his indignation, even if he is wrong. Too high +a price is asked for harmony; it is beyond our means to +pay so much to enter on it. “And so,” he says to his younger +brother, the potential Saint Alyosha, “I hasten to give back +my entrance ticket. It's not God that I don't accept, only I +most respectfully return Him the ticket.” </p> + +<p>Dostoievsky speaks oftener out of the mouth of Ivan than of +any of his other characters. When some understanding Slav +like Myereski shall formulate Dostoievsky's religious beliefs it +will likely be found that they do not differ materially from +those of Ivan, as stated in the chapter “Pro and Contra” of +“The Brothers Karamazov.” He sees in Christ the Salvation +of mankind, and the woe of the world is that it has not accepted +Him.</p> + +<p>The third brother, Alyosha, is the prototype of the man's +redeemer—a tender-minded, preoccupied youth, chaste and +pure, who takes no thought for the morrow and always turns +the other cheek, and esteems his neighbour far more than +himself. At heart he is a sensualist. “All the Karamazovs are +insects to whom God has given sensual lust which will stir up<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</span> +a tempest in your blood,” said Ivan to Alyosha when he was +attempting to set forth his philosophy of life. But this endowment +permits him the more comprehensively to understand the +frailties of others and to condone their offences. The monastic +life appeals to him, but he is warded off from it by Father +Zosima, the prototype of Bishop Tikhon, in “Stavrogin's Confession,” +whose clay was lovingly moulded by Dostoievsky, +but into whose nostrils he did not blow the breath of life. +This monk, who had been worldly and who, because of his +knowledge, forgives readily and wholly, is a favourite figure +of Dostoievsky, and one through whom he frequently expresses +his sentiments and describes his visions. His convictions, +conduct and teaching may be summarised in his own +words:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“Fear nothing and never be afraid; and don't fret. If only +your penitence fail not, God will forgive all. There is no sin, +and there can be no sin on all the earth, which the Lord will +not forgive to the truly repentant! Man cannot commit a sin +so great as to exhaust the infinite love of God. Can there be a +sin which could exceed the love of God? Think only of repentance, +continual repentance, but dismiss fear altogether. +Believe that God loves you as you cannot conceive; that He +loves you with your sin, in your sin. It has been said of old +that over one repentant sinner there is more joy in heaven +than over ten righteous men. Go, and fear not. Be not bitter +against men. Be not angry if you are wronged. Forgive the +dead man in your heart what wrong he did you. Be reconciled +with him in truth. If you are penitent, you love. And +if you love you are of God. All things are atoned for, all +things are saved by love. If I, a sinner, even as you are, am +tender with you and have pity on you, how much more will +God. Love is such a priceless treasure that you can redeem +the whole world by it, and expiate not only your own sins but +the sins of others.” </p> +</div> + +<p>Alyosha is Dostoievsky's attempt to create a superman. He +is the most real, the most vital, the most human, and, at +the same time, the most lovable of all his characters. He is the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</span> +essence of Myshkin and Stavrogin and Karamazov and Father +Zosima, the residue that is left in the crucible when their +struggles were reduced, their virtues and their vices distilled. +He is Myshkin whose mind has not been destroyed by epilepsy, +he is Stavrogin who has seen light before his soul was sold to +the devil, he is Ivan Karamazov redeemed by prayer and good +works, he is the apotheosis of Father Zosima. “He felt clearly +and as it were tangibly that something firm and unshakable +as the vault of heaven had entered into his soul. It was as +though some idea had seized the sovereignty of his mind—and +it was for all his life and for ever and for ever.” In other +words, Alyosha realises in a mild form and continuously that +which Myshkin realises as the result of disease and spasmodically. +Alyosha goes into a state of faith, of resignation, of +adjustment with the Infinite, and Myshkin goes into dementia +via ecstasy.</p> + +<p>As a peace-maker, adjuster, comforter, and inspiration he +has few superiors in profane literature. His speech at the +Stone of Ilusha embodies the whole doctrine of brotherly love.</p> + +<p>Dimitri's hatred of his father becomes intense when they +are rivals for Grushenka's favours, so that it costs him no pang +to become potentially a parricide on convincing himself that +the father has been a successful rival. Psychologically he +represents the type of unstable, weak-willed, uninhibited being +who cannot learn self-control. Such individuals may pass unmarked +so long as they live in orderly surroundings, but as +soon as they wander from the straight path they get into +trouble. Their irritability, manifested for the smallest cause, +may give rise to attacks of boundless fury which are further +increased by alcohol, and the gravest crimes are often committed +in these conditions. The normal inhibitions are entirely +absent; there is no reflection, no weighing of the costs. +The thought which develops in the brain is at once translated +into action. Their actions are irrational, arbitrary, dependent +upon the moment, governed by accidental factors.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</span></p> + +<p>Despite overwhelming proof, Dimitri denies his guilt from +the start. It is an open question if the motive of this denial is +repentance, shame, love for Grushenka, or fear. The three +experts of the trial each has his own opinion. The first two +declare Dimitri to be abnormal. The third regards him as +normal. The author himself has made it easy to judge of +Dimitri's state of mind. Though on the boundary line of +accountability, he is not in such a pathological condition as +to exclude his free determination; however, he is not fully +responsible for the crime, and extenuating circumstances have +to be conceded by the judge.</p> + +<p>Smerdyakov, the illegitimate child of the idiot girl whom +Karamazov <em>pere</em> raped on a wager and who eventually murders +his father (vicariously, as it were, his morality having +been destroyed by Ivan), is carefully delineated by Dostoievsky. +He is epileptic. Not only are the disease and its +manifestations described, but there is a masterly presentation +of the personality alteration which so often accompanies its +progress. In childhood he is cruel, later solitary, suspicious, +and misanthropical. He has no sense of gratitude and he +looks at the world mistrustfully. When Fyodor Pavlovitch +hears he has epilepsy he takes interest in him, sees to it that +he has treatment, and sends him to Moscow to be trained as +cook. During the three years of absence his appearance +changes remarkably. Here it may be remarked that though +Dostoievsky lived previous to our knowledge of the rôle that +the ductless glands play in maintaining the appearance and +conserving the nutritional equilibrium of the individual, he +gives, in his delineation of Smerdyakov, an extraordinarily +accurate description of the somatic and spiritual alteration +that sometimes occurs when some of them cease functioning. +It is his art also to do it in a few words, just as it is his art +to forecast Smerdyakov's crime while discussing the nature +and occurrence of epileptic-attack equivalents, which he called +contemplations.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</span></p> + +<p>The way he disentangles the skeins from the confused mass +of putridity, disease, and crime of which this novel is constituted, +has been the marvel and inspiration of novelists the +world over for the past fifty years. Dimitri wants to kill his +father for many reasons, but the one that moves him to meditate +it and plan it is: Grushenka, immoral and unmoral, will +then be beyond the monster's reach; Grushenka whose sadism +peeps out in her lust for Alyosha and who can't throw off +her feeling of submission for the man who had violated her +when she was seventeen. Dimitri loves Grushenka and +Grushenka loves Dimitri “abnormals with abnormal love +which they idealised.” During an orgy which would have +pleased Nero, Dimitri lays drunken Grushenka on the bed, +and kisses her on the lips.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“'Don't touch me,' she faltered in an imploring voice. +'Don't touch me till I am yours.... I have told you I am +yours, but don't touch me ... spare me.... With them +here, with them close you mustn't. He's here. It's nasty +here.'”</p> +</div> + +<p>He sinks on his knees by the bedside. He goes to his father's +house at a propitious time and suitably armed for murder; +he hails him to the window by giving the signal that he has +learned from Smerdyakov would apprise him of the approach +of Grushenka; but before he can strike him Smerdyakov, +carrying out a plan of his own, despatches him, and Dimitri +flees. The latter half of the book is taken up with the trial of +Dimitri and the preliminaries to it, which give Dostoievsky an +opportunity to pay his respects to Jurisprudence and to medicine +and to depict a Slav hypocrite, Rahkitin. Smerdyakov +commits the crime to find favour in the eyes of his god +Ivan. He knows that Ivan desired it, suggested it, and went +away knowing it was going to be done—at least that is the +impression the epileptic mind of Smerdyakov gets—and under +that impression he acts when he despatches his father with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</span> +the three-pound paper weight. The unprejudiced reader will +feel the sympathies that have gradually been aroused for +Smerdyakov because of his disease fade as he reads of the +plan that the murderer made, and when he has hung himself +after confessing to Ivan. In proportion as they recede for the +valet, they will be rearoused for Ivan whose brain now gives +away under the hereditary and acquired burden. This gives +Dostoievsky the opportunity to depict the prodromata and +early manifestations of acute mania as they have never, before +or since, been depicted in lay literature.</p> + +<p>Description of the visual hallucination which Ivan has in +the early stages, that a “Russian gentleman of a particular +kind is present,” and the delusion that he is having an interview +with him, might have been copied from the annals of an +asylum, had they been recorded there by a master of the narrative +art. It is one of the first, and the most successful attempts +to depict dual personality, and to record the beliefs and convictions +of each side of the personality. He listens to his <em>alter +ego</em> sit in judgment upon him and his previous conduct, and +is finally goaded by him to assault, as was Luther under similar +though less dramatic circumstances. “Voices,” as the +delirious and insane call them, have never been more accurately +rendered than in the final chapters of the Ivan section +of the book.</p> + +<p>An exhaustive psychosis displaying itself in intermittent +delirium, and occurring in a profoundly psychopathic individual, +is the label that a physician would give Ivan's disorder. +Alyosha saw in it that God, in whom Ivan disbelieved, and His +truth were gaining mastery over his heart, which still refused +to submit.</p> + +<p>“The Idiot” was one of Dostoievsky's books which had a +cold reception from the Russian reading public, but which has +been, next to “The Brothers Karamazov” and “Crime and Punishment,” +the most popular in this country. The basic idea is +the representation of a truly perfect and noble man, and it is<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</span> +not at all astonishing that Dostoievsky made him an epileptic. +He had been impressed, he said, that all writers who had sought +to represent Absolute Beauty were unequal to the task. It is +so difficult, for the beautiful is the ideal, and ideals have long +been wavering and waning in civilised Europe. There is only +one figure of absolute beauty, Christ, and he patterns Prince +Myshkin upon the Divine model. He brings him in contact +with Nastasya Filipovna, who is the incarnation of the evil +done in the world, and this evil is represented symbolically by +Dostoievsky as the outrage of a child. The nine years of +brooding which had followed the outrage inflicted upon Nastasya +as a child by Prince Tosky had imprinted upon her face +something which Myshkin recognises as the pain of the world, +and from the thought of which he cannot deliver himself, and +which he cannot mitigate for her. She marries him after agonies +of rebellion, after having given him to her <em>alter ego</em> in +virginal state, Aglaia Epanchin, and then takes him away to +show her power and demonstrate her own weakness; but she +deserts him on the church steps for her lover Rogozhin, who +murders her that night. Myshkin, finding Rogozhin next +morning, says more than “Forgive them, Father, they know not +what they do.” He lies beside him in the night and bathes his +temples with his tears, but fortunately in the morning when +the murderer is a raving lunatic a merciful Providence has +enshrouded Myshkin in his disease.</p> + +<p>As Dimitri Merejkowski, the most understanding critic and +interpreter of Dostoievsky who has written of him, truthfully +says, his works are not novels or epics, but tragedies. The +narrative is secondary to the construction of the whole work, +and the keystone of the narrative is the dialogue between the +characters. The reader feels that he hears real persons talking +and talking without artifice, just as they would talk in real +life; and they express sentiments and convictions which one +would expect from individuals of such inheritance, education, +development, and environment, obsessed particularly with the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</span> +injustices of this world and the uncertainties of the world to +be, concerned day and night with the immortality of the soul, +the existence of God, and the future of civilisation.</p> + +<p>It has been said that he does not describe the appearance of +his characters, for they depict themselves, their thoughts and +feelings, their faces and bodies, by their peculiar forms of +language and tones of voice. Although he does not dwell on +portraiture, he has scarcely a rival in delineation, and his +portraits have that quality which perhaps Leonardo of all who +worked with the brush had the capacity to portray, and which +Pater saw in the <em>Gioconda</em>; the revelation of the soul and its +possibilities in the lineaments. The portrait of Mlle. Lebyadkin, +the imbecile whom the proud Nikolay Stavrogin married, +not from love or lust, but that he might exhaust the list of +mortifications, those of the flesh, for himself, and those of +pride for his family; that he might kill his instincts and become +pure spirit, is as true to life as if Dostoievsky had spent his +existence in an almshouse sketching the unfortunates segregated +there. The art of portraiture cannot surpass this picture +of Shatov, upon whose plastic soul Stavrogin impressed his +immoralities in the shape of “the grand idea” and who said to +Stavrogin in his agony, “Sha'n't I kiss your foot-prints when +you've gone? I can't tear you out of my heart, Nikolay +Stavrogin:”</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“He was short, awkward, had a shock of flaxen hair, broad +shoulders, thick lips, very thick overhanging white eyebrows, +a wrinkled forehead, and a hostile, obstinately downcast, as it +were shamefaced, expression in his eyes. His hair was always +in a wild tangle and stood up in a shock which nothing could +smooth. He was seven or eight and twenty.” </p> +</div> + +<p>It is not as a photographer of the body that Dostoievsky +is a source of power and inspiration in the world today, and +will remain so for countless days to come—for he has depicted +the Russian people as has no one else save Tolstoi, and his pictures<span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</span> +constitute historical documents—but as a photographer of +the soul, a psychologist. Psychology is said to be a new science, +and a generation ago there was much ado over a new development +called “experimental psychology,” which was hailed as +the key that would unlock the casket wherein repose the secrets +of the mind; the windlass that would lift layer by layer the +veil that has, since man began, concealed the mysteries of +thought, behaviour, and action. It has not fulfilled its promise. +It would be beyond the truth to say that it has been sterile, but +it is quite true to say that the contributions which it has +made have been as naught compared with those made by +abnormal psychology. Some, indeed, contend that the only +real psychological contributions of value have come from a +study of disease and deficiency, and their contentions are +granted by the vast majority of those entitled to opinion.</p> + +<p>Dostoievsky is the master portrayer of madness and of +bizarre states of the soul and of the mind that are on the borderland +of madness. Not only has he depicted the different +types of mental alienation, but by an intuition peculiar to his +genius, by a species of artistic divination, he has understood +and portrayed their display, their causation, their onset—so +often difficult to determine even for the expert—and finally the +full development of the disease. Indeed, he forestalled the description +of the alienists. “They call me a psychologist,” says +Dostoievsky; “it is not true. I am only a realist in the highest +sense of the word, that is I depict all the soul's depth. Arid +observations of every-day trivialities I have long ceased to +regard as realism—it is quite the reverse.” </p> + +<p>It is the mission of one important branch of psychology to +depict the soul's depth, the workings of the conscious mind, and +as the interior of a house that one is forbidden to enter is best +seen when the house has been shattered or is succumbing to the +incidences of time and existence, so the contents of the soul are +most discernible in the mind that has some of its impenetralia +removed by disease. It was in this laboratory that Dostoievsky<span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</span> +conducted his experiments, made his observations, and recorded +the results from which he drew conclusions and inferences. +“In my works I have never said so much as the +twentieth part of what I wished to say, and perhaps could +actually have said. I am firmly convinced that mankind knows +much more than it has hitherto expressed either in science or +in art. In what I have written there is much that came from +the depth of my heart,” he says in a letter to a friendly critic, +to which may be added that what he has said is in keeping +with the science of today, and is corroborated by workers in +other fields of psychology and psychiatry.</p> + +<p>“The Possessed,” in which Dostoievsky reached the high-water +mark of personality analysis, has always been a stumbling +block to critics and interpreters. The recent publication +by the Russian Government of a pamphlet containing +“Stavrogin's Confession” sheds an illuminating light on the +hero; and even second-hand knowledge of what has gone on in +Russia, politically and socially, during the past six years facilitates +an understanding of Pyotr Stepanovitch, Satan's impresario, +and of Kirillov, nihilist.</p> + +<p>The task that Dostoievsky set himself in “The Possessed” +was not unlike that which the Marquis de Sade set himself in +“Justine, or the Misfortunes of Virtue,” and Sacher-Masoch +in “Liebesgeschichten”; viz., to narrate the life of an unfortunate +creature whose most important fundamental instinct was +perverted and who could get the full flavour of pleasure only +by inflicting cruelty, causing pain, or engendering humiliation.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“Every unusually disgraceful, utterly degrading, dastardly, +and above all, ridiculous situation in which I ever happened to +be in my life, always roused in me, side by side with extreme +anger, an incredible delight.” </p> +</div> + +<p>Stavrogin was apparently favoured by fortune: he had +charm, education, wealth, and health. In reality he was +handicapped to an incalculable degree. After a brilliant brief<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</span> +career in the army and in St. Petersburg society, he withdrew +from both and associated with the dregs of the population +of that city, with slip-shod government clerks, discharged +military men, beggars of the higher class, and drunkards +of all sorts. He visited their filthy families, spent days +and nights in dark slums and all sorts of low haunts. He +threw suspicion of theft on the twelve-year-old daughter of +a woman who rented him a room for assignations that he +might see her thrashed, and a few days later he raped her. +The next day he hated her so he decided to kill her and +was preparing to do so when she hanged herself. This is not +featured in the novel as it now stands. Until the publication +of “Stavrogin's Confession” interpreters of Stavrogin's personality +who maintained that he was a sadist were accused of +having read something into his character that Dostoievsky +did not intend him to have. After committing this “greatest +sin in the world,” he determined to cripple his life in the most +disgusting way possible, that he might pain his mother, humiliate +his family, and shock society. He would marry +Marya, a hemiplegic idiot who tidied up his room. After the +ceremony he went to stay with his mother, the granddame of +their province. He went to distract himself, which included +seducing and enslaving Darya, Shatov's sister, a ward of his +mother, and a member of the family.</p> + +<p>Suddenly, apropos of nothing, he was guilty of incredible +outrages upon various persons and, what was most enigmatic, +these outrages were utterly unheard of, quite inconceivable, +entirely unprovoked and objectless. For instance, one day at +the club, he tweaked the nose of an elderly man of high rank in +the service. When the Governor of the club sought some +explanation Stavrogin told him he would whisper it in his ear.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“When the dear, mild Ivan Ossipovitch hurriedly and trustfully +inclined his ear Stavrogin bit it hard. The poor Governor +would have died of terror but the monster had mercy on +him, and let go his ear.” </p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</span></p> + +<p>The doctor testified that he was temporarily unbalanced, and +after a few weeks' rest and isolation he went abroad for four +years and there Lizaveta Nikolaevna, Shatov's wife, and several +others succumbed, and he also met his old tutor's son, +Pyotr Stepanovitch, his deputy in the Internationale, who from +that moment became his apologist, his tool, his agent, and +finally the instrument of his destruction. The gratification of +Stavrogin's perverted passion, the machinations of the Republicans +and nihilists, and the revelations of Shatov's limitations +and of Mr. Kirillov's nihilistic idealism are the threads of the +story. Shatov was the son of a former valet of Stavrogin's +mother who had been expelled from the University after some +disturbance, a radical with a tender heart, who had held +Stavrogin up as an ideal.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“He was one of those idealistic beings common in Russia +who are suddenly struck by some overmastering idea which +seems, as it were, to crush them at once and sometimes for +ever. They are never equal to coping with it, but put passionate +faith in it, and their whole life passes afterward, as it were, +in the last agonies under the weight of the stone that has fallen +upon them and half crushed them.” </p> +</div> + +<p>Shatov's overmastering idea was that Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch +could do no wrong, and the stone that crushed him was +Nikolay's misdeeds. Mr. Kirillov, the engineer, believed that +he who conquers pain and terror will become a god.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“Then there will be a new life, a new man, everything will +be new ... then they will divide history into two parts: +from the gorilla to the annihilation of God, and from the +annihilation of God to the transformation of the earth and of +man physically. Man will be God and will be transformed +physically and all men will kill themselves.” </p> +</div> + +<p>“He who kills himself only to kill fear will become a god +at once.” Kirillov believed or feared that eternal life was now, +not hereafter. There are moments when time suddenly stands<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</span> +still for men, and it was fear that it might become eternal that +he could not tolerate. In Dostoievsky's books there is always +one contemptible character, a sanctimonious hypocrite, a fawning +holier-than-thou, a pious scandal monger, a venomous +volunteer of first aid to the morally injured. In this book his +name is Liputin, an elderly provincial official.</p> + +<p>These are the chief figures of the drama.</p> + +<p>When Shatov had been killed; when Kirillov's promise: +namely, that he would commit suicide on request, had been +exacted; when Stavrogin's imbecile wife and her brother +Lebyadkin had been despatched; when Lisa, who was abducted +by Stavrogin on the eve of her marriage and then +abandoned, had been knocked on the head and killed by the +mob because she was Stavrogin's woman who “had come to +look at the wife he had murdered”; when Shatov's wife had +come back to him and borne Stavrogin's child in his presence; +when Stepan Trofimovitch had displayed his last infantile +reaction and his son Peter, the Russian Mephistopheles, had +made a quick and successful get-away, Stavrogin wrote to +Darya and suggested that she go with him to the Canton of +Uri, of which he was a citizen, and be his nurse. Darya, for +whom humiliation spelled happiness, consented and Varvara +Petrovna, hearing of the plan, succumbed to the sway of +maternal love and arranged to go with them.</p> + +<p>The day they had planned to begin their journey Stavrogin +was not to be found, but search of the loft revealed his body +hanging from a hook by means of a silken cord which had +been carefully soaped before he slung it around his neck.</p> + +<p>At the inquest the doctors absolutely and emphatically rejected +all idea of insanity.</p> + +<p>“The Possessed” has been the most enigmatic of the writer's +books because critics could not agree as to the motives of +Stavrogin's crimes and conduct. With the publication of +“Stavrogin's Confession” the riddles were solved. In the book +as originally planned (and modified at the request of the publisher<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</span> +of the periodical in which the novel originally appeared), +Stavrogin, instead of hanging himself, went to Our Lady +Spasso-Efimev Monastery and confessed himself to Bishop +Tikhon. Dostoievsky recruited his spiritual <em>menschenkenners</em> +from the ranks of those who, in youth, had played the game +of life hard, transgressed, and repented. Tikhon was one of +them, a strange composite of piety and worldliness chained to +his cell by chronic rheumatism and alcoholic tremours.</p> + +<p>Stavrogin had been obsessed by a phrase from the Apocalypse: +“I know thy works; that thou art neither hot nor cold. +I would thou wert cold or hot. So then because thou art lukewarm, +and neither cold nor hot, I will spew thee out of my +mouth.” He would be lukewarm no longer. He handed +Tikhon three little sheets of ordinary small-sized writing paper +printed and stitched together. It was entitled “From Stavrogin” +and was a confession of his sins. He couldn't dislodge +from his mind the vision of the little girl Matryosha. He +identified her with photographs of children that he saw in shop +windows. A spider on a geranium leaf caused the vision of her +as she killed herself to rise up before him, and this vision came +to him now every day and every night</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“not that it comes itself, but that I bring it before myself and +cannot help bringing it although I can't live with it. I know +I can dismiss the thought of Matryosha even now whenever I +want to. I am as completely master of my will as ever. But +the whole point is that I never wanted to do it; I myself do +not want to, and never shall.” </p> +</div> + +<p>Tikhon suggested that he would be forgiven if his repentance +was sincere, and told him he knew an old man, a hermit +and ascetic of such great Christian wisdom that he was beyond +ordinary understanding. He suggested that Stavrogin should +go to him, into retreat, as novice under his guidance, for five +years, or seven, for as many as were necessary. He adjured +him to make a vow to himself so that by this great sacrifice he<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</span> +would acquire all that he longed for and didn't even expect, and +assured him that he could not possibly realise now what he +would obtain from such guidance and isolation and repentance.</p> + +<p>Stavrogin hesitated and the Bishop suddenly realised that he +had no intention of repenting. It dawned upon him that Stavrogin's +plan was to flaunt his sin in the face of God as he had +previously flaunted it in the face of society, and in a voice +which penetrated the soul and with an expression of the most +violent grief Tikhon exclaimed,</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“Poor lost youth, you have never been so near another and +a still greater crime as you are at this moment. Before the +publication of the 'Confession,' a day, an hour perhaps before +the great step, you will throw yourself on another crime, +as a way out, and you will commit it solely in order to avoid +the publication of these pages.” </p> +</div> + +<p>Stavrogin shuddered with anger and almost with fear and +shouted “You cursed psychologist!,” and left the cell without +looking at Tikhon.</p> + +<p>The annihilation of the sense of time in Dostoievsky's +stories was first dwelt upon by Merejkowski, and it has been +much discussed by all of his serious commentators. Events +occur and things take place within a few hours in his books +which would ordinarily take months and years. The reason +for this timeless cycle of events may be sought in the experiences +that the author had in the moments preceding his attacks +of epilepsy in which he had thoughts and emotions which a +lifetime would scarcely suffice to narrate.</p> + +<p>Dostoievsky is the greatest of subjective writers because he +goes deepest and is the most truthful. His books are narratives +of sins and crimes and descriptions of attempts at +expiation. He didn't invent sins, he took them from life; he +presented those he had committed and seen committed. He +invented only the expiation, and some of that, it must be +admitted, he experienced. His sinners are never normal mentally.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</span> +They are never insane legally, but all of them are insane +medically.</p> + +<p>Dostoievsky himself was far from “normal” mentally, aside +from his epilepsy, though he made approximation to it as he +grew older. His mind was a garden sown with the flower seeds +of virtue and the thistle seeds of vice. All of them germinated. +Some became full blown, others remained stunted and +dwarfed.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“I have invented a new kind of enjoyment for myself,” he +wrote to his brother, “a most strange one—to make myself +suffer. I take your letter, turn it over in my hand for several +minutes, feel if it is full weight, and having looked on it sufficiently +and admired the closed envelope, I put it in my pocket. +You won't believe what a voluptuous state of soul, feeling and +heart there is in that!”</p> +</div> + +<p>That is the <em>anlage</em> of masochism. In the outline of “The +Life of a Great Sinner,” the novel whose completion would +permit him to die in peace, for then he should have expressed +himself completely, one sees the wealth of detail taken by the +author from his boyhood and early manhood. The hero of the +“Life” was unsociable and uncommunicative; a proud, passionate, +and domineering nature. So was Dostoievsky. So +here was to be apotheosis of individualism, consciousness of his +superiority, of his determination, and of his uniqueness. +Dostoievsky wrote of himself in 1867, “Everywhere and in +everything I reach the furthest limits; I have passed beyond +the boundaries of all life.” </p> + +<p>The most inattentive reader of his “Letters” will be reminded +of Dostoievsky when they read that the hero of the “Life” +“surprised everybody by unexpectedly rude pranks,” “behaved +like a monster,” “offended an old woman,” and that he +was obsessed with the idea of amassing money; and the alternative +stages of belief and disbelief of the hero are obviously +recollections of his own trials. “I believe I shall express the +whole of myself in it” he wrote of it to a friend, and no one<span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</span> +familiar with his books and his life can read the outline of it +and doubt that he would have succeeded. Wherever Dostoievsky +looked he saw a question mark and before it was +written “Is there a God? Does God exist?” He was determined +to find the answer. He had found Christ abundantly +and satisfactorily, but the God of Job he never knew, nor had +He ever overthrown him or compassed him with His net.</p> + +<p>Dostoievsky was a rare example of dual personality. His +life was the expression of his ego personality (and what a life +of strife and misery and unhappiness it was!), revealed with +extraordinary lucidity in his “Letters” and “The Journal of +an Author”; and his legacy to mankind is the record of his +unconscious mind revealed in his novels. The latter is the life +he would have liked to live, and in it he depicts the changes in +man's moral nature that he would have liked to witness. His +contention was that man should be master of his fate, captain +of his soul. He must express his thought and conviction in +action and conduct, particularly in his relation to his fellow-man. +He must take life's measure and go to it no matter what +it entails or how painful, unpleasant, or disastrous the struggle, +or the end.</p> + +<p>Many thoughtful minds believe that Dostoievsky has shown +us the only salvation in the great crisis of the European conscience. +The people, it matters not of what nationality, still +possess the strength and equilibrium of internal power. The +conviction that man shall not live as a beast of burden still +survives in the Russian people and is shared with them by the +masses throughout the civilised world. Salvation from internal +anarchy was his plea, and it is the plea that is today being +made by millions in other lands than his.</p> + +<p>As a prophet he foresaw the supremacy of the Russian +people, the common people succoured to knowledge, faith, and +understanding by liberty, education, and health, and by conformation +to its teaching the Renaissance of the Christian<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</span> +faith, which shall be a faith that shall show man how to live +and how to die, and which shall be manifest in conduct +as well as by word of mouth; primacy of the Russian church; +and the consummation of European culture by the effort and +propaganda of Russia. “Russia is the one God-fearing nation +and her ultimate destiny shall be to make known the Russian +Christ for the salvation of lost humanity.” No one can say +at this day that his prophecies may not come true, and to the +student of history there may seem to be more suggestive indication +of it in the Russia of today than in that of half a century +ago; for from a world in ferment unexpected distillations may +flow. But to the person who needs proof Russia is silent now. +Dostoievsky's doctrines have not dropped as the rain, nor has +his speech been distilled as the dew, though he published the +name of the Lord and ascribed greatness unto our God. Indeed, +the fate that has overtaken Russia would seem to deny +the possibility of the fulfillment of his prophecies either for his +country or his people.</p> + +<p>As a narrator of the events of life here, and of the thoughts +of life here and hereafter, he has had few peers of any nation +or language. That he did it in a disorderly way must be +admitted; that the events of his tragedies had little time incidence +is obvious to the most casual reader; that the reader +has to bring to their perusal concentration and application is +beyond debate; and that his characters are “degenerates,” +using that word in its biological sense, there is no doubt. But +despite these defects, Dostoievsky succeeds in straining the +essence of the Russian's soul through his unconscious to his +conscious mind, and then expressing it; and his books are the +imperishable soul-prints of his contemporaneous countrymen. +Not only does he stand highest in literary achievement of all +men of his time, but he is a figure of international significance +in the world of literature. His life and struggle was Hauptmann's +song,</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</span></p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“Always must the heart-strings vibrate in the breath of the +world's sorrow, for the world's sorrow is the root of heaven's +desire.” </p> +</div> + +<p>He foresaw with clairvoyancy the necessity of making +religion livable, not professed with the lips and scorned in +action, but a code or formulation that would combine Life, +Love, and Light pragmatically; and although he was not able +to formulate his thought or to express it clearly and forcibly, +to synthetise and codify it, as it were, formulators of the new +religion, of Christianity revivified or dematerialised, will consult +frequently and diligently the writings of Feodor Dostoievsky.</p> + + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" >CHAPTER IV<br> +<small>DOROTHY RICHARDSON AND HER CENSOR</small></h2> +</div> + +<p>The novelists are behind the naturalists in the recording +of minutiæ. Many of the latter have set down the life +history of certain species of birds in exhaustive detail—every +flip of the tail, every peck preceding the grand drama of courtship +and marriage, every solicitude of paternity, every callousness +of guardianship.</p> + +<p>An analogous contribution to realism in the domain of +fiction has been made by Dorothy M. Richardson, an interesting +figure in English literature today. She has written six +books about herself. When one considers that her life has +been uneventful, one might say drab, commonplace, and restricted, +this is an accomplishment deserving of note and +comment.</p> + +<p>Critics and connoisseurs of literary craftsmanship have +given her a high rating, but they have not succeeded in introducing +her to the reading public. She is probably the least +known distinguished writer of fiction in England, but she has +a certain public both in her own country, and in this in which +all her novels have been republished.</p> + +<p>Her influence on the output of English fiction since the +publication of “Pointed Roofs,” in 1913, is one of the outstanding +features in the evolution of novel-writing during the present +decade. Since Flaubert set the pace for a reaction against +the conception of the realistic novel as the faithful transcription +of life as perceived by the novelist; and his followers +introduced into novel-writing a more subtle art than that of +mere transcription of life, by making the hypothetical consciousness<span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</span> +through which the story is presented a determining +factor in its essence, this factor has been assuming a more and +more important rôle. The autobiographical novel, tracing its +lineage straight back to Rousseau, has become a prevailing +fashion in fiction. It remained, however, for Miss Richardson +to give the example—aside from James Joyce and Marcel +Proust—of a novel in which the consciousness of the writer +should assume the leading rôle in a drama that just missed +being a monologue. Miss Richardson has made, not herself +in the ordinary sense of the word, but her subjective consciousness, +the heroine of her narrative; and the burden of it has +been to present the development of this consciousness, or +energy, directly to the reader in all its crudity and its dominancy. +The result is a novel without plot, practically without +story interest. It is a question what influence this “artistic +subjectivism,” as Mr. J. Middleton Murry has called it, will +have upon the fiction of the future. Of its influence upon that +of the present there can be no question.</p> + +<p>Her technique is intensive, netting in words the continuous +flow of consciousness and semi-consciousness. She is first and +foremost a symbolist, an exponent of autistic thinking, a recorder +of the product of what is called by the popular psychology +her “unconscious mind,” which has got by the “censor,” +a mythical sort of policeman who, in her case, often +sleeps on his post, or is so dazed by the supply from her unconscious +he cannot carry on.</p> + +<p>This recently rechristened official, from the baptismal font +of the Freudians, is responsible for much literature of questionable +value. Latterly he has become something of a radical +and has been permitting stuff to get by on many wires and +postal avenues that seems to those whose “censors” have been +doing duty in the name of Reason or <em>Amour Propre</em> to be, if +not immoral, at least indecent. Miss Richardson's “censor” +is a Socialist, but he is not a Red. He hasn't much time for +appearances and diplomacy, and he has so many fish to fry<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</span> +that he cannot have all his time taken up with putting his best +foot forward. Therefore Miriam Henderson doesn't believe +in the religion of her forebears, she isn't strong for the National +cause, and she doesn't hark to any party cry. She +doesn't like her mother, and it is the tendency of the modern +“censor” to emphasise that; but to “pater” her allegory and +her ordered stream of thought are uniformly kind and indulgent. +Her “censor” early in life warned her that he was no +parent of shams and if she wanted to live a peaceful life she +must be unconventional. So Miriam determined to be +“different.” She is unsociable. She cannot think of anyone +who does not offend her. “I don't like men and I loathe +women. I am a misanthrope. So is pater.” He further +assured her that “freedom” is the gateway and roadway to +happiness, and to travel thereon, with a little money to satisfy +the self-preservative urge, constituted the joy of life. Up to +this point Miriam and the “censor” got on famously. It was +when he announced that he was determined not to exhaust himself +keeping down her untutored passions that she revealed a +determination that staggered him. The “censor” capitulated. +The result is that Miss Richardson's books are of all symbolic +literature the least concerned with the sinfulness of the +flesh, therefore furthest removed from comedy.</p> + +<p>Miriam Henderson—who is Dorothy M. Richardson, the +narrator of her own life—is the third of four daughters of a +silly, inane, resigned little mother and an unsocial father of +artistic temperament, the son of a tradesman whose ruling +passion is to be considered a country gentleman. His attitude +toward life and his efforts to sustain it have culminated in +financial ruin, and Miriam finds herself at the age of eighteen, +all reluctant and unprepared, confronted with the necessity of +depending upon her own efforts for a living—unless she can +achieve escape, as do two of her sisters, in marriage. She +meets the situation bravely—cowardice is not one of her faults—and +the six books contain a statement of her struggles against<span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</span> +circumstance and a psychological analysis of her personality. +As self is less able to accept compromises or to make adaptations +in her case than in that of the average mortal, the conflict +is fierce; but it is soul struggle, not action.</p> + +<p>Miriam's first tilt with life, recorded in “Pointed Roofs,” +is as a governess in a small German boarding-school, from +which she is politely dismissed, without assigned reason, at +the close of the first term. Her second, in “Backwater,” is as +a teacher of drab youngsters in a North London school. After +less than a year, ennui, restlessness, and discontent compel her +to resign without definite outlook or prospects. She finds +herself, in “Honeycomb,” established as governess to two +children in the country home of a prosperous Q.C. The situation +suddenly becomes unendurable after a few months—for +no stated reason—and she eagerly seeks escape in her mother's +illness. In “The Tunnel” she at last finds a “job” to her taste +when she becomes assistant in the office of several London +dentists, and denizen of a hall bedroom in a dismal Bloomsbury +rooming-house. In “Interim” she loses her opportunity of +marrying a wholesome Canadian by flirting with a Spanish +Jew. And in “Deadlock” she puts forth her first tentative +efforts to write and becomes engaged to a man with whom she +believes herself to be in love, but of whom she does not intellectually +approve.</p> + +<p>Her next novel is likely to be called “Impasse,” for meanwhile, +in real life, Miss Richardson has married and a new +element has been introduced into her life which she will not +be able to keep from tincturing and tinting her “unconscious,” +but which she will not be able to get past her “censor.” It +would not surprise us either should she switch from this series +and cast her next book in the form of an episode or short story. +Revelations of impulses, thoughts, determinations have been +considered “good form” in literature when they were one's own, +but when they were another's, submitted to the narrator's +judgement or reason, especially a wife's or a husband's, it has<span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</span> +been considered bad taste either to narrate or to publish them. +Moreover the alleged facts are always questioned.</p> + +<p>In the six books, whose titles are symbolic and which were +originally meant to be grouped under the one head of +“Pilgrimage”—her adventure of life—the author has presented +what might be described as a cinema of her mind, not +particularly what the New Psychology calls, with all the assurance +of infallibility, the “unconscious mind.” She has the +faculty of taking a canvas and jotting down everything she +sees in a landscape and then finishing it in the studio in such a +way as to convince the person who has seen similar landscapes +or who has an eye for scenic beauty that her work is nearly +perfect. She does it by a skillful blending of the mind products +of purposeful and autistic thinking.</p> + +<p>The autonomic mechanism of man displays the closest approximation +to perpetual motion that exists. It never rests. +As yet we do not know how far thought is conditioned by the +autonomic nervous system, but we know that the mind is never +idle any more than the heart or the lungs. Constantly a stream +of thoughts flows from it or through it. These thoughts vary +in quality and quantity, and their variations have formed endless +and bitter discussions of psychologists. Whenever the +waking mind is not entirely occupied with directed thoughts, +it is filled with a succession of more or less vivid or vague +thoughts, often popularly referred to as “impressions,” which +seem to arise spontaneously and are usually not directed +toward any recognised end or purpose. A significant feature +of them is the prominence of agreeable impressions concerning +oneself, people or things—or thoughts of these as one would +wish them to be, rather than as they are known to be. It is +these autistic, or wishful thoughts, which, constantly bubbling +up to the surface of consciousness like the water of a spring, +give colour to personality. They reveal it more luminously +than anything else—unless one goes still deeper and lays bare +the thoughts at the hidden source of the spring, thus penetrating<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</span> +the unconscious itself, as the Freudians claim to do +through the symbolism of dreams.</p> + +<p>Whether Miriam Henderson, proceeding in this fashion, +revealed more of her real self than did Marie Bashkirtseff, or +Anatole France in “Le Petit Pierre,” “La Vie en Fleur” and +the other charming books with which he has been ornamenting +his old age, is an open question. However, Dorothy M. Richardson +has established a reputation as one of the few Simon-pure +realists of modern English literature.</p> + +<p>Another faculty which is developed to an exceptional degree +in Miriam is what psychologists call the association of cognitions +and memories. The “Wearin' of the Green” on a hand +organ while she is big with thoughts of what her trip to a +foreign land may bring her makes her think of</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“rambles in the hot school garden singing 'Gather roses while +ye may,' hot afternoons in the shady north room, the sound +of turning pages, the hum of the garden beyond the sun-blinds, +meeting in the sixth form study ... Lilla with her black hair +and the specks of bright amber in the brown of her eyes, talking +about free-will.” </p> +</div> + +<p>Then she stirs the fire and back her thoughts whisk to her +immediate concerns.</p> + +<p>Music more than anything else calls into dominancy these +associated recollections. Listening to the playing of one of +the schoolgirls at the German school she suddenly realises:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“That wonderful light was coming again—she had forgotten +her sewing—when presently she saw, slowly circling, fading +and clearing, first its edge, and then, for a moment the whole +thing, dripping, dripping as it circled, a weed-grown mill-wheel.... +She recognised it instantly. She had seen it somewhere +as a child—in Devonshire—and never thought of it since—and +there it was. She heard the soft swish and drip of the +water and the low humming of the wheel. How beautiful ... +it was fading.... She held it—it returned—clearer this time +and she could feel the cool breeze it made, and sniff the fresh<span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</span> +earthly smell of it, the scent of the moss and the weeds shining +and dripping on its huge rim. Her heart filled. She felt a +little tremour in her throat. All at once she knew that if she +went on listening to that humming wheel and feeling the freshness +of the air, she would cry. She pulled herself together, +and for a while saw only a vague radiance in the room and the +dim forms grouped about. She could not remember which +was which. All seemed good and dear to her. The trumpet +notes had come back, and in a few minutes the music ceased.... +Someone was closing the great doors from inside the +schoolroom.” </p> +</div> + +<p>It would be difficult to find in literature a better illustration +of revival of unconscious or “forgotten” memory than this. An +extraordinary thing about it is that these and similar revivals +are preceded by an aura or warning in the shape of a light, +similar to the warnings that Dostoievsky had before having an +epileptic attack during which he experienced ecstasy so intense +and overpowering that had it lasted more than a few seconds +the human mechanism would have broken beneath the display. +Miriam's ecstasy is of a milder sort, and the result is like +that which the occupant of a chamber with drawn blinds and +sealed windows might experience should some magic power +stealthily and in a mysterious way flood it gradually with sunshine +and replace the stale atmosphere with fresh air.</p> + +<p>Many can testify from personal experience the power that +music has to influence purposeful thinking. It would not +astonish me to hear that Einstein had solved some of the intricate +problems of “relativity” under the direct influence of +the music of Beethoven, Wagner, or Liszt. It is the rod with +which most temperamental persons smite the rock of reality +that romance may gush out and refresh those who thirst for it. +Miriam often wields the rod in her early days to the reader's +intense delight.</p> + +<p>While giving Miss Richardson her full measure of praise +as recorder of her unconscious mental activity in poetic and +romantic strain, we must not overlook her unusual capacity<span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</span> +to delineate the realities of life, as they are anticipated and +encountered.</p> + +<p>The description of her preparation for going away in the +first chapter of “Pointed Roofs” is perfect realism: the +thoughts of a young girl in whom a conflict between self-depreciation +and self-appreciation is taking place. This is +marvellously portrayed in the narration of her thoughts and +apprehensions of her ability to teach English in the German +school to which she is journeying. It is a fool's errand to be +going there with nothing to give. She doubts whether she +can repeat the alphabet, let alone parse and analyse.</p> + +<p>This mastery of realism is displayed throughout the series. +The inwardly rebellious governess in the country house of +prosperous people is made vivid in her setting when she says:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“There was to be another week-end. Again there would be +the sense of being a visitor amongst other visitors; visitor was +not the word; there was a French word which described the +thing, 'convive,' 'les convives' ... people sitting easily about +a table with flushed faces ... someone standing drunkenly +up with eyes blazing with friendliness and a raised wineglass +... women and wine, the rose of Heliogabalus; but he was a +Greek and dreadful in some way, convives were Latin, Roman; +fountains, water flowing over marble, white-robed strong-faced +people reclining on marble couches, feasting ... taking +each fair mask for what it shows itself; that was what this +kind of wealthy English people did, perhaps what all wealthy +people did ... the maimed, the halt, the blind, <em>compel</em> them +to come in ... but that was after the others had refused. +The thing that made you feel jolliest and strongest was to forget +the maimed, to <em>be</em> a fair mask, to keep everything else out +and be a little circle of people knowing that everything was +kept out. Suppose a skeleton walked in? Offer it a glass of +wine. People have no right to be skeletons, or if they are to +make a fuss about it. These people would be all the brighter +if they happened to have neuralgia; some pain or emotion +made you able to do things. Taking each fair mask was a fine +grown-up game. Perhaps it could be kept up to the end?<span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</span> +Perhaps that was the meaning of the man playing cards on his +death-bed.” </p> +</div> + +<p>The author has the gift of narration, too, of making a picture +with a few sweeps of the brush. In “Pointed Roofs” +Miriam gives a synopsis of her parents and their limitations +in a few words, which is nearly perfect. She does it by narration +of her thoughts in retrospection, which is another striking +feature of her technique.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“She thought sleepily of her Wesleyan grandparents, gravely +reading the 'Wesleyan Methodist Recorder,' the shop at Babington, +her father's discontent, his solitary fishing and reading, +his discovery of music ... science ... classical music in +the first Novello editions ... Faraday ... speaking to +Faraday after lectures. Marriage ... the new house ... +the red brick wall at the end of the garden where young peach-trees +were planted ... running up and downstairs and singing +... both of them singing in the rooms and the garden +... she sometimes with her hair down and then when visitors +were expected pinned in coils under a little cap and wearing a +small hoop ... the garden and lawns and shrubbery and the +long kitchen-garden and the summer-house under the oaks beyond +and the pretty old gabled 'town' on the river and the +woods all along the river valley and the hills shining up out of +the mist. The snow man they both made in the winter—the +birth of Sarah and then Eve ... his studies and book-buying—and +after five years her own disappointing birth as the third +girl, and the coming of Harriet just a year later ... her +mother's illness, money troubles—their two years at the sea to +retrieve ... the disappearance of the sunlit red-walled garden +always in full summer sunshine with the sound of bees in it +or dark from windows ... the narrowings of the house-life +down to the Marine Villa—with the sea creeping in—wading +out through the green shallows, out and out till you were more +than waist deep—shrimping and prawning hour after hour for +weeks together ... poking in the rock pools, watching the +sun and the colours in the strange afternoons ... then the +sudden large house at Barnes with the 'drive' winding to the +door.... He used to come home from the City and the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</span> +Constitutional Club and sometimes instead of reading 'The +Times' or the 'Globe' or the 'Proceedings of the British Association' +or Herbert Spencer, play Pope Joan or Jacoby with +them all, or Table Billiards and laugh and be 'silly' and take +his turn at being 'bumped' by Timmy going the round of the +long dining-room table, tail in the air; he had taken Sarah +and Eve to see 'Don Giovanni' and 'Winter's Tale' and the new +piece, 'Lohengrin.' No one at the tennis-club had seen that. +He had good taste. No one else had been to Madame Schumann's +Farewell ... sitting at the piano with her curtains +of hair and her dreamy smile ... and the Philharmonic Concerts. +No one else knew about the lectures at the Royal Institution, +beginning at nine on Fridays.... No one else's +father went with a party of scientific men 'for the advancement +of science' to Norway or America, seeing the Falls and +the Yosemite Valley. No one else took his children as far as +Dawlish for the holidays, travelling all day, from eight until +seven ... no esplanade, the old stone jetty and coves and +cowrie shells....” </p> +</div> + +<p>Nature was in a satirical mood when she equipped Miriam +for her conflict. Early the casual reader recognises her as the +kind of girl who is socially difficult and who seems predestined +to do “fool things.” The psychologist looks deeper and sees a +tragic jest. Plain in appearance, angular in manner, innocent +of subtlety, suppleness, or graciousness of body or soul, with a +fine sensitiveness fed by an abnormal self-appreciation, which +she succeeds in covering only at the cost of inducing in it a +hot-house growth, Miriam Henderson enters upon the task of +an unskilled wage-earner with a mind turned inward and possessed +by that modern and fashionable demon politely known +as a “floating libido.” Dogged, if not actually damned, by her +special devil, Miriam is driven in frenzied and blinded unrest +from one experience to another, in vain efforts to appease its +insistent demands, placing the blame for her failure to achieve +either success or happiness everywhere except where it belongs.</p> + +<p>Tortured by romantic sentimentalism unrelieved by a glimmer +of imagination or humour; over-sexed but lacking the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</span> +magnetism without which her sex was as bread without yeast; +with a desire for adulation so morbid that it surrounded itself +with defences of hatred and envy, Miriam's demon drove or +lured her through tangled mazes of the soul-game, and checkmated +every effort to find herself through her experiences.</p> + +<p>In “Pointed Roofs,” even through the wall of self, the reader +catches the charm with which the German school held Miriam, +in the music floating through the big <em>saal</em>, the snatches of +schoolgirl slang and whimsical wisdom, and Fraulein Pfaff +with her superstitions, her rages, her religiosity, and her sensuality. +But this is the background of the picture, just as the +background of the home which she had so clingingly left had +been the three light-hearted sisters with their white plump +hands and feminine graces, the tennis, the long, easy dreamy +days; and the foreground had been Miriam cherishing a feeling +of “difference” toward the feminine sisters, feeding her smarting +self-love by her fancied resemblance to her father who +hated men and loathed women, and dreaming of the “white +twinkling figure coming quickly along the pathway between the +rows of hollyhocks every Sunday afternoon.” </p> + +<p>The “high spot” in her experience at the German school is +revealed in the answer to the question: Why could not Miriam +get on with “tall Fraulein Pfaff smiling her horse smile”? +Miriam leaves the school cloaked in injured innocence. But +the cloak is no mask for the native wit of the schoolgirls. +They know—and Miriam knows—that the answer is the old +Swiss teacher of French upon whom the Fraulein herself has +designs. Even before he is revealed reading poetry to the class +with a simper while Miriam makes eyes at him, or in a purported +chance encounter alone in the <em>saal</em>, the girls have +twitted Miriam in a way that would have warned a more +sensible girl that she was venturing upon dangerous ground. +But Miriam's demon had made her insensible to such hints, just +as it had robbed her of the common sense which would have<span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</span> +made her understand, even without warnings, that she could +not work for a woman and “go vamping” on her preserves.</p> + +<p>If Miriam's flirtation with the Swiss professor had been in a +spirit of frolicsomeness it would have presented at least one +hopeful symptom. But Miriam is incapable of frolicking—abnormally +so. The absence of the play impulse in her is +striking, as is the lack of spontaneous admirations or enthusiasms +for people or things. Her impressions are always in +terms of sensuous attraction or repulsion—never influenced by +appeal to intellect, æsthetic taste, admiration, or ambition. +Other girls exist for her, not as kindred spirits, but as potential +rivals—even her sisters—and she is keen to size them up solely +by qualities which she senses may make them attractive to +the other sex. The exceptions to this are certain German girls +whose over-sentimental make-up furnishes easy material for +Miriam's starved libido.</p> + +<p>The next picture is at her country home where a dance has +been staged, in Miriam's own consciousness, especially as a +temporary farewell appearance of the “white twinkling figure,” +now materialised into Ted. Ted appears on programme time +bringing with him a strange young man with a German name +and manner of speech, with whom she promptly goes off spooning +in a dark conservatory, where she is discovered by Ted. +She hopes the scene will stir Ted to emulation. But it does not. +When she returns to the light Ted has gone home. And that +seems to be the last of him. The strange young man is keen +to announce his departure the coming day for foreign parts. +So Miriam is left to set off for her next school without further +adventures in love-making, and the reader is left to wonder +whether she is not one of the girls who are incurably given to +taking their Teds more seriously than they intend to be taken.</p> + +<p>In “Backwater” Miriam is a teacher of little girls in a +Bambury Park school kept by three quaint refined little old +English women—a palatable contrast to the coarseness of +Fraulein Pfaff—for nine months. She is successful as a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</span> +teacher, but finds her situation unendurable and resigns. The +emotional shallowness of the girls and their lower middle-class +mothers with aspirations to “get on” are dreary, but hardly +sufficiently dismal to provoke the black despair and unreasoning +rage which cause her to cry out in her moments of revolt, +“But why must I be one of those to give everything up?” +There is no masculine element connected with the school life, +as there had been with that of the German school. She contrasts +herself with her sisters who have made adaptations to +life, two having become engaged and the third having settled +happily into a position as governess. But Miriam can not +settle, nor adapt. Her demon will not permit.</p> + +<p>A girl of nineteen, brought up in middle-class culture, without +previous experiences except as teacher in two girls' schools, +becomes governess, as “Honeycomb” relates, in the country +home of a Q. C., upon the introduction of friends of a future +brother-in-law. From the day of her arrival her wishful thinking +revolves around the man of the family. She loathes teaching +the children and fails to hide from them her boredom. By +lampooning the eccentricities and stupidities of Mrs. Corrie she +betrays her hatred of women, her besetting “inferiority complex,” +which, in this instance, is partly justified by the adult +infantilism of the lady and her absorbing attachment to a +woman of questionable morality. Without anything to which +to tie it on the other side, Miriam constructs—as a spider +might a web out of her own unconscious self—a bridge of +affinity between herself and the Q. C., placing such significance +as her demon prompts upon his insignificant words or looks, +until he snubs her at dinner when she attempts to take too +leading a part in the conversation. Immediately she hates it +all, with the collapse of her bridge, and is ready to throw up +her “job” and all it implies.</p> + +<p>Romance would seem remote from a hall bedroom in a +sordid London rooming-house and the duties of first aid to a +firm of dentists. But this is where Miriam finds it, for a time<span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</span> +at least. The central figure is one of the dentists in whom +her autistic thoughts discover a lonely sensitive man eager for +the sympathetic understanding which Miriam is ready to offer. +The boredom of teaching gives place to ecstasy in the discharge +of the details, often repellent, which go to fill up the “strange +rich difficult day.” Her drab existence becomes a charmed +life until Miriam's libido, which has been running away with +her like a wild horse, shies right across the road at the first +young girl she sights within the orbit of the dentist. Judging +from the reaction of the latter, the explosion of jealousy and +hatred that took place in Miriam's mind must have found +outward expression, for he retreats behind a barrier of an +“official tone,” which infuriates Miriam into demanding an +explanation and brings in reply to her demand a letter from +him beginning: “Dear Miss Henderson—You are very persistent”; +and concluding “foolish gossip which might end by +making your position untenable.” For the first time Miriam +admits her folly, saying,</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“I have nothing now but my pained self again, having violently +rushed at things and torn them to bits. It's all my fault +from the very beginning.... I make people hate me by +<em>knowing</em> them and dashing my head against the wall of their +behaviour.... I did not know what I had. Friendship is fine, +fine porcelain. I have sent a crack right through it.... Mrs. +Bailey (her landlady) ... numbers of people I never think +of would like to have me always there.... At least I have +broken up his confounded complacency.” </p> +</div> + +<p>When Miriam's dingy lodging-house becomes a boarding-house +new food comes to her creative urge in the form of daily +association with masculine boarders. Her resolution in the +early pages of “Interim” to take “no more interest in men,” +collapses like a house of cards upon the first onslaught. A +close companionship develops between her and a Spanish Jew +of more than unconventional ideas and habits. But her special +devil is soon busy again, and Miriam discovers romance in the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</span> +presence in the house of a young Canadian who is studying in +London. When he comes into the dining-room where Miriam +is sitting with other boarders after dinner, and sits down with +his books to study:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“He did not see that she was astonished at his coming nor +her still deeper astonishment in the discovery of her unconscious +certainty that he would come. A haunting familiar +sense of unreality possessed her. Once more she was part of a +novel; it was right, true like a book for Dr. Heber to come in +in defiance of every one, bringing his studies into the public +room in order to sit down quietly opposite this fair young English +girl. He saw her apparently gravely studious and felt +he could 'pursue his own studies' all the better for her presence.... +Perhaps if he remained steadily like that in her +life she could grow into some semblance of his steady reverent +observation. He did not miss any movement or change of +expression.... It <em>was</em> glorious to have a real, simple homage +coming from a man who was no simpleton, coming simple, +strong and kindly from Canada to put you in a shrine....” </p> +</div> + +<p>And yet all he does is to look at her! She goes for a walk +and</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“the hushed happiness that had begun in the dining-room half +an hour ago seized her again suddenly, sending her forward +almost on tiptoe. It was securely there; the vista it opened +growing in beauty as she walked; bearing within her in secret +unfathomable abundance the gift of ideal old-English rose and +white gracious adorable womanhood given her by Dr. Heber.” </p> +</div> + +<p>When he goes to church she interprets it as a symptom of +falling in love, but if it is, the further progress of the disease +is along lines which would baffle even those who have specialised +in the study of the malady in fiction and poetry through +ages. He goes back to Canada, along with his companion +students, without saying a word to his fellow-boarder and +leaves to the landlady the difficult task of warning Miriam that +her association with the Spanish Jew has furnished a subject +of gossip in the house, and that another boarder has confided<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</span> +to her that Dr. Heber had “made up his mind to speak,” but +that he had been scared by Miriam's flirtation with the little +Jew.</p> + +<p>Miriam never questions the correctness of the landlady's +diagnosis, nor the authenticity of her information. Still less +does she doubt her own interpretation of the wholesome direct-minded +Canadian's silent looks in her direction.</p> + +<p>Finally a man comes into her life who literally proposes +marriage. He is a young Russian Jew student, small of stature +and suggestive of an uncanny oldness. Under his influence she +begins translating stories from the German and seems to find +some of the beneficial possibilities of “sublimation” in the +task. The test is not a true one, however, because this little +stream into which the current of her libido is temporarily +turned is too closely associated with the main channel—Shatov—and +when she becomes engaged to him the translation +seems to be forgotten.</p> + +<p>“Deadlock” is the conflict between instinct and taste, involved +in marrying a man with whom she is in love but who +arouses a revolt of her inherited traditions and intellectual +and æsthetic biases; or between her ego instinct and her herd +instinct. There the reader takes leave of her at the end of the +sixth volume.</p> + +<p>A far more serious deadlock than that presented by her +engagement is the deadlock imposed upon Miriam by nature in +creating her a woman and endowing her with qualities which +keep her in a state of revolt against her Creator and against +what to her is the indignity of being a woman. This is epitomised +splendidly in “The Tunnel,” when she is fretting her +mind through the wearying summer days to keep pace with +the illness that is creeping upon her. Entries in the dentists' +index under the word “Woman” start the train of thought:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“inferior; mentally, morally, intellectually and physically ... +her development arrested in the interest of her special functions<span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</span> +... reverting later towards the male type ... old +women with deep voices and hair on their faces ... leaving +off where boys of eighteen began.... Woman is undeveloped +man ... if one could die of the loathsome visions.... Sacred +functions ... highest possibilities ... sacred for what? +The hand that rocks the cradle rules the world? The future +of the race? What world? What race? Men.... Nothing +but men; forever.... It will go on as long as women are +stupid enough to go on bringing men into the world ... even +if civilised women stop the colonials and primitive races would +go on. It was a nightmare. They despise women and they +want to go on living—to reproduce—themselves. None of +their achievements, no 'civilisation,' no art, no science can +redeem that. There is no possible pardon for men. The only +answer to them is suicide; all women ought to agree to commit +suicide.... All the achievements of men were poisoned at +the root. The beauty of nature was tricky femininity. The +animal world was cruelty. Jests and amusements were tragic +distractions from tragedy.... The woman in black works. +It's only in the evenings she can roam about seeing nothing. +But the people she works for know nothing about her. She +knows. She is sweeter than he. She is sweet. I like her. +But he is more me.” </p> +</div> + +<p>Earlier, but less consciously, she expresses it when, watching +the men guests at the Corrie's,</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“Miriam's stricken eyes sought their foreheads for relief. +Smooth brows and neatly brushed hair above; but the smooth +motionless brows were ramparts of hate; pure murderous hate. +That's men, she said, with a sudden flash of certainty, that's +men as they are, when they are opposed, when they are real. +All the rest is pretence. Her thoughts flashed forward to a +final clear issue of opposition, with a husband. Just a cold +blank hating forehead and neatly brushed hair above it. If a +man doesn't understand or doesn't agree he's just a blank bony +conceited thinking, absolutely condemning forehead, a face +below, going on eating—and going off somewhere. Men are all +hard angry bones; always thinking something, only one thing +at a time and unless that is agreed to, they murder. My husband +shan't kill me.... I'll shatter his conceited brow—<em>make</em><span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</span> +him see ... two sides to every question ... a million +sides ... no questions, only sides ... always changing. +Men argue, think they prove things; their foreheads recover—cool +and calm. Damn them all—all men.” </p> +</div> + +<p>Few writers could have sketched Miriam Henderson without +condemning her and without inviting the condemnation of the +reader. Miss Richardson has done it. She has given us +Miriam as she knows herself, without explanation, plea, or +sentence, and left us to judge for ourselves. She does not label +her. And this is probably the reason Miss Richardson's work +has found so small an audience. People demand labels. They +want to be “told.” And she does not “tell” them. She invites +them to think, and original thinking is an unpopular process.</p> + +<p>If ten people were to read these books and write their impressions +of them, the results would be as different as were the +thoughts of the ten people. Because each result would add +what the author has left out: a judgment, or an estimate +of Miriam. And this judgment would be rendered upon the +evidence, but according to the mind of the judge.</p> + +<p>The question which everyone must decide for himself is: +when such revelations of the conscious and the unconscious +are spread before him in words and sentences, does the result +constitute gibberish or genius; is it slush or sanity; is it the +sort of thing one would try to experience; or should one struggle +and pray to be spared? It may be the highroad to dementia—this +concentrating of all one's thoughts upon oneself, +and oneself upon a single instinct. And Miriam might well +have been headed for it when she failed to differentiate between +ideas based upon objective evidence and ideas created +solely out of her instinctive craving, which is an approach +toward the belief of the insane person in his own delusions.</p> + +<p>We identify ourselves, motives, and conduct with the characters +of fiction who cut a good figure; we identify with the +ones who do not, those we dislike, disdain, or condemn. Has<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</span> +anyone identified himself with Miriam Henderson and added +to his or her stature?</p> + +<p>The strongest impression made upon an admirer of Miss +Richardson's craftsmanship is a wish that it might be applied +to the study of a different, a more normal, type of personality. +But the wish that such a study might be given us is burdened +with a strong doubt whether its fulfillment would be humanly +possible. Could anyone but an extreme type of egocentric +person make such a study of himself? Could anyone whose +libido was normally divided in various channels follow its +course so graphically? And would not such division destroy +the unity essential to even so much of the novel form as Miss +Richardson preserves?</p> + +<p>Here is a deadlock for the reader: Miss Richardson's art +and Miriam as she is; or a Miriam with whom one could +identify oneself as a heroine of fiction.</p> + +<p>The novel, according to Miss Richardson, may be compared +to a picture-puzzle in a box. Properly handled, the pieces may +be made to constitute an entity, a harmonious whole, a thing +of beauty, a portrait or a pergola, a windmill or a waterfall. +The purpose of the novel is to reveal the novelist, her intellectual +possessions, emotional reactions, her ideals, aspirations, +and fulfilments, and to describe the roads and short-cuts over +which she has travelled while accomplishing them. People +and things encountered on the way do not count for much, +especially people. They are made up largely of women, whom +she dislikes, and men, whom she despises. It should be no +part of its purpose to picture situations, to describe places, to +narrate occurrences other than as media of author-revelation. +Undoubtedly it is one of the most delightful things in the world—this +talking about oneself. I have known many persons who +pay others, physicians for instance, to listen. But unless the +narration is ladened with adventure, or interlarded with +humour, or spiced with raciness, it is often boring; and reluctantly +it must be admitted that when we have ceased to admire<span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</span> +Miss Richardson's show of art, when we no longer thrill at +her mastery of method, when we are tired of rising to the fly +of what Miss Sinclair calls her “punctilious perfection” of +literary form, she becomes tiresome. Egocentrics should have +a sense of humour. Samuel Butler thus endowed might have +been assured of immortality. Lacking that, they should have +extensive contact with the world. That is what enlivens the +psychological jungle of Marcel Proust. If Henri Amiel had +had a tithe of Jean Jacques Rousseau's worldly and amatory +experiences his writings might have had great influence and +a large sale.</p> + +<p>Miss Dorothy M. Richardson has revealed herself a finished +technician. She may be compared to a person who is ambitious +to play the Chopin Studies. She practices scales steadily for a +year and then gives a year to the Studies themselves. But +when she essays to play for the public she fails because, although +she has mastered the mechanical difficulties, she has +not grasped the meaning. She reveals life without drama +and without comedy, and that such life does not exist everybody +knows.</p> + +<p>She may have had compensation for her effort from two +sources: her imitators and her benefactors. The former are +too numerous to mention, but Mr. J. D. Beresford and Miss +May Sinclair would undoubtedly admit their indebtedness.</p> + +<p>It is vicarious compensation, also, to be praised by one's +peers and superiors. If Dorothy M. Richardson hasn't yet +had it, in the writer's judgment she may look forward to it with +confidence.</p> + + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" >CHAPTER V<br> +<small>MARCEL PROUST: MASTER PSYCHOLOGIST<br> +AND PILOT OF THE “VRAIE VIE”</small></h2> +</div> + +<p>Marcel Proust may justly be hailed as the greatest +psychological novelist of his time. He was to normal +psychology what Dostoievsky was to abnormal psychology: +an unsurpassed observer, interpreter, and recorder of men's +thoughts and conduct.</p> + +<p>It would be hazardous to attempt to estimate the place +he will eventually have in literature until the remaining volumes +of “A la Recherche du Temps Perdu,” and “Le Temps +Retrouvé” are published. But the volumes of the former +that have appeared: “Du Côté de Chez Swann,” “Á l'Ombre +des Jeunes Filles en Fleurs,” “Le Côté de Guermantes,” and +“Sodome et Gomorrhe” justify the statement that with the +death of their author in November, 1922, France lost a writer +whose fame will rank with that of Balzac. It is not likely +that he will ever have a popularity comparable to Balzac +or even to Bourget, Barbusse, or several other contemporaries, +for M. Proust is an author for writers. He will never +be read by the large class of novel readers who create the +market demand for novels of action and plot; nor will he +appeal to that hardly less numerous class—chiefly women—who +find the emotional novel palatable food. However, those +who, like the writer, cannot punish themselves by struggling +through a detective story and by whom the most skillfully +contrived plot can be endured only if the harassment which +it causes is counterbalanced by the charm of its literary style +or its interpretation of the personality of the author reacting<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</span> +to conditions more or less common to all mankind, may find in +M. Proust a novelist whom they can ill afford to ignore. And +no writer of fact or fiction today would be just to himself were +he to proceed with his art without making the acquaintance of +this master artificer and psychologist. Proust will be remembered +as a pioneer who explored the jungle of the unconscious +memory, and a marvellous interpreter of the laws governing +associated memories. I doubt not his name will be as +inseparably connected with the novel of the future as that of +de Maupassant or Poe has been with the short story of the last +few decades, even while his wares will still find scant sale, save +to writers, dilettantes, professional students of letters, of +form, and of psychology.</p> + +<p>The measure of success that was vouchsafed him came late +in life. He was fifty when the Goncourt Prize was awarded +“A l'Ombre des Jeunes Filles en Fleurs” in 1919. Until that +time his writings were known to readers of “La Nouvelle +Revue Française,” to friends, and to a limited circle whose +members have an urge for the unusual, and a flair for the +picturesque in literature. Then readers began to nibble at +“Du Côté de Chez Swann,” and the more they nibbled, that +is the oftener they read it, or attempted to read it—for it is +difficult even for a cultured Frenchman—the more keenly +aware did they become that they had encountered a new force, +a new sensibility in literature, and, like appetite that comes +with eating, the greater was their desire to develop an intimacy +with him. “Le Côté de Guermantes” showed that he walked +and talked, dined and wined, registered the thoughts and interpreted +the dreams of the aristocracy with the same security, +understanding, perspicacity, and clairvoyancy that he had +brought to bear on the bourgeoisie in “Du Côté de Chez +Swann.” In “Sodome et Gomorrhe” he did the impossible. He +talked with frankness and with a tone of authority of an +enigmatic, inexplicable aberration of nature, inversion of the +genesic instinct, which antedates possibly by millions of years +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</span> +the differentiation of man from anthropoid stock; which has +always been with us, now the patent of good form, the badge of +intellectual superiority, the hallmark of æsthetic refinement, as +in the days of Hellenic supremacy; now the stigma of sin, +the scarlet letter of infamy, the key of the bottomless pit, as +today; and which unquestionably will always continue to be +with us. He divested it of pruriency; he rescued it from +pornography; he delivered it from pathology; and at the same +time he made the penologist pause and “normal” man +thoughtful.</p> + +<p>Whether this freakishness of nature is as common as M. +Proust says, whether it bulks so large in the conduct of daily +life as he intimates, is a matter for the individual to estimate. +No statistics are available, but experienced psychiatrists and +discerning pedagogues know that a considerable proportion +of mankind is so constituted. To deny it is equivalent to +acknowledging that one is immune to evidence; to consider +it a vice is to flaunt an allegation of falsehood in the face of +biology. One can imagine the shock the world would have +today if everyone told the truth, the whole truth, and nothing +but the truth about his genesic instinct. If, then, it was +decided to segregate and deprive of liberty the inverted, what +a strange medley it would be of general and soldier, of prince +and pauper, of priest and parishioner, of genius and moron, of +ambassador and attaché, of poet, artist, and savant. It will +mark an epoch in modern civilisation when this strange variation +from the normal shall be subject to study by such investigators +as Mendel, de Vries, Tschermak, and the host of +biologists who are slowly solving the mysteries of heredity. +Meanwhile the preparation for such work is the formation of +public opinion, and probably there is no better way to accomplish +it than that adopted by M. Proust.</p> + +<p>So far the only one of M. Proust's books that has appeared +in English is “Du Côté de Chez Swann,” (Swann's Way), by +C. K. Scott Moncrieff. The translation itself is a work of art, +and the reading public is under profound obligation to this +master stylist.</p> + + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</span></p> +</div> + + +<figure class="figcenter illowe25" id="ilo_fp121"> + <img class="w100 p2" src="images/ilo_fp121.jpg" alt="ilop119" title="p119ilo"> + <figcaption class="caption p2b"><span class="allsmcap">MARCEL PROUST IN 1890</span></figcaption> +</figure> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</span> +</div> + +<p>The narrator is M. Proust himself, but the reader who +would understand Proust must keep in mind that he has +distributed his own personality between two characters, the +narrator of the story, and Swann. Those who see Proust +only in the first, or only in Swann, see but half of him.</p> + +<p>In the overture he recalls the memories of a precocious, +sentimental, sickly childhood spent in his aunt's house in +Combray, with an indulgent mother, a sensible matter-of-fact +father, an archaic paternal grandmother, and two silly sentimental +grandaunts. He succeeds in introducing in the most +incidental way M. Swann, the son of a stockbroker, “a converted +Jew and his parents and grandparents before him,” +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</span> +who has successfully unlocked the door of smart and savant +society; his former mistress Odette de Crecy whom he has now +married, to the disgust of his neighbours; his daughter with +whom the narrator is to fall in love; M. Vinteuil whose sonata +contains the solvent of Swann's amatory resistance, and his +daughter, a Gomorrite; M. de Villeparisis; and M. de Charlus, +who we shall see in “Sodome et Gomorrhe” is not like other +men.</p> + +<p>The setting is in Brittany.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“Combray at a distance, from a twenty-mile radius, as we +used to see it from the railway when we arrived there every +year in Holy Week, was no more than a church epitomising the +town, representing it, speaking of it and for it to the horizon, +and as one drew near, gathering close about its long, dark +cloak, sheltering from the wind, on the open plain, as a shepherd +gathers his sheep, the woolly grey backs of its flocking +houses, which a fragment of its mediæval ramparts enclosed, +here and there, in an outline as scrupulously circular as that of +a little town in a primitive painting.” </p> +</div> + +<p>He who invokes his memories is a boy of ten or thereabouts, +lying in bed and awaiting dinner to end and M. Swann<span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</span> +to depart that his mother may kiss him goodnight. Memory +of it was like a luminous panel, sharply defined against a +vague and shading background.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“The little parlour, the dining-room, the alluring shadows +of the path along which would come M. Swann, the unconscious +author of my sufferings, the hall through which I would journey +to the first step of that staircase, so hard to climb, which +constituted, all by itself, the tapering 'elevation' of an irregular +pyramid; and, at the summit, my bedroom, with the little +passage through whose glazed door Mamma would enter; in a +word, seen always at the same evening hour, isolated from all +its possible surroundings, detached and solitary against its +shadowy background, the bare minimum of scenery necessary +(like the setting one sees printed at the head of an old play, +for its performance in the provinces); to the drama of my +undressing, as though all Combray had consisted of but two +floors joined by a slender staircase, and as though there had +been no time there but seven o'clock at night.” </p> +</div> + +<p>The power not only of reproducing scenes and events, but +also of revivifying states of consciousness long past through +invoking associated memories, is utilised with an effect rarely +parallelled in literature. It is invoked through any of the +special senses, but chiefly through taste and hearing. The +little cake soaked in tea which, taken many years after the +trivial events of his childhood at Combray had been all but +forgotten, unlocks, as if by magic, the chamber stored with +memories.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“No sooner had the warm liquid, and the crumbs with it, +touched my palate than a shudder ran through my whole body, +and I stopped, intent upon the extraordinary changes that +were taking place. An exquisite pleasure had invaded my +senses, but individual, detached, with no suggestion of its +origin. And at once the vicissitudes of life had become indifferent +to me, its disasters innocuous, its brevity illusory—this +new sensation having had on me the effect which love +has of filling me with a precious essence; or rather this essence<span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</span> +was not in me, it was myself. I had ceased now to feel +mediocre, accidental, mortal.” </p> +</div> + +<p>He then tries to analyse the state, and</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“that nothing may interrupt it in its course I shut out +every obstacle, every extraneous idea, I stop my ears and +inhibit all attention to the sounds which come from the next +room.... Undoubtedly what is thus palpitating in the +depths of my being must be the image, the visual memory +which, being linked to that taste, has tried to follow it into my +conscious mind.... Will it ultimately reach the clear surface +of my consciousness, this memory, this old, dead moment +which the magnetism of an identical moment has travelled +so far to importune, to disturb, to raise up out of the very +depths of my being?”</p> +</div> + +<p>It does reach the surface of consciousness, for</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“once I had recognised the taste of the crumb of madeleine +soaked in her decoction of lime-flowers which my aunt used to +give me (although I did not yet know and must long postpone +the discovery of why this memory made me so happy) +immediately the old grey house upon the street, where her +room was, rose up like the scenery of a theatre to attach itself +to the little pavilion, opening on to the garden.... And just +as the Japanese amuse themselves by filling a porcelain bowl +with water and steeping in it little crumbs of paper which +until then are without character or form, but, the moment they +become wet, stretch themselves and bend, take on colour and +distinctive shape, become flowers or houses or people, permanent +and recognisable, so in that moment all the flowers in our +garden and in M. Swann's park, and the water-lilies on the +Vivonne and the good folk of the village and their little dwellings +and the parish church and the whole of Combray and of +its surroundings, taking their proper shape and growing solid, +sprang into being, town and gardens alike, from my cup of +tea.” </p> +</div> + +<p>M. Proust's description of the first effect upon him of the +little “madeleine” dipped in tea, when, “weary after a dull<span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</span> +day, with the prospect of a depressing morrow, I raised to my +lips a spoonful of the tea in which I had soaked a morsel of +the cake” is almost a paraphrase of the words of Locke in his +“Essay Concerning Human Understanding.” </p> + +<p>Music, more than anything else, has the power of invoking +Swann's associated memories. A little phrase of old Vinteuil's +Sonata runs like a fine thread all through the tangle of Swann's +love for Odette de Crecy, although the memory of the phrase +goes back prior to his meeting Odette—to the night of the +party at which he had heard it, after going home from which</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“he was like a man into whose life a woman, whom he has +seen for a moment passing by, has brought a new form of +beauty, which strengthens and enlarges his own power of perception, +without his knowing even whether he is ever to see +her again whom he loves already, although he knows nothing +of her, not even her name.” </p> +</div> + +<p>Swann had tried in vain to identify the fugitive phrase which +had awakened in him a passion for music that seemed to be +bringing into his life the possibility of a sort of rejuvenation.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“Like a confirmed invalid whom all of a sudden, a change +of air and surroundings, or a new course of treatment, or, as +sometimes happens, an organic change in himself, spontaneous +and unaccountable, seems to have so far removed from his +malady that he begins to envisage the possibility, hitherto beyond +all hope, of starting to lead—and better late than never—a +wholly different life, Swann found in himself, in the memory +of the phrase that he had heard, in certain other sonatas which +he had made people play over to him, to see whether he might +not, perhaps, discover his phrase among them, the presence +of one of those invisible realities in which he had ceased to +believe, but to which, as though the music had had upon the +moral barrenness from which he was suffering a sort of +recreative influence, he was conscious once again of a desire, +almost, indeed, of the power to consecrate his life.” </p> + +<p>“It is a labour in vain to attempt to recapture our own past; +all the efforts of our intellect must prove futile. The past is<span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</span> +hidden somewhere outside the realm, beyond the reach of intellect, +in some material object (in the sensation which that +material object will give us) which we do not suspect. And as +for that object, it depends on chance whether we come upon +it or not before we ourselves must die.” </p> +</div> + +<p>Associative memory depends upon the fact that though the +grouping of the stimuli is novel, the elementary components +are individually similar to previous stimuli, and Proust avails +himself of this established fact. These elementary stimuli +leave retention traces in the central nervous system. When +the same stimuli recur in a new grouping the pathways and +centres that bear such traces are brought into connection +and are combined in new ways. This modifies the form of +the response. As the separate retention traces were due to +conditions resembling the present, the new response will tend +to be adaptive. This associative memory is known in psychology +as mnemonic combination.</p> + +<p>Although no attempt is made to describe the development +of the personality of the sensitive, sentimental, impressionable, +precocious child who narrates the story, one gets an extraordinarily +vivid picture of him. He has the hallmarks and +habituations of neuropathy, and amongst them phantasying +and substitution.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“In those days, when I read to myself, I used often, while +I turned the pages, to dream of something quite different. And +to the gaps which this habit made in my knowledge of the +story more were added by the fact that when it was Mamma +who was reading to me aloud she left all the love-scenes out. +And so all the odd changes which take place in the relations +between the miller's wife and the boy, changes which only +the birth and growth of love can explain, seemed to me plunged +and steeped in a mystery, the key to which (as I could readily +believe) lay in that strange and pleasant-sounding name of +<em>Champi</em>, which draped the boy who bore it, I knew not why, +in its own bright colour, purpurate and charming.” </p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</span></p> + +<p>That his neuropathic constitution was a direct inheritance +is obvious. He got it through his Aunt Leonie</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“who since her husband's death, had gradually declined to +leave, first Combray, then her house in Combray, then her +bedroom, and finally her bed; and who now never 'came +down,' but lay perpetually in an indefinite condition of grief, +physical exhaustion, illness, obsessions, and religious observances.... +My aunt's life now was practically confined to +two adjoining rooms, in one of which she would rest in the +afternoon while they aired the other.” </p> +</div> + +<p>Despite these apparent restrictions of life's activities she +knows more of the happenings of the village than the town +crier, and in a way she conditions the conduct of her neighbours +whose first question is “What effect will it have on +Aunt Leonie?” Her contact with people is limited to Françoise, +a perfect servant, to Eulalie, a limping, energetic, deaf +spinster, and to the reverend Curé.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“My aunt had by degrees erased every other visitor's name +from her list, because they all committed the fatal error, in +her eyes, of falling into one or other of the two categories of +people she most detested. One group, the worse of the two, +and the one of which she rid herself first, consisted of those +who advised her not to take so much care of herself, and +preached (even if only negatively and with no outward signs +beyond an occasional disapproving silence or doubting smile) +the subversive doctrine that a sharp walk in the sun and a good +red beefsteak would do her more good (her, who had had +two dreadful sips of Vichy water on her stomach for fourteen +hours) than all her medicine bottles and her bed. The other +category was composed of people who appeared to believe that +she was more seriously ill than she thought, in fact that +she was as seriously ill as she said. And so none of those whom +she had allowed upstairs to her room, after considerable hesitation +and at Françoise's urgent request, and who in the +course of their visit had shown how unworthy they were of +the honour which had been done them by venturing a timid: +'Don't you think that if you were just to stir out a little on +really fine days...?' or who, on the other hand, when she +said to them: 'I am very low, very low; nearing the end, dear +friends!' had replied: 'Ah, yes, when one has no strength left! +Still, you may last a while yet'; each party alike might be +certain that her doors would never open to them again.” </p> +</div> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</span></p> +</div> + +<div class="chapter"> +<figure class="figcenter illowe22" id="ilo_fp129"> + <img class="w100 p2" src="images/ilo_fp129.jpg" alt="ilop127p127ilo"> + <figcaption class="caption p2b"><span class="allsmcap">A PAGE OF CORRECTED PROOF SHOWING</span><br> +<small>MARCEL PROUST'S METHOD OF REVISION</small></figcaption> +</figure> +</div> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</span></p> +</div> + +<p>With all his literary art, and mastery of the mysterious +powers that suggestion has to heighten awareness and deepen +information, M. Proust does not succeed in enlightening us +as to how the boy at Combray comes to possess so much information +of people and such knowledge of the world. Part of it +is intuitive, but understanding of Vinteuil's daughter, who +“after a certain year we never saw alone, but always accompanied +by a friend, a girl older than herself, with an evil reputation +in the neighbourhood, who in the end installed herself +permanently at Montjouvain,” thus leading M. Vinteuil broken-hearted +to the grave because of the shame and scandal of +her sadism, is beyond possibility even for a boy of his precocity +and prehensibility.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</span></p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“For a man of M. Vinteuil's sensibility it must have been +far more painful than for a hardened man of the world to +have to resign himself to one of those situations which are +wrongly supposed to occur in Bohemian circles only; for they +are produced whenever there needs to establish itself in the +security necessary to its development a vice which Nature herself +has planted in the soul of a child, perhaps by no more than +blending the virtues of its father and mother, as she might +blend the colours of their eyes. And yet however much M. +Vinteuil may have known of his daughter's conduct it did not +follow that his adoration of her grew any less. The facts of +life do not penetrate to the sphere in which our beliefs are +cherished; as it was not they that engendered those beliefs, so +they are powerless to destroy them; they can aim at them continual +blows of contradiction and disproof without weakening +them; and an avalanche of miseries and maladies coming, one +after another, without interruption into the bosom of a family, +will not make it lose faith in either the clemency of its God or +the capacity of its physician.” </p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</span></p> + +<p>Thus does he introduce most casually a subject which bulks +large in “Sodome et Gomorrhe,” and which M. Proust understands +like a composite priest, physician, and biologist.</p> + +<p>Most of the grist of the boy's mill comes over the road that +skirts Swann's park, but some comes the Guermantes Way. +In “Le Côté de Guermantes,” which followed “A l'Ombre +des Jeunes Filles en Fleurs,” he makes us as intimately acquainted +with the Duchesse de Guermantes, Mme. de Villeparisis, +and other notables of the <em>société élegante</em>, as he does +in “Swann's Way” with the Verdurins and their “little nucleus” +which furnishes a background to Odette, and furnishes M. +Proust with canvas upon which to paint the portrait of an +Æsculapian bounder, Dr. Cottard, who, it has been said, is +still of the quick. M. Proust was the son and the brother of a +physician and had abundant opportunity not only to get first-hand +information but to have his natural insight quickened. +In the same way one discovers his Jewish strain (his mother +was a Jewess) in his mystic trends and in his characters such +as Bloch and Swann. “Whenever I formed a strong attachment +to any one of my friends and brought him home with +me that friend was invariably a Jew.” Moreover his lack of +a sense of humour is an Hebraic trait. With the exception +of the reaction provoked in his grandfather by the advent of +one of these friends, “Swann's Way,” and indeed all M. +Proust's writings, are humourless.</p> + +<p>The genesis of Swann's love and the dissolution of Odette's +take up one volume. If it is not a perfect description of the +divine passion in a mature man surfeited by conquest and +satiated by indulgence, it is an approximation to it.</p> + +<p>He was introduced one day at the theatre to Odette de +Crocy by an old friend of his, who had spoken of her to +him as a ravishing creature with whom he might very possibly +come to an understanding. She made no appeal to +Swann; indeed she not only left him indifferent, aroused in +him no desire, but gave him a sort of physical repulsion. But<span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</span> +Odette knew the <em>ars amandi</em> as did Circe or Sappho, and ere +long she had entangled him in the meshes of Eros' net. When +the net was drawn to her craft and the haul examined, it didn't +interest her, though she kept it, for it contributed to her material +welfare. Then M. Proust did a psychological stunt +which reveals an important aspect of his mastery of the +science. Swann identified Odette with Zipporah, Jethro's +daughter, whose picture is to be seen in one of the Sixtine +frescoes by Botticelli. Her similarity to it enhanced her +beauty and rendered her more precious in his sight. Moreover +it enabled him to introduce the image of Odette into a world +of dreams and fancies where she assumed a new and nobler +form. And whereas the mere sight of her in the flesh, by +perpetually reviving his misgivings as to the quality of her +face, her figure, the whole of her beauty, used to cool the +ardour of his love, those misgivings were swept away and that +love confirmed now that he could re-erect his estimate of her +on the sure foundations of his æsthetic principles. Instead of +placing a photograph of Odette on his study table, he placed +one of Jethro's daughter, and on it he lavished his admiration +and concentrated his intensity in all the abandon of substitution.</p> + +<p>The author utilises the potency of suspense to bring Swann's +ardour to the boiling point. One evening when Odette had +avoided him he searched the restaurants of the Boulevards in +a state of increasing panic.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“Among all the methods by which love is brought into being, +among all the agents which disseminate that blessed bane, +there are few so efficacious as the great gust of agitation which, +now and then, sweeps over the human spirit. For then the +creature in whose company we are seeking amusement at +the moment, her lot is cast, her fate and ours decided, that is +the creature whom we shall henceforward love. It is not necessary +that she should have pleased us up till then, any more, or +even as much as others. All that is necessary is that our taste +for her should become exclusive.” </p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</span></p> + +<p>He proceeded to cultivate his love in an emotional medium +and to inoculate himself with the culture which rendered him +immune to love of another. The culture medium was furnished +by Vinteuil, the old composer, who had died of a broken +heart. “He would make Odette play him the phrase from the +sonata again ten, twenty times on end, insisting that, while she +played, she must never cease to kiss him.” </p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“Watching Swann's face while he listened to the phrase, +one would have said that he was inhaling an anæsthetic which +allowed him to breathe more deeply.” </p> +</div> + +<p>The effect that it had was deep repose, mysterious refreshment. +He felt himself transformed into a “creature foreign +to humanity, blinded, deprived of his logical faculty, +almost a fantastic unicorn, a chimera-like creature conscious of +the world through his two ears alone.” </p> + +<p>Swann's discovery of the spiritual and bodily inconstancies +of his mistress, the perfidies and betrayals of the Verdurins, +his jealousy, planned resentments, and resurrection are related +in a way that convinces us that Proust saw life steadily and +saw it whole.</p> + +<p>To appease his anguish, to thwart his obsession, to supplant +his preoccupation he decided to frequent again the aristocratic +circles he had forsaken. The description of the reception at +Mme. de Saint Euverte's, showing the details of fashionable +life, is of itself a noteworthy piece of writing. Not only is it +replete with accurate knowledge of such society, but it gives M. +Proust the opportunity to display understanding of motives +and frailties and to record impressions of contact with the +world abroad. Speaking of one of the guests he says:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“She belonged to that one of the two divisions of the human +race in which the untiring curiosity which the other half feels +about people whom it does not know is replaced by an unfailing +interest in the people whom it does.” </p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</span></p> + +<p>The peculiar tendency which Swann always had to look +for analogies between living people and the portraits in galleries +reasserted itself here in a more positive and more general +form. One of the footmen was not unlike the headsman in +certain Renaissance pictures which represent executions, tortures, +and the like. Another reminded him of the decorative +warriors one sees in the most tumultuous of Mantegna's paintings. +“He seemed as determined to remain as unconcerned +as if he had been present at the massacre of the innocents or +the martyrdom of St. James.” As he entered the salon one +reminded him of Giotto's models, another of Albert Dürer's, +another of that Greek sculpture which the Mantuan painter +never ceased to study, while a servant with a pallid countenance +and a small pig-tail clubbed at the back of his head +seemed like one of Goya's sacristans.</p> + +<p>It was this soirée that conditioned irrevocably Swann's +future life, and the little phrase from Vinteuil's Sonata did it +for him. To have heard it “in this place to which Odette would +never come, in which no one, nothing was aware of her existence, +from which she was entirely absent” made him suffer +insupportably. While listening to it</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“suddenly it was as though she had entered, and this apparition +tore him with such anguish that his hand rose impulsively +to his heart.... All his memories of the days when Odette +had been in love with him, which he had succeeded, up till that +evening, in keeping invisible in the depths of his being, deceived +by this sudden reflection of a season of love, whose sun, they +supposed, had dawned again, had awakened from their slumber, +had taken wing and risen to sing maddeningly in his +ears, without pity for his present desolation, the forgotten +strains of happiness.” </p> +</div> + +<p>It raised the flood-gate of the dam in which he had stored +the memories of Odette when she loved him and before he +loved her. Not only did it liberate the memories of her, but +the memories that were associated with them: all the net-work<span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</span> +of mental habits, of seasonable impressions, of sensory reactions, +through which it extended over a series of groups its uniform +meshes, by which his body now found itself inextricably +held.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“When, after that first evening at the Verdurins', he had had +the little phrase played over to him again, and had sought to +disentangle from his confused impressions how it was that, +like a perfume or a caress, it swept over and enveloped him, +he had observed that it was to the closeness of the intervals +between the five notes which composed it and to the constant +repetition of two of them that was due that impression of a +frigid, a contracted sweetness; but in reality he knew that he +was basing this conclusion not upon the phrase itself, but +merely upon certain equivalents, substituted (for his mind's +convenience) for the mysterious entity of which he had become +aware, before ever he knew the Verdurins, at that earlier party, +when for the first time he had heard the sonata played....</p> + +<p>“In his little phrase, albeit it presented to the mind's eye a +clouded surface, there was contained, one felt, a matter so +consistent, so explicit, to which the phrase gave so new, so +original a force, that those who had once heard it preserved +the memory of it in the treasure-chamber of their minds. +Swann would repair to it as to a conception of love and happiness....</p> + +<p>“Even when he was not thinking of the little phrase, it +existed, latent, in his mind, in the same way as certain other +conceptions without material equivalent, such as our notions +of light, of sound, of perspective, of bodily desire, the rich +possessions wherewith our inner temple is diversified and +adorned. Perhaps we shall lose them, perhaps they will +be obliterated, if we return to nothing in the dust. But so +long as we are alive, we can no more bring ourselves to a +state in which we shall not have known them than we can +with regard to any material object, than we can, for example, +doubt the luminosity of a lamp that has just been lighted, in +view of the changed aspect of everything in the room, from +which has vanished even the memory of the darkness....</p> + +<p>“So Swann was not mistaken in believing that the phrase of +the sonata did, really, exist. Human as it was from this point +of view, it belonged, none the less, to an order of supernatural<span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</span> +creatures whom we have never seen, but whom, in spite of +that, we recognise and acclaim with rapture when some explorer +of the unseen contrives to coax one forth, to bring it +down from that divine world to which he has access to shine +for a brief moment in the firmament of ours.” </p> +</div> + +<p>From that evening Swann understood that the feeling which +Odette had once had for him would never revive. He had +made his bed, and he resolved to share it in holy matrimony +with Odette, though this discomforted his friends and made +him a species of Pariah.</p> + +<p>Mme. Swann in Combray was a solitary, but not in Paris. +There she queened it, as many lovely ladies had done before +her. The account of that, and of the narrator's love for +Gilberte, Swann's daughter, who, when he had encountered her +casually at Combray, had made a stirring and deep impression +on him; and the advent of Albertine, a potential Gomorrite, +make up the contents of the succeeding instalment, entitled +“A l'Ombre des Jeunes Filles en Fleurs.” Gilberte, Swann's +daughter, and the narrator now approaching puberty, came to +play together in the Champs Elysées, frolicking like children, +innocently, though another feeling began soon to bud in him, a +feeling which he did not yet understand. In this volume the +narrator relates the experiences he had when a youth, and +therefore there is more precision in the description of the +persons with whom he came in contact. The volume also +throws much light indirectly on Proust's personality. From a +certain incident which he tells regarding the way he was +brought up, one sees that his father was a rigourous aristocrat, +stiff in his demeanour, and very particular in the choice of his +connections. He, the narrator, was brought up in a way the +Germans would call “schablonenmässig”: everything was discussed +at a family council, as though he were an inanimate +plaything. His naïvete, the result of such training, is very +characteristic.</p> + +<p>For some time he had been longing to see “Phèdre” played<span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</span> +by the famous Mme. La Berma (evidently Sarah Bernhardt, +for at that time she was the only one who played “Phèdre”). +After long deliberation because of his illness, it was decided +he should go chaperoned by his grandmother, to see his ideal +actress. The scene opened with two men who rushed on in +the throes of heated argument. He did not know that this was +part of the play and that the men were actors; he thought they +were some ruffians who had forced their way into the theatre +and who would surely be ejected by the officials. He wondered, +though, that the spectators not only did not protest, but +listened to them with the greatest attention. Only when the +theatre re-echoed with applause did he understand that the two +men were actors. Afterwards, when two ladies came upon the +stage, both of portly bearing, he could not decide which one +was La Berma; a little later he learned that neither of them +was the great actress. To reconcile such unsophistication with +the account of the peeping Tom episode when he laid bare Mlle. +Vinteuil's deforming habituation is very difficult.</p> + +<p>Swann, now ill, and repentant, was consumed with ambition +to introduce his wife, Odette, into high society, in which he +succeeded to a great extent. Though he did not like M. +Buntemps because of his reactionary opinions, he, “the director +of the minister's office,” was an important personage and +his wife, Mme. Buntemps, was a steady visitor in Odette's +salon. But once in a while he was malicious enough to exasperate +Mme. Buntemps. He told her once he would invite the +Cottards and the Duchesse de Vendome to dinner. Mme. Buntemps +protested, saying it was not seemly that the Cottards +should be at the same table with the Duchesse. In reality she +was jealous of the Cottards who were going to share the +honour with her. The Prince d'Agrigente was invited, because +it was altogether “private”! Odette is described as a woman +of low intelligence, without education, speaking faulty French, +but shrewd, dominating her husband. One of her guests was +Mme. Cottard, the wife of Dr. Cottard, the medical bounder<span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</span> +who had now become Professor, a woman who did not belong +to her present circle. But she had to invite a person who could +tell her former friends of her high connections, so as to raise +their envy.</p> + +<p>The Marquis de Norpais, a former ambassador, is admirably +drawn. He was naturally considered by the narrator's +father as the cream of society. Just think of it! a man with +two titles: Monsieur l'Ambassadeur, and Son Excellence Monsieur +le Marquis! It is true that he was an ambassador under +a republican government. But because of this he was interesting, +for despite his antecedents he was entrusted with several +extraordinary missions by very radical ministers. When a +monarchist would not accept that honour, the republican government +having had no fear that he might betray it, M. de +Norpais himself willingly accepted the charge. Being in his +blood a diplomat, he could not help exercising the functions of a +diplomat, though in his heart he detested the republican spirit +of government.</p> + +<p>The narrator's mother did not admire his intelligence, but +for the father every word of M. l'Ambassadeur de Norpais +was an oracle. He had always wished that his son should become +a diplomat, while the son wished to take up literature +so as not to be separated from Gilberte. M. de Norpais, who +did not much like the new style diplomats, told the narrator's +father that a writer could gain as much consideration and +more independence than a diplomat. His father changed his +mind.</p> + +<p>It is quite impossible, within the space of an essay, to give +even an outline of the remaining volumes that have already +appeared of this amazing and epochal novel.</p> + +<p>Without doubt M. Proust had a definite idea in mind, a determination +to make a contribution: to prove that the dominant +force in mental life is association, the chief resource of +mentality reminiscence. Thus the primitive instincts of mankind +and their efforts to obtain convention's approbation furnish<span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</span> +the material with which he has built. It is extraordinary +how large association bulks: individuals remind him of famous +paintings, not merely the general characters of the people +whom he encounters in his daily life, but rather what seem +least susceptible of generalisation, the individual features of +men and women whom he knows. For instance, a bust of the +Doge Loredan by Antonio Rizzo, is suggested by the prominent +cheekbones, the slanting eyebrows, in short a speaking likeness +to his own coachman Rami; the colouring of a Ghirlandajo, by +the nose of M. de Palancy; a portrait by Tintoretto, by the +invasion of the plumpness of the cheek by an outcrop of +whisker, the broken nose, the penetrating stare, the swollen +eyelids of Dr. du Bolbon.</p> + +<p>If, on descending the stairs after one of the Doncières +evenings, suddenly on arriving in the street, the misty night +and the lights shining through suggest a time when he arrived +at Combray, at once there is thrown on the screen of his consciousness +a picture of incidents there and experiences elsewhere +that are as vivid and as distinct as if he were looking at +them on a moving-picture screen. Then suddenly there appears +a legend “the useless years which slipped by before my +invisible vocation declared itself, that invisible vocation of +which this work is the history.” Like the monk who seeks God +in solitude, like Nietzsche who sought Him in reason, M. +Proust has sought to reveal his soul, his personality, the sum +total of all his various forms of consciousness by getting +memory to disgorge her contents, the key to the chamber being +association.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“We try to discover in things, endeared to us on that account, +the spiritual glamour which we ourselves have cast upon +them; we are disillusioned, and learn that they are in themselves +barren and devoid of the charm which they owed, in +our minds, to the association of certain ideas; sometimes we +mobilise all our spiritual forces in a glittering array so as to +influence and subjugate other human beings who, as we very<span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</span> +well know, are situated outside ourselves, where we can never +reach them.” </p> +</div> + +<p>There are so many features of M. Proust's work that excite +admiration that it is possible to enumerate only a few. Despite +a studied style of confusion and interminable sentences, suspended, +hyphenated, alembicated, and syncopated, that must +forever make him the despair of anyone whose knowledge of +French is not both fundamental and colloquial, he makes telling, +life-like pen pictures of things and persons. Such is one +of Françoise, the maid at Combray,</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“who looked as smart at five o'clock in the morning in her +kitchen, under a cap whose stiff and dazzling frills seemed +to be made of porcelain, as when dressed for church-going; +who did everything in the right way, who toiled like a +horse, whether she was well or ill, but without noise, without +the appearance of doing anything; the only one of my aunt's +maids who when Mamma asked for hot water or black coffee +would bring them actually boiling; she was one of those servants +who in a household seem least satisfactory, at first, to a +stranger, doubtless because they take no pains to make a conquest +of him and show him no special attention, knowing +very well that they have no real need of him, that he will cease +to be invited to the house sooner than they will be dismissed +from it; who, on the other hand, cling with most fidelity to +those masters and mistresses who have tested and proved their +real capacity, and do not look for that superficial responsiveness, +that slavish affability, which may impress a stranger +favourably, but often conceals an utter barrenness of spirit in +which no amount of training can produce the least trace of +individuality.</p> + +<p>“The daughter of Françoise, on the contrary, spoke, thinking +herself a woman of today and freed from all customs, the +Parisian argot and did not miss one of the jokes belonging to +it. Françoise having told her that I had come from a Princess: +'Ah, doubtless a Princess of the cocoanut.' Seeing that I was +expecting a visitor, she pretended to think that I was called +Charles. I answered 'No,' naïvely, which permitted her to +exclaim 'Ah, I thought so! And I was saying to myself Charles<span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</span> +waits (charlatan).' It wasn't very good taste, but I was less +indifferent when as a consolation for the tardiness of Albertine, +she said, 'I think you can wait for her in perpetuity. She will +not come any more.' Ah, our gigolettes of today!</p> + +<p>“Thus her conversation differed from that of her mother but +what is more curious the manner of speaking of her mother +was not the same as that of her grandmother, a native of +Bailleau-le-Pin which was near the country of Françoise. +However the patois were slightly different, like the two country +places. The country of the mother of Françoise was made up +of hills descending into a ravine full of willows. And, very far +from there, on the contrary, there was in France a little region +where one spoke almost exactly the same patois as at Meseglise. +I made the discovery at the same time that I was bored by it. +In fact, I once found Françoise talking fluently with a chambermaid +of the house who came from the country and spoke +its patois. They understood each other mostly. I did not +understand them at all. They knew this but did not stop on +this account, excused, so they thought, by the joy of being +compatriots, although born so far apart, for continuing to +speak before me this foreign language as if they did not wish +to be understood. This picturesque study of linguistic geography +and comradeship was followed each week in the kitchen +without my taking any pleasure in it.” </p> +</div> + +<p>Time, M. Proust was convinced, was made for slaves. It +takes longer to read his account of a soirée at the Prince de +Guermantes' than it would to attend it. It requires half a +volume to narrate it. The account is masterly, and the reader +is filled with the feelings that actual experience might produce. +Those who have had contact with aristocracy, and whose lucidity +of mind has not been impaired by it, also find such an +account interesting. Here one meets aristocrats of every complexion, +heirs of the oldest and proudest names in Gotha's +Almanach, and those whose pedigree is not so ancient, upon +whom the former look condescendingly. As in a Zoo, one +sees a great variety of the aristocrat genus, and if one has +believed that the nobility is formed of people different and +better than the common herd the delusion is dissipated. Here<span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</span> +is a light that fairly dazzles those who are susceptible to the +appeal of clothes, wealth, and jewels. If one's yearnings are +for things more substantial in human nature he will not be +satisfied as a guest of the Prince de Guermantes. Diogenes +there would have used his lantern in vain.</p> + +<p>One becomes intimately acquainted with the <em>haut monde</em>, +their colossal pride, and overweening conceit, concealed from +the eyes of those below them in the hierarchy by thin veils +of conventional and shallow amiability which they make more +and more transparent as the people they deal with are further +removed from the blue zone of the <em>nobilior spectrum</em>. One +discovers also another characteristic: the capacity for putting +up with such pride and conceit from above, and for making +the best of it for the sake of securing the lustre which comes +with the good will of those higher up, and contact with them.</p> + +<p>In the society of the Guermantes one becomes acquainted +with such specimens of human meanness and hatefulness, such +hypocrisy, such paucity of the sentiments that ennoble life, +that he finds himself wondering why better flowers do not +grow in the enchanted gardens. Those which seemed so +beautiful at a distance turn out to be not only without fragrance, +but with a bad odour. The <em>grand monde</em>, in truth, +seems to be nothing but a small world of gossiping and shallow +talk, a world aware of no other nobility than that of +inherited titles, and scorning the idea that real nobility is a +refinement of the soul, produced by education, to which rich +and poor, high and low, may all aspire. The feeling of a man +not recognised as an aristocrat who, for some special reason, +gains admission to this circle, is made vivid in the experience +of a talented physician who has saved the life of the Prince +de Guermantes and who owes his invitation to the reception +to the Prince's gratitude. The experience of a Bavarian +musician is also interesting. It shows how great can be the +insolence of aristocracy swollen with vanity. At the soirée +we meet nobles who never possessed ideals which acted as<span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</span> +armour against pollution, nobles with imaginations easily inflamed +by the attractions of women servants, whose lust for a +chambermaid is sufficient to dim all consciousness of their +pedigrees. And we meet others who are even lower, noblemen +and ladies who keep up the traditions of Sodom and Gomorrah +in modern society.</p> + +<p>It may be beside the question to inquire the intention of +the author in painting this picture of high society and then +dwelling on aspects of it that can only cause disgust. His +words at times seem to reveal a sarcastic intention. His +descriptions are so full of minute details and so rich in incidents +of extreme naturalness that it is impossible to believe that +even a lively imagination could fabricate them. One easily +sees that they are fragments of real life. This keeps the +interest alive, despite the involved style. His periods are so +twisted and turgid with associated thoughts, so bristling with +parenthetical clauses that often profound effort is required +to interpret them. There is none of the plain, clear, sane, +sunny style of a Daudet, or of Paul Bourget. This causes a +sensation of discomfort at times, especially when the author +indulges in introspection that reveals a morbid imagination +and pathological sensitiveness; as, for instance, in the distinction +between abiding sorrows and fugitive sorrows; on +how our beloved departed ones live in us, act on us, transform +us even more than the living ones; and how those who are +dead grow to be more real to us who love them than when +they were alive.</p> + +<p>We feel an unhealthiness under it all. We have to stop +and analyse, to unravel the main idea from the tangled skein +in which it is hidden. But it is a work that brings its own +reward. It brings real jewels of <em>finesse de pensée et d'observation</em>, +such as those on the reminiscence of departed sensations +and feelings; on the different selves which we have been in the +past and which coexist in our present individuality; on the +eclipses to which the latter is subject when one of its components<span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</span> +suddenly steps from the dark recesses into the vivid +light of consciousness; on the elements of beauty apparent in +different individuals who are partial incarnations of one great +beauty without; on reminiscence of Plato; on the anxiety of +expectation while awaiting a person; on the effect which consciousness +of his own sinfulness has on the sinner; on the +interchange of moral qualities and idiosyncrasies of persons +bound by mutual sympathy; on the permanence of our passions—in +mathematical jargon, a function of the time during +which they have acted on our spirit. It also discloses treasures +of delicate feeling, such as are awakened in a person by the +image of a beloved one that flashes vivid in his memory.</p> + +<p>But to discover such treasures one has often to wade through +a series of long and indigestible sentences of thirty or forty +lines.</p> + +<p>I recall reading in an English magazine, a number of years +ago, an article entitled “A Law in Literary Expression.” +Stated in its plainest terms, the law is this: that the length +of the phrase—not the sentence, but its shortest fraction, the +phrase—must be measured by the breath pause. M. Proust +breaks this law oftener than any citizen of this country breaks +the prohibition law, no matter how imperious may be his thirst.</p> + +<p>Finally the frank and scientific way in which he has discussed +a subject that has always been tabooed in secular literature +calls for remark. Of the posterity of Sodom he says it forms +a colony spread all over the world, and that one can count it +as one can count the dust of the earth. He studies all the +types and varieties of sodomists. Their manners and ways, +their sentiments, their aberrations of the senses, their shame +are passed in review. It is a sort of scientific, poetical +treatise. The actions in which the sodomistic instinct finds +its outlet are often compared to the seemingly conscious actions +by which flowers attract the insects that are the instruments +of their fecundation. Botany and sexuality are mixed together. +Sometimes the scientific spirit, gaining the upper hand, leads<span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</span> +him to look upon these phenomena of genesic inversion as +manifestations of a natural law, and therefore marvellous, +like all the workings of nature. He is nearly carried away, +and finds excuses for what is considered a vice, and seems to +be on the verge almost of expressing his admiration.</p> + +<p>Some of his observations on sodomistic psychology are +highly interesting, although expressed in long periods.</p> + +<p>I append a few pages of literal translation from the opening +chapter of “Sodome et Gomorrhe”; first, that the reader may +have a sample of M. Proust's style; second, that he may gain +an insight of the grasp the writer has of one of nature's most +unsolvable riddles; and finally, that he may have the description +of an individual who plays an important part in the novel.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“At the beginning of this scene, before my unsealed eyes, a +revolution had taken place in M. de Charlus, as complete, as +immediate as if he had been touched by a magic wand. Until +then, not understanding, I had not seen. The vice (so-called +for convenience), the vice of each individual, accompanies him +after the manner of those genii who are invisible to those +who ignore their presence. Goodness, deceit, a good name, +social relations do not allow themselves to be discovered, +they exist hidden. Ulysses himself did not at first recognise +Athene. But gods are immediately perceptible to gods, the +like to the like, so M. de Charlus was to Julien. Until now, in +the presence of M. de Charlus, I was like an absent-minded +man in company with a pregnant woman, whose heavy figure +he had not remarked and of whom, in spite of her smiling +reiteration 'Yes, I am a bit tired just now,' he persists in asking +indiscreetly, 'What is the matter with you then?' But, let +some one say to him, 'She is pregnant,' he immediately is conscious +of her abdomen and hereafter sees nothing but that. +Enlightenment opens the eyes; an error dissipated gives an +added sense.</p> + +<p>“Those persons who do not like to believe themselves examples +of this law in others—towards the Messieurs de Charlus +of their acquaintance whom they did not suspect even until +there appears on the smooth surface of a character, apparently +in every respect like others, traced in an ink until then<span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</span> +invisible, a word dear to the ancient Greeks, have only to recall, +in order to satisfy themselves, how at first the surrounding +world appeared naked, devoid of those ornamentations which +it offers to the more sophisticated, and also, of the many times +in their lives that they had been on the point of making a +break. For instance, nothing upon the characterless face of +some man could make them suppose that he was the brother, +the fiancé or the lover of some woman of whom they are on +the point of making an uncomplimentary remark, as, for example, +to compare her to a camel. At that moment, fortunately, +however, some word whispered to him by a neighbour +freezes the fatal term on his lips. Then immediately appears, +like a <em>Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin</em>, these words, 'This is +the fiancé, or the brother, or the lover of the woman, therefore +it would be impossible to call her a camel before him,' and, +this new notion alone causes the retreat or advance of the +fraction of those notions, heretofore completed, that he had +had concerning the rest of the family.</p> + +<p>“The real reason that M. de Charlus was different from other +men was because another being had been engrafted upon him, +like the horse upon the centaur, that his being was incorporated +with that of the Baron. I had not hitherto perceived. +The abstract had not become materialised, the being, finally +understood had lost its power of remaining invisible, and the +transmutation of M. de Charlus into a new person was so +complete that not only the contrasts of his face, of his voice, but +retrospectively the heights and depths of his relations with me, +everything, in fact, which had until then appeared incoherent, +became intelligible, disclosed itself, like a phrase which, without +meaning so long as the letters composing it are scattered +becomes, if the characters be placed in their proper order, a +thought impossible to forget.</p> + +<p>“Moreover I now understood why, a short time ago, when I +saw M. de Charlus coming out from Mme. de Villeparisis' I +thought he looked like a woman. It was because he was one! +He belonged to that race of beings whose ideal is virile because +their temperament is feminine, and who are, in appearance +only, like other men. The silhouette cast in the facet of +their eyes, through which they see everything in the universe, +is not that of a nymph but of a beautiful young man. +One of a race upon whom rests a curse, who is forced to live<span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</span> +in an atmosphere of falsehood and perjury because he knows +that his desire, that which gives to all creatures the greatest +satisfaction in life, must be unavowed, being considered punishable +and shameful, who must even deny God himself, since +when even as a Christian he appears as an accused at the bar +of the tribunal he must before Christ and in his name defend +himself as if from a calumny from that which is his very life; +son without a mother, forced to lie to her all her life, even to +the moment when he is closing her eyes, friend without friendships, +in spite of all those who are attracted by his charm, fully +recognised, and whose hearts would lead them to be kind—for +can those relations, which bloom only by favour of a lie, +be called friendship, when the first burst of confidence he might +be tempted to express, would cause him to be rejected with +disgust? Should he, by chance, have to do with an impartial +mind, that is to say a sympathetic one, even then diverted +from him by a psychology of convention, would permit to flow +from the confessed vice even the affection which is the most +foreign to him—as certain judges extenuate and excuse more +easily assassination amongst inverts and treason amongst Jews +from reasons drawn from original sin and fatality of race.</p> + +<p>“Finally, lovers (at least according to the first theory advanced +which one will see modified by the continuation and +which would have angered them above everything had not this +contradiction been wiped out from before their eyes by the +same illusion that made them see and live) to whom the possibility +of this love (the hope of which gives them the force to +bear so many risks, so much solitude) is nearly closed since +they are naturally attracted to a man who does not resemble +in any way a woman, a man who is not an invert and who +therefore cannot love them; consequently their desire would +remain forever unappeased if money did not deliver to them +real men or if the imagination did not cause them to take for +real men the inverts to whom they are prostituted. Whose +only honour is precarious; whose only liberty provisory, +up to the discovery of the crime; whose only situation is +unstable like the poet, who, fêted at night in all the salons, +applauded in all the theatres of London is chased from his +lodgings in the morning and can find no place to lay his head. +Turning the treadmill like Sampson and saying like him, 'The +two sexes will die each on his own side.' Excluded even (except<span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</span> +during the days of great misfortune when the greatest +number rallies around the victim like the Jews around Dreyfus—from +the sympathy—sometimes of society) excluded +even from their kind who see with disgust, reflected as in a +mirror which no longer flatters, all those blemishes which they +have not been willing to see in themselves and which make +them understand that that which they call their love (and to +which, playing upon the word, they have annexed everything +that poetry, painting, music, chivalry, asceticism can add to +love) comes not from an ideal of beauty which they have +chosen, but from an incurable malady. Like the Jews again +(save a few who only care to consort with their own race and +have always on the lips ritualistic words and consecrated +pleasantries); they fly from each other, seeking those who are +most unlike them, who will have nothing to do with them, pardoning +their rebuffs, intoxicating themselves with their condescensions; +but also reassembled with their kind by the very +ostracism which strikes them, the opprobrium into which they +have fallen, and finally taking on (as a result of a persecution +similar to that of Israel) the physical and moral characteristics +of a race, sometimes beautiful, often frightful, finding (in spite +of all the mockeries that those more homogeneous, better +assimilated to the other race, in appearance less of an invert +heap upon him who is apparently more of one) finding even a +kind of expansion in frequenting with their kind, even an aid +from their existence so that while denying that they belong to +that race (whose very name is the greatest of injuries) those +who have succeeded in hiding the truth, that they also are of +that despised race, unmask those others, less to injure them, not +detesting them, than to excuse themselves, as a physician seeks +the appendicitis inversion in history, they find pleasure in recalling +that Socrates was one of them and that the same thing +was said of Jesus by the Israelites, without remembering +that then when homo-sexuality was normal there was no abnormality, +as there were no anti-Christians before Christ, also +that opprobrium alone makes it crime, since it has been only +allowed to exist as crime because it is refractory to all predication, +all example, to all punishment by virtue of special +innate disposition which repulses men more (although it may +accompany high moral qualities) than certain vices which contradict +high moral qualities, such as theft, cruelty, bad faith,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</span> +better understood, therefore more easily excused by men in +general.</p> + +<p>“Forming a free-masonry, much more extended, more efficacious +and less suspected than that of the lodges, because it +rests upon an identity of tastes, of needs, of habits, of dangers, +of apprenticeships, of knowledge, of traffic and of language. +Whose members avoid one another and yet immediately recognise +each other by natural or conventional signs, involuntary +or studied, which disclose to the mendicant one of his kind in +the lord whose carriage door he opens, to the father in the +fiancé of his daughter, to him who had wished to be cured, to +confess, in the physician, the priest or the lawyer whom he +had gone to consult; all obliged to protect their secret, but, +at the same time, sharing the secret of the others, which was +not suspected by the others and which makes the most improbable +romances of adventure seem true to them, for, in their +romantic life, anachronically, the ambassador is the friend of +the criminal, the prince who, with a certain freedom of manner, +(which an aristocratic education gives and which would be +impossible with a little trembling bourgeois) leaves the house +of the duchess to seek the Apache. Rejected part of the human +collectivity but all the same an important part, suspected +where it does not exist, vaunting itself, insolently with impunity +where it is not divined; counting its adherents everywhere, +amongst the people, in the army, in the temple, in the prison, +upon the throne; finally living, at least a great number of them, +in a caressing and dangerous intimacy with men of the other +race, provoking them, enticing them to speak of this vice as +if it were not theirs, a game which is made easy by the blindness +or the falseness of the others, a game which may be prolonged +for years—until the day of Scandal, when these conquerors +are devoured. Until this time obliged to hide their +true life, to turn away their regards from where they would +wish to fix them, to fix them upon that from which they would +naturally turn away—to change the meaning of many adjectives +in their vocabulary, a social constraint merely, slight compared +to that interior constraint which their vice, or that which +is improperly called so, imposes upon them, less with regard +to others than to themselves and in a manner which makes it +seem not to be a vice—to themselves. But certain ones, more +practical, more hurried, who have not time to bargain and to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</span> +renounce the simplification of life and the gain of time that +might result from cooperation, have made two societies, of +which the second is exclusively composed of beings like themselves.” </p> +</div> + +<p>M. Proust's work is the first definite reply in the affirmative +to the question whether fiction can subsist without the seductive +power due to a certain illusory essence of thought. Whether +in this respect he will have many, if any, successful followers +is to be seen. But his own volumes stand as an astonishing +example of an organic and living fiction obtained solely by +the effort to portray truth.</p> + +<p>Because of the unique qualities of his novels and the fact +that they are developed on a definite psychological plan, more +than the usual interest in a favourite writer is attached to the +personality of M. Proust. During his lifetime inaccessible +both because of aristocratic taste and of partial invalidism, his +figure is likely to become more familiar to the reading world—even +to those who never read his books—than the figures of +great authors who walked with the crowd and kept the common +touch.</p> + +<p>Neither Proust the man nor Proust the author can be +considered apart from his invalidism. It shows all through his +writings, although what the malady was which rendered him, if +not a <em>de facto</em> invalid, certainly a potential invalid, is not +known. Some of his friends accused asthma, others a disease +of the heart, while still others attributed it to “nerves.” In +reality his conduct and his writings were consistent with +neuropathy and his heredity. And if the hero of “A la Recherche +du Temps Perdu” is to be identified with himself, as +is popularly supposed, he was from early childhood delicate, +sensitive, precocious, and asthmatic, that is profoundly +neuropathic.</p> + +<p>He was fastidious in his tastes; he liked the best styles, +the most elegant ladies, aristocratic salons, and fashionable +gatherings. He was noted for the generosity of his tips. His<span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</span> +life reminds one of the hero of Huysman's famous novel. In +his early days, M. Proust was a great swell, and there is no +doubt that many of his descriptions of incidents and persons +are elaborations of notes that he made after attending a reception +given by the Duchesse de Rohan, or other notables of the +Faubourg St. Germain, in whose houses he was an habitué.</p> + +<p>His social activity may have been deliberate preparation +for his work, as his fifteen-year apprenticeship to Ruskin was +preparation. Or it may have been a pose, much the same as his +mannerisms, habits, customs, and possibly some features of his +invalidism, were a pose. Surely he enjoyed the reputation of +being “different.” </p> + +<p>He ruminated on Rousseau and studied Saint-Simon. When +he arrived at the stage where he could scoff at one and spurn +the other, he learned Henry James by heart. Then he wrote; +he had prepared himself. The deficit which art and endeavour +failed to wipe out was compensated by his maternal inheritance.</p> + +<p>One may infer whither he is going by reading Proust once, +but to accompany him he must be read a second time. Those +who would get instruction and enlightenment must read him +as Ruskin, his master, said all worth while books must be +read: “You must get into the habit of looking intensely at +words and assuring yourself of their meaning, syllable by +syllable.” </p> + +<p>The discerning reader must look intensely at M. Proust's +words. If he looks long enough they seem to take on the +appearance of <em>Mene, Tekel, Phares</em>.</p> + + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" >CHAPTER VI<br> +<small>TWO LITERARY LADIES OF LONDON: KATHERINE MANSFIELD<br> +AND REBECCA WEST</small></h2> +</div> + +<p>Many persons are so constituted that they accept any +positive statement as fact unless they know it to be +false. Few more positive statements are made in print than +“So and So is England's or America's or France's leading or +most popular writer of fiction or verse.” Publicity agents have +found apparently that such claim sells books and needs no +substantiation. The reading public rarely protests. It denies +in a more effective way, but before the denial gets disseminated +many credulous seekers of diversion and culture are misled.</p> + +<p>There are several young women writing fiction in England +today of whom it can be said truthfully that they ornament +the profession of letters. Women have long justified their reputation +for being intuitive by their fictional writing. It is likely +that they may proceed to establish an equal reputation for +accurate observation, logical inference, and temperate narrative. +Had not the waves of death recently encompassed +Katherine Mansfield in her early maturity she would have +remained at the top of the list, the place where now, varying +with individual taste and judgment, stand the names of Dorothy +Richardson, Rebecca West, Stella Benson, Virginia Woolf, +Sheila Kaye-Smith, Mary Webb, Rose Macaulay, to mention +no others. For the first time in history women prose writers +preponderate, and it is a good augury for a country which has +been so quickly and successfully purged of anti-feminism.</p> + +<p>Katherine Mansfield's output has been small, but quality +has made up for quantity. Her reputation is founded on two<span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</span> +volumes of short stories. To say that they reveal capacity to +create life, to recognise the temperament, intellectuality, and +morality of the ordinary human beings that one encounters, +and to display their behaviour; as well as a power to analyse +personality and to depict individuality that equals de Maupassant, +is to make a truthful statement, and a temperate one. +Indeed, she seemed to her contemporaries to be possessed of +some unsanctified and secret wisdom.</p> + +<p>Her history is brief. She was Kathleen Beauchamp, third +daughter of a man of affairs, recently knighted, and was born +in Wellington, New Zealand. She was 23 years old when she +married, just before the war, J. Middleton Murry, the British +critic and novelist. Her first book “In a German Pension,” +published when she was 21, gave no promise of great talent. +Her first mature work was a series of book reviews in <em>The +Nation and Athenæum</em>, about 1919. She was quickly recognised +to be a subtle and brilliant critic. In 1920 the publication +of “Bliss and Other Stories” revealed her metal and temper. +Development and maturity marked her second and last +collection, “The Garden-Party and Other Stories,” which followed +in 1922. Hardly had the promise of her early work been +recognised before it was overshadowed by progressive pulmonary +disease, and after long months of illness, during which +she was obliged to spend most of her time away from England, +she died in France on January 9, 1923.</p> + +<p>Katherine Mansfield had a technique which may be compared +to that of a great stage manager. When the play is put +on, the scenes and the characters, the atmosphere and the environment, +the sentiment and the significance are satisfying, +intelligent and convincing. The world seen through her eyes, +and the conduct of its most highly organised product, is the +world that may be seen by anyone who has normal, keen vision. +The conduct of the people who encumber it is that which an +observer without inherited bias or acquired bigotry knows intuitively, +and has learned from experience, is the conduct that +reflects our present development, our attitudes, our interests, +our desires, and most of all our dispositions.</p> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</span></p> +</div> + +<figure class="figcenter illowe25" id="ilo_fp155"> + <img class="w100 p2" src="images/ilo_fp155.jpg" alt="ilop155" title="p155ilo"> + <figcaption class="caption p2b"><span class="allsmcap">KATHERINE MANSFIELD</span></figcaption> +</figure> + + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</span></p> +</div> + +<p>She prepared the stage and then her characters came on. +She didn't bore with narrative of their birth, weary with incidents +of their development, or disgust with details of their +vegetative existence. They reacted to their immediate desires +and environment in the way that people act in real life. She +had a comprehensive understanding of human motives, and +she realised how firmly engrained in man is the organic lust to +live and to experience pleasure.</p> + +<p>To find the balance in fiction midway between the “joy +stuff” which for the last decade has been threatening to reduce +American literature to a spineless pulp, and morbid realism +which, in both England and this country, has been reflecting +the influence of so-called psychoanalysis, is an accomplishment +deserving of the thanks of all admirers of sanity in art. Miss +Mansfield has succeeded in doing this, with the result that a +large measure of the charm of her art lies in its sanity, its +extraordinary freedom from obsessions, from delusions, and +from excessive egocentricity. To borrow a term from music, +she may be said to have possessed an unerring sense of pitch.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</span></p> + +<p>The easiest way of estimating any unknown element is to +compare it to something already known, and Katherine Mansfield +has been called the Chekhov of English fiction. Such a +comparison may be useful as an approach to her work. In +truth, however, while her position in English fiction may be +compared with that of the illustrious Russian, she is in no +sense an imitator, a disciple of him or of any one else. Her +art is her own.</p> + +<p>It can best be estimated from study of her last published +story. If Katherine Mansfield, feeling herself already drawn +into the shadow of approaching death, had tried to leave the +world one final sample of her art which would epitomise her +message and her method, “The Fly,” published in <em>The Nation +and Athenæum</em> of March 18, 1922, is a lasting triumph of her +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</span> +success. In a story of twenty-five hundred words she has said +more than most authors say in a one-hundred-thousand word +novel, or, indeed, in many novels. Not only is every word +pregnant with meaning, but for those who can read between the +lines there is an indictment of the life she is picturing too poignant +for any but strong souls who can look upon the wine of +life when it is red; who can even drain the cup to the bitter +dregs in their sincere desire to learn its truth, without suffering +the draft to send its poison into their souls. It is not that Katherine +Mansfield was poisoned with the bitterness of life, or +weakened with the taint of pessimism. On the contrary, she +was as immune to bitterness, to poison, to weakness, as a disembodied +spirit would be to disease. She was like pure white +glass, reflecting fearlessly the part of life that was held before +her, but never colouring it with her own personality. Her +reflection was impartial.</p> + +<p>In “The Fly” the <em>dramatis personæ</em> are old Mr. Woodifield, +the boss, and the fly. Old Mr. Woodifield is not described, +but the reader sees him, small of body and of soul, shrivelled, +shaky, wheezy, as he lingers in the big, blatantly new office +chair on one of the Tuesdays when, since the “stroke” and +retirement from his clerkship, he has escaped from the solicitude +of the wife and the girls back into his old life in the city—“we +cling to our last pleasures as the tree clings to its last +leaves”—and revelled in the sense of being a guest in the +boss's office. The boss is more graphic because he remains +nameless. “Stout, rosy, five years older than Mr. Woodifield +and still going strong, still at the helm” is what we are told +he is, but this is what we see: A brutal, thick man, purring +at the admiration of the old clerk for his prosperity revealed +in the newly “done-up” office; self-satisfied, selfish, and supercilious, +offering a glass of whiskey as a panacea for the old +man's tottering pitifulness, and then listening, insolently tolerant, +to the rambling outpourings of the old soul, harmless, +disciplined to long poverty of purse, of life, of thought, about<span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</span> +the “Girls” visit to the soldier's grave in Belgium and the price +they paid for a pot of jam. Then the picture changes. The +shuffling footsteps of the old man have died out, the door is +closed for half-an-hour, the photograph of a “grave-looking boy +in uniform standing in one of those spectral photographers' +parks with photographers' storm-clouds behind him,” looks +out at the boss who has “arranged to weep.” But the floodgates +which have opened at the tap of the one sentiment of +which the boss was capable are now suffering from the rust +of six years. Tears refuse to come.</p> + +<p>A fly drops into the pot of ink, and the boss, absent-mindedly +noticing its struggles for freedom, picks it out with a pen and +shakes it on to the blotting paper, where the little animal makes +a heroic effort to clean off the ink and get ready for life again. +But the boss has an idea. In spite of himself, his admiration +is aroused by the fly's struggle, his pluck—“that was the way +to tackle things, that was the right spirit. Never say die; it +was only a question of.... But the fly has again finished its +laborious task and the boss has just time to refill his pen, to +shake fair and square on the newly cleaned body yet another +dark drop. What about it this time?” And yet another. +“He plunged his pen back into the ink, leaned his thick wrist +on the blotting paper, and as the fly tried its wings, down +came a great heavy blot. What would it make of that?... +Then the boss decided that this time should be the last, as +he dipped the pen deep in the inkpot. It was. The last blot +fell on the soaked blotting-paper and the bedraggled fly lay in +it and did not stir.” And as he rings for some new blotting-paper, +a feeling of unaccountable wretchedness seizes him and +he falls to wondering what it was he had been thinking about +before the fly had attracted his attention. “For the life of +him, he could not remember.” And that is the end of the +story.</p> + +<p>Katherine Mansfield's art resembles that of the great Russian +physician-novelist in that she preaches no sermon, points<span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</span> +no moral, expounds no philosophy. Although there is no available +exposition of her theories, her work is evidence that her +conception of art was to depict the problematic as it was +presented to her, and leave the interpretation to the reader's +own philosophy. She made Raoul Duquette say, in “Je ne +parle pas Française,” one of the most psychologically remarkable +of her stories: “People are like portmanteaux, packed +with certain things, started going, thrown about, tossed away, +dumped down, lost and found, half emptied suddenly or +squeezed fatter than ever until finally the Ultimate Porter +swings them on to the Ultimate Train, and away they rattle.” +That may have been her own belief.</p> + +<p>While it may be true in a certain sense that the artist sees +only himself in his art, there is an essential difference between +seeing himself reflected in life and in seeing life as in himself. +Katherine Mansfield habitually did the latter. And it is this +fact that enabled her to use as models, or accessories, or background +any of the chance travellers she may have encountered +with almost equal success. If she ever reflected herself in her +art, it was a normal and objective self, a self which was interested +in the drama being enacted about her, not merely the +drama of her own soul; and in the fine points of this drama as +well as in its leading actors and more obvious aspects.</p> + +<p>Her world from which she has gathered the material for her +two books of stories has been richly variegated, and her readers +are given the full benefit of a versatile experience. She was <em>La +Gioconda</em> of English fiction writers. “Je ne parle pas Française” +shows that she knew the soul maladies and, like Walter +Pater's conception of Leonardo's masterpiece, she knew some +of the secrets of the grave: though she had not “been a diver in +deep seas,” nor “trafficked for strange webs with Eastern merchants.” +She did not <em>finish</em> an individual. She narrated an +episode which revealed his or her character; she didn't lead +up to some epochal event like marriage, a dramatic reconciliation, +a studied folly, or a crime. She depicted an episode,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</span> +and left you to put such interpretation upon it, or to continue +it, as your experience, imagination, or desire might suggest. +She was a picture maker, not pigment by pigment, cell by cell, +but with great sweeps of the brush.</p> + +<p>She usually depicted sentimental <em>men</em>, whose long suits were +fidelity and constancy, or men whose fundamental urges were +not harmonised to convention. Her women were, in the main, +fickle, designing, inconstant, shallow, truckling, vain. “Marriage +à la Mode,” is a specimen. William keeps his romantic +and sentimental view of life after prosperity and progeny come. +Isabel doesn't. She is all for progress and evolution—new +house, new environment, new friends, new valuation of life's +possessions. He goes home for week-ends chockful of love +and sentimentality. She meets him at the station with her +new friends—sybarites and hedonists in search of sensation. +He soon finds he isn't in the game at all as Isabel now plays +it. So he decides to abbreviate his visit. On the way back to +town he concocts a long letter full of protestations of unselfish +love, and willingness to stand aside if his presence is a drag +on her happiness. She reads it aloud to her guests who receive +it with sneers and jeers. Isabel has a moment of self-respect, +and withdraws to her room and experiences the vulgarity +and loathesomeness of her conduct. She will write to +William at once and dispel his fears and reassure him, but +while she is holding her character up to her eyes disparagingly +she hears her guests calling her and decides “I'll go with them +and write to William later—some other time. Not now. But +I shall <em>certainly</em> write.” Procrastination, not hesitation, condition +her downfall.</p> + +<p>In “Je ne parle pas Française” she handled a subject—the +implantation of the genesic instinct—in such a way that the +reader may get little or much from it, depending upon his +knowledge and experience. But in the lines and between the +lines there is exposition of practically all that is known of +the strange deviations of the libido. Raoul Duquette and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</span> +Dick, his English friend, who cannot kill his mother, cannot +give her the final blow of letting her know that he has fallen +in love with Mouse, are as truly drawn to life as Paul Verlaine +and Arthur Rimbaud, or as Encolpius and Giton of the +Satyricon.</p> + +<p>It is a far cry from the depths glimpsed—but with such terrible +sureness—in this story, to the budding soul of a young +girl from the country as pictured in Leila in “Her First Ball”; +or to the very spirit of healthy youth, both frivolous, superficial +youth, and sensitive idealising youth, which exudes from +the pages of “The Garden-Party.” </p> + +<p>She depicted transformation of mental states, the result +of suggestion or impulse, much as a prestidigitator handles +his Aaron's rod. This is particularly well seen in Leila. The +reader shares her joyous mental state, full of vistas of hope +and love and joy. Then a fat man who has been going to +parties for thirty years dances with her and pictures her future +follies, strifes, struggles, and selfishness at forty. At once +she realises her doll is stuffed with sawdust, and cries and wants +to go home, but a young man comes along, dances with her +again, and behold the filling isn't sawdust, but radium!</p> + +<p>Katherine Mansfield's art may be studied in such a story as +“At the Bay.” The <em>dramatis personæ</em> are: Beryl, a temperamental +young lady looking for romance, seeking fulfilment of +destiny, thwarted by a Narcissus inhibition; Linda, her sister, +without temperament, to whom fulfilment is repellant; Mrs. +Harry Kember, unmoral and immoral, a vampire with a past +and keen for a future; Harry Kember, her husband of whom +many things are said, but none adequate to describe him; +Stanley Burnell, a conventional good man—mollycoddle; Jonathan +Trout, a poet compelled by fate to be a drone; Alice, a +servant in transformation from chrysalis to butterfly; Mrs. +Stubbs, a vegetative hedonist; and several delightful children +and a devoted “Granma.” </p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</span></p> + +<p>They spend a holiday at the seashore and Beryl looks for +romance. Here is the picture:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“Very early morning. The sun was not yet risen, and the +whole of Crescent Bay was hidden under a white sea-mist. +The big bush-covered hills at the back were smothered. You +could not see where they ended and the paddocks and bungalows +began. The sandy road was gone and the paddocks and +bungalows the other side of it; there were no white dunes +covered with reddish grass beyond them; there was nothing +to mark which was beach and where was the sea. A heavy dew +had fallen. The grass was blue. Big drops hung on the +bushes and just did not fall; the silvery, fluffy toi-toi was limp +on its long stalks, and all the marigolds and the pinks in the +bungalow gardens were bowed to the earth with wetness. +Drenched were the cold fuchsias, round pearls of dew lay on +the flat nasturtium leaves. It looked as though the sea had +beaten up softly in the darkness, as though one immense wave +had come tippling, rippling—how far? Perhaps if you had +waked up in the middle of the night you might have seen a +big fish flicking in at the window and gone again....” </p> +</div> + +<p>You feel the wetness of it. Then come the first signs of +waking up in the place: the shepherd with his dog and flock +making for the Downs, the cat waiting on the gatepost for +the milk-girl—harbingers of the day's activities.</p> + +<p>Then the picture is animated.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“A few minutes later the back door of one of the bungalows +opened, and a figure in a broad-striped bathing suit flung down +the paddock, cleared the stile, rushed through the tussock +grass into the hollow, staggered up the sandy hillock, and +raced for dear life over the big porous stones, over the cold, +wet pebbles, on to the hard sand that gleamed like oil. Splish-splosh! +Splish-splosh! The water bubbled round his legs as +Stanley Burnell waded out exulting. First man in as usual! +He'd beaten them all again. And he swooped down to souse his +head and neck.” </p> +</div> + +<p>This is a complete revelation of his character—smug, righteous, +selfish, the centre of a world in which every tomorrow<span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</span> +shall be like today, and today is without romance. He feels +cheated when Jonathan Trout tries to talk to him.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“But curse the fellow! He'd ruined Stanley's bathe. What +an unpractical idiot the man was! Stanley struck out to sea +again, and then as quickly swam in again, and away he +rushed up the beach.” </p> +</div> + +<p>There is something pathetic in his determination to make +a task of everything, even the entailments of matrimony.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“You couldn't help feeling he'd be caught out one day, and +then what an almighty cropper he'd come! At that moment +an immense wave lifted Jonathan, rode past him, and broke +along the beach with a joyful sound. What a beauty! And +now there was another. That was the way to live—carelessly, +recklessly, spending oneself. He got on to his feet and began +to wade towards the shore, pressing his toes into the firm, +wrinkled sand. To take things easy, not to fight against the +ebb and flow of life, but to give way to it—that was what was +needed. It was this tension that was all wrong. To live—to +live!”</p> +</div> + +<p>The whole world of his home moves round Stanley. When +he returns for breakfast he has every member of the family +working for him. When Beryl does not help him at once, its +mechanism must be dislocated. But Linda he can't draw into +the net. “Linda's vagueness on these occasions could not be +real, Stanley decided.” </p> + +<p>The bathing hour on the beach for the women and children +is as vivid as if taken by a camera.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“The firm, compact little girls were not half so brave as the +tender, delicate-looking little boys. Pip and Rags, shivering, +crouching down, slapping the water, never hesitated. But +Isabel, who could swim twelve strokes, and Kezia, who could +nearly swim eight, only followed on the strict understanding +they were not to be splashed. As for Lottie, she didn't follow +at all. She liked to be left to go in her own way, please. And +that way was to sit down at the edge of the water, her legs<span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</span> +straight, her knees pressed together, and to make vague motions +with her arms as if she expected to be wafted out to sea. +But when a bigger wave than usual, an old whiskery one, came +lolloping along in her direction, she scrambled to her feet with +a face of horror and flew up the beach again.” </p> +</div> + +<p>Mrs. Harry Kember and Beryl give an exhibition of the +vampire and the novice, while Linda dreams the morning away +in revery and retrospect. Beryl's dream of romance when +she is alone in the garden after everybody else in the household +has gone to bed receives a rude jolt from Harry Kember.</p> + +<p>The story is illustrative of Miss Mansfield's art in leaving +her characters without killing or marrying them or bringing +great adventure into their lives. It leaves one with a keen +interest in what is next for Beryl, although she is not the most +attractive of the figures in the story, but there is no indication +that we shall meet her again. “Granma” and the children are +the features of this story, and appear as real as life. The +author's faculty in making the reader interested in characters +who do not play heroic or leading rôles is distinctive. Even the +sheep-dog's encounter with the cat on the gatepost is delightful, +also the glimpse of Mrs. Stubbs' cottage with its array +of bathing suits and shoes and the lady's reception of Alice are +art: “With her broad smile and the long bacon knife in her +hand, she looked like a friendly brigand.” </p> + +<p>“Prelude,” the introductory story of “Bliss and Other +Stories,” is a further revelation of Beryl, with side lights on +her sister Linda and Linda's husband, Stanley, and her quite +wonderful mother. The Narcissus in Beryl has bloomed. +Forced to accept bed and board from her brother-in-law, she +bewails her fate while chanting the praises of her physical +charms and mental possessions. Linda, by this time, has given +herself all the air of confirmed invalidism. Linda gets her +emotional appeasement from what might have been; Beryl, +from what is going to be—both foundationed in introspection. +When Linda first met Stanley out in Australia she<span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</span> +scorned him, but previous to or after their marriage she fell +in love with him. But her antipathy to childbearing and her +fear of it are so profound that they colour all her thoughts +and emotions. This is best seen when she relates her dream +about birds.</p> + +<p>“Prelude” is not a story of Linda, but of Beryl and her +hypocrisy. It should be dovetailed into “At the Bay.” The +overtures and the temptation which were made to her by Mr. +and Mrs. Harry Kember have not borne fruit. She is in love +with herself and it may be that that is what the author meant +to convey. The description of herself and her comment +on her own appearance: “Yes, my dear, there is no doubt about +it, you really are a lovely little thing” is very illuminating. +She persuades herself that she is a potential Nina Declos and +that if opportunity had not been denied her she could rival +Messalina. Hypocrisy is bearing in on her and it is not +quite evident, at the close of “Prelude,” where it is going to +lead her.</p> + +<p>The burden of the story is to intensify interest in Beryl, +and her influences and surroundings, and to heighten the suspense +of the reader. On finishing “At the Bay” one has a +picture of the romantic girl; at the close of “Prelude” one +feels that something is going to happen to her before the +author finishes with her. The reader gets no clue, however, +to what it might be, except that it would be the working +out of her temperament—admiration for self and longing for +romance through which to express this self. Her longing at +first seemed to be for expression of self biologically and intellectually; +now it seems to be to find a setting in which to +frame becomingly this adorable self—an essential difference +in character and the difference that is the axis upon which +the story might be expected to turn. If people are their temperaments, +it is such subtle differences of temperament which +determine destiny, or what they shall work out for themselves +from given circumstances.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</span></p> + +<p>Beryl is more cold-blooded, more calculating than she at +first appeared to be, and never again will she be in danger of +capitulating to a Kember. What she wants is to shine, and +she is going to use her valued attractions designedly as +currency to accomplish this. Beryl and Linda are studies in +selfishness and introspection. The latter is phlegmatic and +lazy, mentally and emotionally as well as physically.</p> + +<p>“Granma” and the children are still the most attractive +figures in the family. How such a woman as “Granma” could +have had daughters like Beryl and Linda is truer to life than to +fiction. Had we known their father they might not have been +so enigmatic.</p> + +<p>Katherine Mansfield had a genius for catching the exact +meaning of the little touches in life, the little ironies and comedies +as well as the single little wild flower in a rank growth of +weeds. She was delightfully objective. She had a quality rare +in women writers, especially, of not putting all her treasures in +one basket, of not concentrating upon one character and that +character more or less the expression of herself; and of being +interested in the whole drama as it passed. She could enter +into the soul of a charwoman or a cat and take a snap-shot +of it which made the reader love the charwoman or the cat, +as well as she could paint a picture that gives the very atmosphere +of children at play or of dawn at the seashore or night +in a quiet house—even better than she could make an X-ray +study of the soul of a selfish woman or a stupid self-righteous +man.</p> + +<p>The “high light” of “The Garden-Party” is the contrast +between a typical happy prosperous family and an equally +unhappy poor one; a garden-party for the young girls of the +first family, the accidental death of the man and the wage-earner +of the second. One lives on the hill in the sunlight; +the other in the damp forbidding hollow below. They are near +neighbours in point of space; strangers in all other respects. +One makes an art of the graces and pleasures of life; the other<span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</span> +is familiar with the gloom typified by poverty and death. +Both accept their existences unquestioningly, in worlds as +different psychologically as they are physically.</p> + +<p>The author does not preach; there is no straining for effect. +Laura, one of three sisters, is more sensitive than the other +members of the family. She alone feels contrasts. She is +revelling in the preparations for the garden-party when she +hears from the workmen of the man's sudden death, and her +joy is clouded. But her mother and sisters make light of it, +and the party proceeds—a picture of average wholesome young +joyousness. Then the mother sends Laura, with a basket of +cakes, to the man's family. The dramatic contrast is in Laura's +impressions when she goes, in her party clothes, with the +frivolous-looking basket, down into the hollow at dusk. That +is all. There is no antagonism, no questioning of fate, no +sociology—just a picture. Only the ability not to use an extra +word, the taste and the humour which kept out any mawkishness +saved the story from being “sob stuff.” </p> + +<p>When Katherine Mansfield read virtues into her female characters +she usually made them humble, lowly, or plain, such +as Ma Parker, Miss Brill, and Beryl's mother. She could introduce +Ma Parker who cleaned the flat of the literary gentleman +every Tuesday, and in eleven pages, without a single approach +to sentimentality, make you in love with the old scrubwoman, +with her hard life and heroic unselfish soul, when you left +her standing in the cold street wondering whether there was +any place in the world where she could have a cry at last. The +motive of this story is much the same as that of “The Garden-Party,” +the sharp contrast between two extreme types of life +which circumstances bring close together.</p> + +<p>In “The Daughters of the Late Colonel” the author walked +with a sure step on thin ice from the first sentence to the last, +never taking a false step or undignified slide. Humour alone +preserved the balance where the ice was not too thin, and kept +her from slipping over the invisible line of safety in the direction<span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</span> +of bathos on the one side, or of the coarsely comic on the +other. To make two old ladies who had spent their lives +“looking after father, and at the same time keeping out of +father's way” and who at father's death find themselves among +those whom life had passed by, interesting and intriguing, is +a severe test for a writer. Not only are they dead emotionally, +but their habit of thought has become too set to be readjusted +to their new freedom. Miss Mansfield made them as funny +as they naturally would have been, without “making fun” of +them. Their funniness is lovable. For instance:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“At the cemetery while the coffin was lowered, to think that +she and Constantia had done this thing without asking his +permission. What would father say when he found out? +For he was bound to find out sooner or later. He always did. +'Buried. You two girls had me buried.' She could hear his +stick thumping.” </p> +</div> + +<p>Or when the organ-grinding and the spot of sunshine on their +mother's picture start in both silent reminiscence as to whether +life might have been different if she had lived.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“Might they have married? But there had been nobody for +them to marry. There had been father's Anglo-Indian +friends before he quarrelled with them. But after that she and +Constantia never met a single man except clergymen. How +did one meet men? Or even if they'd met them, how could +one have got to know men well enough to be more than +strangers? One read of people having adventures, being followed, +and so on. But nobody had ever followed Constantia +and her.” </p> +</div> + +<p>“Miss Brill” is a sketch with a whimsical pathos. A little +old maiden lady who dresses up every Sunday and goes to the +<em>Jardin Publiques</em> in Paris and sits on a bench, getting her romance +out of watching people and feeling that she is a part +of the passing life, goes one Sunday as usual. The feature in +the sketch is the little fur piece around her neck.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</span></p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“Miss Brill put up her hand and touched her fur. Dear little +thing! It was nice to feel it again. She had taken it out of its +box that afternoon, shaken out the mothpowder, given it a +good brush, and rubbed the life back into the dim little eyes.” </p> +</div> + +<p>It is to her like a pet animal or even a child. At first she +finds the park less interesting than usual, but finally, as she +senses romance in a pair of park lovers who sit down on her +bench, she hears the boy say, “that stupid old thing at the +end there. Why does she come here at all—who wants her? +Why doesn't she keep her silly old mug at home?” And the +girl, giggling, replies, “It's her fu-fur which is so funny.... +It's exactly like a fried whiting.” Suddenly the romance and +the joy have all gone out of the old lady, and when she lays +away her little fur piece in its box sadly and puts on the lid +she thinks she hears something crying.</p> + +<p>Ability to depict the hidden speck of beauty under an uncompromising +exterior not only inspired some of Katherine +Mansfield's finest touches, but is especially refreshing after +acquaintance with many writers who seem bent solely upon +discovering some inmost rottenness and turning upon it the +X-rays. There are many old ladies in this book, and the loving +skill with which she has reproduced for the reader the charm +she was able to see in them is indicative not only of her art, +but also of her essential wholesomeness.</p> + +<p>“The Man Without a Temperament” is an objective study +of an unpopular man. One knows him from the few outward +glimpses given of him as well as if the author had made an +intensive psychological study of him. That is, one knows him +as one knows other people, not as he knows himself. The +sketch is pregnant with irony and pathos. Without a temperament—unfeeling—is +the world's verdict of him. In reality, +he has more feeling than his critics. What he lacks is not +feeling, but expression. He is like a person with a pocketful +of “paper” who has to walk because he hasn't change to pay +his carfare, or to go hungry because he can't pay for a meal.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</span> +People who know him trust him, even if they do not fancy +him or feel quite at ease with him; but with strangers he has +no chance. A life study of such a character would make him +interesting. A photograph shows him as one of the people +who “never take good pictures.” </p> + +<p>In “Bliss and Other Stories,” the author went into deeper +water than in the other collection. She was less concerned +with the little ironies and with the fine points of her characters, +and more with great passions.</p> + +<p>“Bliss,” the story, shows the same method as do many of her +other stories, but reversed. It is as if her reel were being run +before the reader backwards. Instead of hunting out the one +flower in a patch of weeds, she painted a young married +woman's Garden of Eden and then hunted down the snake. +From the first note of Bertha Young's unexplainable bliss one +knows that the snake motive is coming, but does not know how +or where. The feeling of it runs through Bertha's psychical +sense of secret understanding—the “something in common” +between herself and Pearl Fulton, who, by a subtle uncanniness, +is made to suggest a glorified “vamp.” The leading +motive of the story is the psychic sympathy between the +women, who are antitheses. Commonly such a sense of understanding +would take the form of antipathy. That it is attraction—harking +back in all likelihood to something in Bertha +remote and unrecognised—constitutes the distinctiveness of +the motive. The art is revealed in a clear-cut picture—nothing +more. Katherine Mansfield knew so marvellously where to +stop. She had a good eye, a deft hand, an understanding +mind, a sense of humour, and she loved her fellow-beings.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Until “The Judge” was published Miss Rebecca West, in the +opinion of many amateur and professional critics, was the most +promising young woman to enter the field of literature in the +reign of King George. Her advent to the literary world was +impressive, and in a little book on Henry James in the “Writers<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</span> +of the Day” series she revealed a capacity of interpretation +and facility of expression which made her elders envious and +her contemporaries jealous. It was obvious to the casual +reader of this book, and of her journalistic contributions, that +not only had she the artistic temperament, but that she was +familiar with its display in others, and that she had read +widely, discriminatingly, and understandingly. Moreover, she +was a thoroughly emancipated young woman and bore no +marks of the cage that had restrained her sex. Her cleverness, +her erudition, her resourcefulness were admitted. It was +rated to be an asset, also, that she did not hesitate to call a +spade a spade or to use the birch unsparingly when she felt it +was for the benefit of the reading public, misled and deluded as +it so often is by false prophets, erring evangelists, and self-seeking +promoters. In other words, though she had sentiment +and sympathy, she knew how to use them judiciously. In +“Notes on Novels” she constantly reminds herself that there +is a draught that we must drink or not be fully human. One +must know the truth. When one is adult one must raise to +one's lips the wine of truth, heedless that it is not sweet like +milk but draws the mouth with its strength, and celebrate communion +with reality, or else walk forever queer and small like +a dwarf. Miss West does not intend that her countrymen shall +display these deformities.</p> + +<p>Her first novel, “The Return of the Soldier,” a fictional +exposition of the Freudian wish, was acclaimed by critics +as the first fulfilment of the promise she had given. The teachings +of the Austrian mystic were not much known then in +England, the country that now seems to have swallowed them, +bait, line, and sinker, not only in the fields of fiction but in +pedagogy and in medicine; so Miss West's little book was +more widely read and discussed than it might be today when +Miss May Sinclair, Mr. J. D. Beresford, Mr. D. H. Lawrence, +and many other popular novelists have made his theories look +like facts to the uninitiated.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</span></p> + +<p>The story is of Christopher, the ideal type of young +Englishman who knows how to fight and to love.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“He possessed in a great measure the loveliness of young men, +which is like the loveliness of the spring, foal or the sapling, +but in him it was vexed with a serious and moving beauty by +the inhabiting soul. To see him was to desire intimacy with +him so that one might intervene between this body which was +formed for happiness and the soul which cherished so deep a +faith in tragedy.” </p> +</div> + +<p>It is narrated by his cousin who has loved him platonically +since youth. Chris had a romantic and ardent love affair with +an inn-keeper's daughter in his youth, but he married Kitty, +a beautiful little conventional non-temperamental young +woman with a charming and cultivated soprano voice, of the +class of women who</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“are obscurely aware it is their civilising mission to flash the +jewel of their beauty before all men so that they shall desire +and work to get the wealth to buy it, and thus be seduced +by a present appetite to a tilling of the earth that serves the +future.” </p> +</div> + +<p>He goes to the war, gets concussion of the brain which +causes amnesia, or forgetfulness of certain epochal events in +his life, particularly his marriage to Kitty. “Who the devil +is Kitty?” he replies when he is told she might have something +to say on hearing of his plan to marry Margaret Allingham. +Though some of the events of his life from twenty-one, when +he fell in love with Margaret, to thirty-six, when he got +injured, can be revived in his memory by Jenny, a resourceful +understanding person, the sort of cousin every man should +have, no argumentation can reconcile him to Kitty, and “he +said that his body and soul were consumed with desire for +Margaret and that he would never rest until he once more +held her in his arms.” </p> + +<p>After exhausting every means that love and science can +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</span> +suggest to jog his memory or wipe out the amnesia, it is decided +to bring him and Margaret together. No one who had +known her as the “Venus of Monkey Island,” a composite of +charity and love, would recognise her now, seamed and scarred +and ravaged by squalid circumstance, including dreary matrimony +to a man with a weak chest that needed constant +attention. Moreover, “all her life long Margaret had partaken +of the inalienable dignity of a requited love, and lived with +men who wore carpet slippers in the house.” Such experience +had left deforming scars. However, Chris sees her with the +eyes of youth, and her presence resurrects juvenile emotions. +Under their influence Margaret undergoes transformation.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“She had a little smile in her eyes as though she were listening +to a familiar air played far away, her awkwardness +seemed indecision as to whether she would walk or dance to +that distant music, her shabbiness was no more repulsive than +the untidiness of a child who had been so eager to get to the +party that it has not let its nurse fasten its frock.” </p> +</div> + +<p>However, their interviews do not get them anywhere from +Kitty's standpoint, and she decides to send for Dr. Gilbert +Anderson.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“Heaven knows she had no reason for faith in any doctor, +for during the past week so many of them sleek as seals with +their neatly brushed hair and their frockcoats, had stood +around Chris and looked at him with the consequential deliberation +of a plumber.” </p> +</div> + +<p>But Dr. Anderson was different.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“He was a little man with winking blue eyes, a flushed and +crumpled forehead, a little grey moustache that gave him the +profile of an amiable cat and a lively taste in spotted ties, and +he lacked that appetiteless look which is affected by distinguished +practitioners.” </p> +</div> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</span></p> +</div> + +<figure class="figcenter illowe25" id="ilo_fp175"> + <img class="w100 p2" src="images/ilo_fp175.jpg" alt="ilop173" title="p173ilo"> + <figcaption class="caption"><span class="allsmcap">REBECCA WEST</span></figcaption> +</figure> +<p class="center p2b">Photograph by <em>Yevonde, London.</em></p> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</span></p> +</div> + +<p>Dr. Anderson explains to the family that Christopher's +amnesia is the manifestation of a suppressed wish and that his +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</span>unconscious self is refusing to let him resume his relations with +his normal life. He forgot his life with his wife because he +was discontented, and there was no justification for it for +“Kitty was the falsest thing on earth, in tune with every kind +of falsity.” The doctor proposes psychoanalysis, but Margaret +says she knows a memory so strong that it will recall +everything else, in spite of his discontent, the memory of the +boy, his only child who had died five years before. Dr. +Anderson urges her to take Christopher something the boy +had worn, some toy they used to play with. So she takes a +jersey and ball and meets Chris in the garden where there is +only a column of birds swimming across the lake of green light +that lays before the sunset, and as Chris gazes at Margaret +mothering them in her arms the scales fall from his eyes and +he makes obeisance to convention and bids his creative libido +<em>au revoir</em>.</p> + +<p>Jenny is witness of the transformation and when Kitty asks +“How does he look?” she answers, though her tongue cleaves +to the roof of her mouth, “Every inch a soldier.” </p> + +<p>When Miss West next essayed fiction in “The Judge” it was +the diagnosis of the creative urge that was her theme. It is one +of Freud's contentions that the male child, before it hears the +voice of conscience and the admonition of convention, has +carnal yearnings for the mother, the female child for the +father. With the advent of sense, with the development of +individuality, with the recognition of obligation to others, and +particularly with the acquisition of the sense of morality, +these are replaced with what are called normal desires. In +some instances the transformation does not take place. The +original trend remains, and it is spoken of as an infantile fixation. +Its juvenile and adult display is called sin ethically and +crime socially.</p> + +<p>The wages of sin still is death, according to Miss West's +portrayal, but it is not called sin. It is merely behaviourism +interpreted in the light of the New Psychology.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</span></p> + +<p>“Every mother is a judge who sentences the children for the +sins of the father” is her thesis. As a work of art “The +Judge” has elicited much praise. As a human document, a +mirror held up to actual life, a statement of the accepted facts +of heredity and of behaviour, and of the dominancy and display +of passion, lust, jealousy, anger, revenge, I doubt that it +merits unqualified approbation.</p> + +<p>Marion Yaverland, daughter of a Kentish father and a +French mother, had yielded without compunction to the wooing +of the local squire and had borne a child, Richard, around +whose development, personality, and loving the story is built.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“Vitality itself had been kneaded into his flesh by his +parents' passion. He had been begotten when beauty, like a +strong goddess, pressed together the bodies of his father and +mother, hence beauty would disclose more of her works to +him than to other sons of men with whose begetting she was +not concerned.” </p> +</div> + +<p>But the goddess did not give him straight genesic endowment, +so he was not able to keep filial love and carnal love in +their proper channels. And from this flowed all the tragedy. +His mother realised his infirmity, though she didn't look upon +it as an infirmity, from the earliest days; and, unfortunately, +she did not attempt to eradicate it—if it is ever eradicable.</p> + +<p>Squire Harry behaved badly to Marion, save financially, +and public opinion backed up by a stoning in the streets (a +real Old Testament touch) by a moron and his more youthful +companions, made her accept an offer of marriage from the +squire's butler, a loathsome creature called Peacey. In proposing +marriage and promising immunity to its obligations he +said:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“Marion, I hope you understand what I'm asking you to do. +I'm asking you to marry me. But not to be my wife. I +never would bother you for that. I'm getting on in life, you +see, so that I can make the promise with some chance of keeping +it.” </p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</span></p> + +<p>But Peacey deceived no one save Marion. Miss West's description +of the one visit of violence which he made to his +wife, and which was followed in due time by Roger, whom +Richard hated from birth, is a bit of realism that in verisimilitude +has rarely been excelled. Roger was a pasty, snivelling, +rhachitic child who developed into a high-grade imbecile of +the hobo type, and finally managed to filter through the Salvation +Army owing to some filter paper furnished by his +mother that bore the legend “For the Gov<sup>t</sup> and Comp<sup>a</sup> of the +Bank of England.” </p> + +<p>From earliest childhood Richard and his mother both realised +that their intimacy was unnatural and unpromising for +happiness. When he was two years old</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“He used to point his fingers at her great lustrous eyes as he +did at flowers, and he would roll his face against the smooth +skin of her neck and shoulders; and when he was naked after +his bath he liked her to let down her hair so that it hung round +him like a dark, scented tent.” </p> +</div> + +<p>Poor little monster, how unfortunate that he could not then +have been given a hormone that would extrovert his budding +perversion!</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“She always changed her dress for tea, and arranged her +hair loosely like a woman in a picture, and went out into the +garden to gather burning leaves and put them in vases about +the room, and when it fell dark she set lighted candles on the +table because they were kinder than the lamp to her pain-flawed +handsomeness and because they kept corners of dusk +in which these leaves glowed like fire with the kind of beauty +that she and Richard liked. She would arrange all this long +before Richard came in, and sit waiting in a browse of happiness, +thinking that really she had lost nothing by being cut off +from the love of man for this was very much better than anything +she could have had from Harry.” </p> +</div> + +<p>Somewhat like the way the daughter of Senator Metellus +Celere, called by some Claudia and by others Lesbia, arranged +the visits of Catullus.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</span></p> + +<p>When Richard was sixteen he forced life's hand and leapt +straight from boyhood into manhood by leaving school where +he had shown great promise in science, and becoming a sailor +so that he should be admirable to his mother. His wanderings +took him to South America where he had great success in affairs +of the heart and of the purse. It is with disposition of the latter +that the book opens in the office of a lubricitous old Scotch +solicitor where sits a young red-haired temperamental suffragette +whimpering for the moon.</p> + +<p>Ellen Melville is a lovable Celt of seventeen, and her creator +displays a comprehensive insight into her mind and emotions. +She is what Rebecca West once was and wished to be. It is +sad that the pathway of her life leads so early to the <em>Via Dura</em> +and that Richard Yaverland had not tarried in Vienna or +Zurich to be psychoanalysed.</p> + +<p>Richard falls in love with her at first sight. He woos her +ardently, though simply, and she responds like a “nice” girl, +like a girl who feels that for the endowment of that most wondrous +thing in the world, the cerebral cortex, it is vouchsafed +her to exercise restraints and make inhibitions which insects +and animals cannot. In the highest sense she is rational and +instinctive.</p> + +<p>Ellen goes south to visit her future mother-in-law and a few +days later Richard joins them. Roger meanwhile has “found +Jesus,” and Poppy, a Salvation Army lassie, one stage removed +from “Sin.” While knocking at Marion's door to gain entry +that they may announce their intention to marry, their gaze +floats upward and they see Ellen being kissed by the man to +whom she will be married in three months. Roger, who is +instinctive but not rational, puts a wrong interpretation upon +it, and from that mal-interpretation the final tragedy flows. A +few days later Marion realises there is no happiness for +Richard and Ellen so long as she lives. She walks out into +the marshes. Roger accuses Richard of driving his mother to +it “because she saw that there was something wrong between<span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</span> +you two.” He elaborates the accusation, and Richard drives +a bread-knife into Roger's heart.</p> + +<p>Richard knows his doom is sealed. So he invites Ellen to +share a cattlemen's hut with him on the farther side of the +creek where his mother had drowned herself, until the people +come to take him—and to share it comprehensively.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“Her love had not been able to reach Richard across the +dark waters of his mother's love and how like a doom that love +had lain on him. Since life was like this she would not do what +Richard asked.” </p> +</div> + +<p>But she does.</p> + +<p>The mode in which “The Judge” is cast is noteworthy because +of its novelty and of the success attending it. Here is +no sequential narrative, no time-table of events in the order in +which they happened. The contact of Richard and Ellen is +set forth in a straightforward way, but the main thesis of the +book, the Laocoon grip of mother-love on Richard is conveyed +indirectly, surreptitiously, atmospherically rather than verbally. +Ellen, though she is quite normal, senses it at once +when she meets Marion, and the writer approximates perfection +of her art most closely in narrations of the first interviews +of these two women, who are as unlike as the Colonel's lady +and Judy O'Grady.</p> + +<p>While this mode may not prove an obstacle to an easy grasp +of the novel upon first reading by writers or critics, it is doubtful +whether the casual reader for diversion will comprehend +its significance without special effort and perhaps several attempts +at mastering the intricacies in the development of the +story. The plan which the author has adopted of beginning, +in direct narrative form, with the mature life of Richard and +his love for Ellen, and then revealing through retrospect and +suggestion the events of his early life and that of his mother, +is a tax upon the technique of any novelist. The form has been +used with notable success by Miss Elizabeth Robins in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</span> +“Camilla.” But Miss West has not entirely mastered its difficulties, +and her failure to do so seriously mars the story.</p> + +<p>Miss West's reputation for brilliancy has not suffered by +“The Judge,” but if one were to sentence her after reading it, +he would be compelled to say she is no novelist. If it is an +index of her imaginative capacity, of her conception of life, +of her insight into conduct, of her knowledge of behaviour, +we must content ourselves with her contributions as critic and +guide.</p> + +<p>The subject of her two novels is behaviourism of sexual +motivation. It is an index of the change that has taken place +in Great Britain within the past ten years, a change that should +be acclaimed by everyone desirous of the complete emancipation +of women.</p> + +<p>Rebecca West has leaned her ear in many a secret place +where rivulets dance their wayward round, and beauty born of +murmuring sound has passed into her soul, to paraphrase the +words of one who, were he in the flesh, would likely not meet +Miss West's entire approbation.</p> + + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" >CHAPTER VII<br> +<small>TWO LESSER LITERARY LADIES OF LONDON:<br> +STELLA BENSON AND VIRGINIA WOOLF</small></h2> +</div> + +<p>Miss Stella Benson and Mrs. Virginia Woolf are +young women who have come to the fore very rapidly. +The former, who lived in this country for two years after the +war, published in 1915, when she was barely out of her teens, +a novel called “I Pose” which revealed an unusual personality +with an uncommon outlook on life, and an enviable capacity +to describe what she saw, felt, and fabricated. Until the appearance +of her last novel it might be said that she created +types which symbolised her ideas and attitudes and gave expression +to them through conveniently devised situations, +rather than attempting to paint models from life and placing +them in a realistic environment.</p> + +<p>“I Pose” is a story of allegorical cast lightened with flashes +of whimsical sprightliness. A pensive Gardener who likes to +pose as “original,” a Suffragette who disguises romance under +a mask of militancy, a practical girl, Courtesy, and a number +of others take an ocean voyage and have many adventures, at +the end of which the Suffragette and the Gardener find themselves +in love, just as any other young people who had +been dancing and playing tennis, instead of posing as individuals +with convictions.</p> + +<p>For the setting of her two succeeding books, “This is the +End,” and “Living Alone,” Miss Benson created a world of +her own, and in a foreword to the latter book she says:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“This is not a real book. It does not deal with real people, +nor should it be read by real people. But there are in the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</span> +world so many real books already written for the benefit of +real people, and there are still so many to be written, that I +cannot believe that a little alien book such as this, written for +the magically-inclined minority, can be considered too assertive +a trespasser.” </p> +</div> + +<p>Her world is not the traditional fairyland of the nursery, +nor are the supernatural endowments of some of the characters +the classic equipment of witches and fairies, although her +<em>dramatis personæ</em> include both who function under the law of +Magic. Rather is her dramatic machinery in these books a +vehicle in the form of a sort of delicate symbolism for getting +over a very sane attitude toward certain social foibles and +trends of today. Incidentally it gives her opportunity of +expressing this attitude in frequent witticisms and epigrammatic +sayings for which she has a gift. In “Living Alone” +social service and organised charity are the targets for her +irony. She says,</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“Perception goes out of committees. The more committees +you belong to, the less of ordinary life you will understand. +When your daily round becomes nothing more than a round +of committees you might as well be dead ... organizing work +consists of sitting in 'busses bound for remote quarters of London, +and ringing the bells of people who are almost always +found to be away for a fortnight.” </p> +</div> + +<p>So after Sarah Brown, whose work consists of</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“sitting every morning in a small office, collecting evidence +from charitable spies about the Naughty Poor, and, after wrapping +the evidence in mysterious ciphers, writing it down very +beautifully upon little cards, so that the next spy might have +the benefit of all his forerunners' experience,” </p> +</div> + +<p>eats the magic sandwiches which the witch has given her for +her lunch, the scales fall from her eyes. “I am sentimental,” +she says to herself.</p> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</span></p> + +</div> + +<figure class="figcenter illowe25" id="ilo_fp185"> + <img class="w100 p2" src="images/ilo_fp185.jpg" alt="ilop183" title="p183ilo"> + <figcaption class="caption p2b"><span class="allsmcap">STELLA BENSON</span></figcaption> +</figure> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</span></p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</span></p> +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“It is sentimental to feel personal affection for a Case, or to +give a child of the Naughty Poor a penny without full enquiry, +or to say 'a-goo' to a grey pensive baby eating dirt on the +pavement ... or in fact to confuse in any way the ideas of +charity and love.” </p> +</div> + +<p>She resigns her “job” and her place on the committees and +goes to live in the House of Living Alone.</p> + +<p>In other words, Miss Benson gives the artist in her what is +called “rope.” She doesn't ask herself, “Will people think I +am mad, or infantile?” She doesn't care what “people think.” +And that is an encouraging sign. Women writers will come to +their estates more quickly and securely the more wholeheartedly +they abandon themselves to portraying instincts as +they experience them, behaviour as they observe it, motives +and conduct as they sense and encounter them, accomplishments +and aspirations as they idealise them, the ideals being +founded, like the chances of race horses, on past performances.</p> + +<p>In her last novel, “The Poor Man,” Miss Benson's art shows +tremendous development. This story is characterisation in the +finest sense. Edward, the poor man, as a psychological study, +is living, vivid, almost tragically real in the reactions which +betray his inherent defects—a poor devil who never gets a +chance. Miss Benson preaches no sermon, points no moral, +makes no plea. She gives us a slice of life—and gives it relentlessly, +but justly. It is the Old Testament justice which +visits the iniquity of the father upon the third and fourth +generations, and leaves the reader with the congenial task of +finishing the sentence by supplying the mercy without which +this old world could hardly totter under the weight of this +Commandment. The story, however, makes no reference +either to eugenics or to religion. The application is for the +reader to supply—if he is so inclined. The author is not concerned +with “science,” but with art. She does not bore us +with a history of Edward's heredity or of his early life. She +introduces him to us sitting in Rhoda Romero's room in San<span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</span> +Francisco—an unwelcome guest—without throwing light upon +his previous existence, except that he had been “shell-shocked” +and had experienced three air raids in London.</p> + +<p>From his introduction we know Edward as we know an +acquaintance, not as we know ourselves. His tragedy is his +feeble mentality and still feebler temperament, and the heart +of the tragedy is the contrast between his intentions and his +acts. Edward always means well. He is not vicious; not lazy. +But he is stupid. He wants to be decent; wants to be liked; +even wants to work. He is weak, sickly, drinks too much, and +there is nothing he knows how to do well. It is as a victim, +rather than as an aggressive wrong-doer, that we see him +secretly currying favour with school-boys he is supposed to be +teaching, and ignoring their insults, selling what belongs to +others, and at last robbing a boy of thirteen who has been left +alone by his father in a hotel in Pekin, whence Edward has +gone in headlong and blind pursuit of Emily, with whom he has +become infatuated without even knowing her name. But such +is the art of his delineator that one finds oneself almost pitying +him when his infatuation climaxes in the declaration from +Emily: “Can't you leave me alone? I can't bear you. I +couldn't bear to touch you—you poor sickly thing.” It is on +this note that the drama ends.</p> + +<p>If one were obliged to confine himself to backing one entry +in the Fiction Sweepstakes now being run in England (entries +limited to women above ten and under forty), he would do +well to consider carefully the Stella Benson entry. Many +would back Sheila Kaye-Smith, but the expert and seasoned +bettor would be likely to find so many characteristics of the +plough-horse that he would not waste his money.</p> + +<p>Had Rose Macaulay not succumbed to smartness and become +enslaved by epigram, her chances would have been excellent. +As it is, she attempts to carry too much weight. The +committee, the literary critics, have done what they could +to lighten it, but “Mystery at Geneva” is her answer.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</span></p> + +<p>E. M. Delafield, Clemence Dane, and even G. B. Stern +would be selected by many, no doubt. But judged from their +record, not on form, they cannot be picked as winners.</p> + +<p>The entry that is most likely to get place, if it doesn't win, +is the youngest daughter of the late Sir Leslie Stephen, Mrs. +Virginia Woolf.</p> + +<p>“Mark on the Wall,” her most important story, deals with +the flood of thought, conscious and unconscious, when so-called +abstraction is facilitated by intent gazing. The hypnotist +anæsthetises the consciousness by having the subject gaze +at some bright object, she by gazing at a snail. The illusion +facilitates thought of the place and of the lives that have been +lived there. The richness of the thought stream thus induced +gives full play for her facility of expression and capacity for +pen pictures.</p> + +<p>There is in Mrs. Woolf a note of mysticism, of spirituality +which reveals itself in a conscious or unconscious prayer for +the elusive truth. This note of itself sets her apart from the +realistic woman writers of today. Although often vividly +realistic in her form, there is in her work an essence which +escapes the bounds of realism. This is most strongly acknowledged +in “Monday or Tuesday,” a volume of short stories and +sketches. The book takes its name from a little sketch of +three hundred and fifty words, for which the only accurate +label is “prose poem.” It is a direct illustration of the author's +meaning when she makes her hero say, in “The Voyage Out”:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“You ought to write music.... Music goes straight for +things. It says all there is to say at once. In writing it seems +to me there's so much scratching on the match-box.” </p> +</div> + +<p>For prose writing “Monday or Tuesday” is a triumph in the +elimination of “scratching on the match-box.” One recognises +in it the longing, more or less vaguely felt by all people, but +inexpressible by most of them who are not poets, musicians, +or artists in form or colour, for some supreme good which she<span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</span> +calls truth. The New Psychology would attribute it to the +unconscious and call it an ugly name. But Mrs. Woolf does +not name it; she merely gives voice to the aspiration welling +up from somewhere in people's deeper selves and hovering +hauntingly, just out of range but near enough to colour +the quality of their thoughts, even when they are occupied +with the most trivial and commonplace business of life. +They can never elude it, any more than they can long elude +the “Hound of Heaven,” but unlike the latter it is not a relentless +pursuer, but a lovely, tantalising wraith—always present +but never attainable or definable.</p> + +<p>In “An Unwritten Novel,” in the same collection, Mrs. +Woolf again reveals a power of discernment, as well as the +irony which is a part of her large human sympathy, in the +conclusion of the story, which opens with:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“Such an expression of unhappiness was enough by itself to +make one's eyes slide over the paper's edge to the poor woman's +face—insignificant without that look, almost a symbol of +human destiny with it.” </p> +</div> + +<p>During a railway journey the writer makes up a novel to fit +the face of the old woman opposite her—a story of an old maid +whom life had cheated, thwarted, and denied all expression +of sex, and left her embittered, resentful, envious, and +starved.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“They would say she kept her sorrow, suppressed her +secret—her sex, they'd say—the scientific people. But what +flummery to saddle her with sex!”</p> +</div> + +<p>When she reaches her destination the old woman is met by +her son—and the “story” remains unwritten.</p> + +<p>In “A Society,” Mrs. Woolf shies a few brick-bats—and +well-aimed ones—at modern feminism. Her gesture is, however, +more one of the irresistible impulse of the humourist to +enjoy herself than any intention to do serious violence.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</span></p> + +<p>The members of the Society, who are a number of young +girls bent upon self-education and believing that the object +of life is to produce good people and good books, find themselves +as a result of their investigations forced to acknowledge +that if they hadn't learned to read they might still have been +bearing children in ignorance, and that was the happiest life +after all. By their learning they have sacrificed both their +happiness and their ability to produce good people, and they +are confronted, moreover, with the awful thought that if men +continue to acquire knowledge they will lose their ability to +produce good books.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“Unless we provide them with some innocent occupation we +shall get neither good people nor good books; we shall perish +beneath the fruits of their unbridled activity; and not a human +being will survive to know that there once was Shakespeare.” </p> +</div> + +<p>The Society disbands with the conclusion that when a little +girl has learned how to read “there's only one thing you can +teach her to believe in—and that is in herself.” </p> + +<p>“Kew Gardens” is as vivid a picture as if it had been painted +in colour, of the public gardens on a hot summer day, with +their procession of varied humanity, old, young, and in the flush +of life, each flashing for a moment with all of its own intense +personality, like a figure in a cinema, before the reader, and +then passing into the shadow as vague as the breath of the +flowers, the buzzing of the dragon-fly, or the memories which +for a moment the garden had invoked.</p> + +<p>The two novels, “The Voyage Out,” published in 1915, and +“Night and Day,” in 1919, are love stories in which, through +the efforts of the lovers to find and express themselves, the +author reveals her own ideas of life. Her machinery is largely +that of dialogue between the lovers, and her chief actors are +normal young men and women, wholesome in their outlook, as +well as frank in their expression of their problems, which revolve +largely around matrimony. The result is that while the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</span> +novels are introspective in a way, as well as daring in their +analysis of the author's psychology, they are free from the +morbidness of many of the introspective books of today. +“The Voyage Out” is the expression of healthy, normal youth +reverently but straightforwardly seeking in marriage the +deeper values that underlie its superficialities and justify the +quality of its idealism.</p> + +<p>In no more striking and creditable way have the women of +Britain demonstrated the legitimacy of “Rights” than by their +fiction of the past few years.</p> + + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" >CHAPTER VIII<br> +<small>THE PSYCHOLOGY OF THE DIARIST: W. N. P. BARBELLION</small></h2> +</div> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“The life of the soul is different. There is nothing +more changing, more varied, more restless ... to describe +the incidents of one hour would require eternity.” —<em>Journal +of Eugénie de Guérin.</em></p> +</div> + + +<p>Bruce Frederick Cummings, an English entomologist +and assistant at the Natural History Museum, +South Kensington, developed in early life an infectious disease +of the central nervous system called disseminated sclerosis, +which riddles the brain and spinal cord with little islets of +tissue resembling scars, and died of it October 22, 1919, in the +thirtieth year of his age. Six months before his death he published +a book entitled “The Journal of a Disappointed Man,” +under the pen name of W. N. P. Barbellion. It is not destined +to live as long as Pepys' “Diary” or Amiel's “Journal,” but it +may outlive “The Journal of Marie Bashkirtseff”—the three +great diaries of the past century. “The Journal of a Disappointed +Man,” in conjunction with another called “A Last +Diary,” published after his death, may be looked upon as the +revelation of a conscious mind, as complete as the conscious +mind can make it. These books afford us opportunity to study +the psychology of one variety of self-revelation, just as the +books of James Joyce and Dorothy Richardson permit study +of the subconscious mind, and more specifically undirected or +wishful thinking, technically called autistic.</p> + +<p>While absolute classification of people is always inaccurate +and misleading, still for the convenience of this study, in order +to bring into high relief the features which distinguish +Barbellion's diaries from the other three great self-revelations<span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</span> +of the conscious mind, the authors mentioned may be said to +typify four distinct classes of diarists. The immortal Pepys +may be dismissed with the words: pedant, philosopher, humourist. +Amiel may be considered the mystic poet, with emphasis +upon the spiritual side of his nature; Marie Bashkirtseff, +the emotional artist whose talent was interpretive rather +than creative; and Barbellion, the man of science, direct, +forceful, effective on his objective side, but subjectively morbid +and egocentric, unable to estimate correctly his own limitations +or to direct his emotions into channels which would +have made for happy living or sane thinking.</p> + +<p>Cummings began to keep a diary when he was thirteen +years old, and after seventeen years he had accumulated +twenty post-quarto volumes of manuscript. Two years before +his death he made an entry “Am busy rewriting, editing and +bowdlerising my Journal for publication against the time when +I shall have gone the way of all flesh. Reading it through +again, I see what a remarkable book I have written.” In it +and in another small volume published posthumously, called +“The Joy of Life,” he said,</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“You will find much of Bruce Frederick Cummings as he +appears to his Maker. It is a study in the nude, with no appeal +to pemmicanised intellects, but there is meaty stuff in it, +raw, red or underdone.” </p> +</div> + +<p>The noteworthy features of his life may be stated briefly. +He was the youngest child of a journalist known in the little +town of Barnstable, in Devon, as a shrewd and facile man, +and of a timid, pious mother of the lower middle class. A puny +child, backward in development mentally and physically, solitary, +sensitive, shy, secretive, and self-conscious, he displayed +an uncommon interest in nature, birds, fishes, insects, and all +wild creatures. When he was fourteen he determined to become +a naturalist, but his father's illness obliged him to contribute +to the family maintenance. At sixteen he wrote,</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</span></p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“Signed my death warrant, i.e. my articles apprenticing me +to journalism for five years. By Jove, I shall work frantically +during these years so as to be ready at the end of them to take +up a natural history appointment.” </p> +</div> + +<p>And work he did, for in little more than a year he was offered +a small appointment at the Plymouth Marine Laboratory, +which he had to refuse because of his father's complete +incapacity. But after another year of newspaper work and +intensive study at night and at odd moments, he won an +appointment in competitive examination to the staff of the +Natural History Museum at South Kensington. There he +remained six years, until July, 1917, when he was compelled +to resign owing to the progress of his disease. In September, +1915, he married, after he had been declared unfit for military +duty and after the secret of his obscure and baffling disease, +and its outcome, had been revealed to some of his family and +to his fiancée.</p> + +<p>Two months after he married, despite his infirm state, he +offered his services to his King and Country, having previously +obtained from his own physician a letter addressed to the +Medical Officer Examining Recruits. The recruiting officer +promptly rejected him, so the letter was not presented. On his +way home Barbellion opened it and read his death sentence. +“On the whole, I am amazed at the calm way in which I take +this news.” At first he thought he would read up his disease +in some System of Medicine, but the next day he wrote,</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“I have decided never to find out what it is. I shall find out +in good time by the course of events. A few years ago the +news would have scared me. But not so now. It only interests +me. I have been happy, merry, quite high spirited +today.” </p> +</div> + +<p>But this was soon followed by depression and despair, as the +progress of the disease was attested by the occurrence of +rapidly increasing incapacity to get about, to use his arm, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</span> +to see. At that time he was ignorant of the fact that his wife +had been informed of the nature and outcome of his disease +previous to their marriage, and he was very much concerned +lest she should find out. Within a year he discovered that she +had known from the beginning and he was “overwhelmed with +feelings of shame and self-contempt and sorrow for her.” </p> + +<p>The last months of his life were made as comfortable as +possible by funds subscribed by a few literary men who had +become interested in him from the publication of some chapters +of the book in the London <em>Mercury</em>, and by the royalties +from the publishers of the “Journal” in book form.</p> + +<p>Barbellion's appearance, as described by his brother A. J., +in the Preface to “The Last Diary,” was striking. He was +more than six feet tall, thin as a rake, and looked like a typical +consumptive. His head was large and crowned with thick +brown hair which fell carelessly about his brow; his face pale +and sharply pointed; eyes deepset, lustrous and wide apart; +nose slightly irregular; mouth large and firm; and chin like a +rock. “Few people, except my barber, know how amourous +I am. He has to shave my sinuous lips.” He had an indescribable +vividness of expression, great play of features, and a +musical voice. His hands were strong and sensitive and he +had a characteristic habit of beating the air with them in +emphasising an argument. He moved and walked languidly, +like a tired man, and stooped slightly, which gave him an attitude +of studiousness.</p> + +<p>Barbellion's fame depends entirely upon “The Journal of a +Disappointed Man.” “Enjoying Life and Other Literary +Remains” is commonplace and might have been done by any +one of countless writers whose years transcend their reputations. +“The Last Diary,” on the other hand, has a note of +superficiality which is prejudicial to permanence. It suggests +that it was done for effect and displays studious effort to be +wise and philosophical. Although the book contains many +beautiful specimens of sentiment and shows that Barbellion had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</span> +enhanced his literary skill and added to his capacity for expression +and sequential statement, it also shows that the +processes of dissolution, physical and mental, were going on +apace.</p> + +<p>So much for the outward facts of his life. The value of the +record lies entirely in the sincerity and completeness of the +“portrait in the nude” which the author has painted of himself +and which furnishes the basis for a psychological study of the +original.</p> + +<p>Three characteristics make the shape and colour of this +portrait. Whether seen in one comprehensive glance as a composite +picture, or subjected to a searching analysis of its separate +parts, these three facts must be reckoned with in any +estimate of his life or of his personality as a whole; or of the +smallest act, thought, or emotion which entered into it. The +features or leading motives which shaped the human study +that Barbellion has given us in his diaries are what he calls +ambition to achieve fame, a passion for the study of zoology, +and a struggle against disease.</p> + +<p>Every life which raises its possessor above the level of the +clod may be called a battleground. The battle, in Barbellion's +case a hard-fought one, was between ambition which inspired +and actuated him and disease which seriously handicapped him +during most of his life and finally caused his death—not, however, +until after the victory had been won, since the odds were +between fame and sickness, not between life and death. +Judged, therefore, solely by the strength of the forces involved +in the conflict and not at all by the value of the stakes, +Barbellion's struggle and early death may claim a little of the +glory suggested in the lines “Oft near the sunset are great +battles won.” </p> + +<p>That the second motive mentioned, the love of zoology, entered +into the conflict only as an ally, and not even an essential +one, of the desire to become famous, has a special psychological +interest. Unquestionable and persistent as was this passion<span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</span> +for the science, it did not seem to form the basis for his ambition +nor even to be inextricably bound up with it, as is usually +the case with persons possessed of one strongly marked talent +or taste combined with a dominant ambition. When nature +has favoured an individual with a gift in the way of desire +and ability to do one thing particularly well he usually concentrates +on it. In fact the desire to achieve success through +the talent, and the impulse for self-expression along the line +of the talent, are so closely related that it is impossible to disentangle +them and to say where the impulse for self-expression +ends and the ambition to succeed begins. Barbellion's diaries, +however, present no such difficulty. Conscious from early +childhood of a great attraction to zoology for the sheer love +of the science, his early life-plan naturally took the form of a +career as a zoologist. Thwarted by circumstances, he still held +to the plan with an admirable persistence and a measure of +success which, considering his handicaps in the way of illness +and lack of opportunities for study and training, would have +been satisfactory to a less ambitious man. Such success would +not, however, have given him the fame which it was the ruling +motive of his life to achieve. Whether or not it was the recognition +of this that determined the direction of his ambition +it is impossible to say. The fact that stands out with great +clearness, after reading his diaries, is that the consuming passion +of his life was the desire for fame for its own sake, to be +known of men, and to stand out from the mass of humanity as a +man of distinction, a successful man. This seemed to be the +full measure of Barbellion's ambition, and in this he succeeded, +since the diaries have made him famous as the author +of a record which shows him to the world as the winner of a +losing game with life, though not as a scientist or as a writer +of distinction.</p> + +<p>A closer analysis of the particular qualities of Barbellion's +ambition is the first step in an estimate of his personality.</p> + +<p>The urge to keep a journal may come from within or from<span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</span> +without the individual. Barbellion does not tell us which it +was with him. In late childhood he began making frequent +records of his doings, which were those of a lonely romantic +child interested in natural history. During the first three years +there is no record of thought, but beginning with his sixteenth +year it makes its appearance, and there is ample evidence that +he was not only mature beyond his years, but ambitious as +well. He says of himself,</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“I was ambitious before I was breeched. I can remember +wondering as a child if I were a young Macaulay or Ruskin +and secretly deciding that I was. My infant mind even was +bitter with those who insisted on regarding me as a normal +child and not as a prodigy. Since then I have struggled with +this canker for many a day, and as success fails to arrive it +becomes more gnawing.” </p> +</div> + +<p>That the “canker” was eating its way into his soul as life +progressed and success seemed no nearer from day to day is +evidenced by the statements:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“I owe neither a knee nor a bare grammercy to any man. All +that I did I did by my own initiative, save one exception. +R. taught me to love music.” </p> + +<p>“I am daily facing the fact that my ambitions have overtaxed +my abilities and health. For years my whole existence +has rested on a false estimate of my own value, and my life +has been revolving around a foolish self-deception. And I +know myself as I am at last and I am not at all enamoured.” </p> +</div> + +<p>As the “Journal” progresses it becomes evident that the author's +hopes for the realisation of his ambition rested entirely +on its publication, and it is in the expressions concerning his +hopes and fears in connection with the book that the struggle +of the soul in its death grip with advancing disease and threatening +failure is most poignantly expressed. Three years before +he died he said,</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</span></p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“It is the torture of Tantalus to be so uncertain. I should be +relieved to know even the worst. I would almost gladly burn +my MSS. in the pleasure of having my curiosity satisfied. I go +from the nadir of disappointment to the zenith of hope and +back several times a week, and all the time I am additionally +harassed by the perfect consciousness that it is all petty and +pusillanimous to desire to be known and appreciated, that my +ambition is a morbid diathesis of the mind. I am not such a +fool either as not to see that there is but little satisfaction in +posthumous fame, and I am not such a fool as not to realise +that all fame is fleeting, and that the whole world itself is passing +away.” </p> +</div> + +<p>A few months later, after a reference to his infant daughter, +he said,</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“If only I could rest assured that after I am dead these +Journals will be as tenderly cared for—as tenderly as this +blessed infant! It would be cruel if even after I have paid the +last penalty, my efforts and sufferings should continue to remain +unknown or disregarded. What would I give to know the +effect I shall produce when published! I am tortured by two +doubts—whether these MSS. (the labour and hope of many +years) will survive accidental loss and whether they really +are of value. I have no faith in either.” </p> +</div> + +<p>Again he wrote:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“My Journal keeps open house to every kind of happening in +my soul. Provided it is a veritable autochthon—I don't care +how much of a taterdemalion or how ugly or repulsive—I take +him in and—I fear sponge him down with excuses to make +him more creditable in other's eyes. You may say why +trouble whether you do or whether you don't tell us all the +beastly little subterranean atrocities that go on in your mind. +Any eminently 'right-minded' <em>Times</em> or <em>Spectator</em> reader will +ask: 'Who in Faith's name is interested in your retrospective +muck-rakings—in fact, who the Devil are you?' To myself, +a person of vast importance and vast interest, I reply—as are +other men if I could but understand them as well. And in the +firm belief that whatever is inexorably true however unpleasant +and discreditable (in fact true things can never lack a certain +dignity), I would have you know Mr. <em>Times-</em> and Mr.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</span> +<em>Spectator-</em> reader that actual crimes have many a time been +enacted in the secrecy of my own heart and the only difference +between me and an habitual criminal is that the habitual +criminal has the courage and the nerve and I have not....” </p> +</div> + +<p>It is more than probable that the hope of getting the +“Journal” published was suggested by acquaintance with “The +Journal of Marie Bashkirtseff” when Barbellion was twenty-four +years old. On encountering a quotation from her in a +book on Strindberg at that time, he noted,</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“It would be difficult in all the world's history to discover +any two persons with temperaments so alike. She is the very +spit of me. We are identical. Oh, Marie Bashkirtseff, how we +should have hated one another! She feels as I feel. We are +of the same self-absorption, the same vanity and corroding +ambition. She is impressionable, volatile, passionate—ill, so +am I. Her Journal is my Journal. She has written down all +my thoughts and forestalled me. Is there anything in the +transmigration of souls? She died in 1886. I was born in +1889.” </p> +</div> + +<p>Barbellion's own estimate of what he calls his ambition is +well summed up in the following words:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“My life appears to have been a titanic struggle between consuming +ambition and adverse fortune. Behold a penniless +youth thirsting for knowledge introduced into the world out +of sheer devilment, with a towering ambition, but cursed with +ill health and a two-fold nature, pleasure loving as well as +labour loving.” </p> +</div> + + +<p>It would be interesting to find out in what way he was +pleasure loving. As far as I can see from reading the “Journal,” +the only pleasure that he sought was the occasional pleasure of +contemplating nature, which was really a part of his work, and +from hearing music.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“You can search all history and fiction for an ambition more +powerful than mine and not find it. No, not Napoleon, nor +Wilhelm II, nor Keats. No, I am not proud of it, not at all. +The wonder is that I remain sane, the possessed of such a +demon.” </p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</span></p> + +<p>In the same way it is difficult to find evidence of this colossal +ambition, save his statement of it. In reality he was ambitious +for one thing: call it favour, applause, publicity, notoriety, or +what not. He wanted to do something in literature which +would focus the vision of the world upon him, and to accomplish +this he devoted an incredible energy and labour to the +production of a diary which was the record of aggressive, +directed, logical thinking. He may have had capacity for +creative literature, or he may have developed such capacity, +but he did not display it. His career can be compared with +no other because of the immeasurable handicap of his illness. +But if it were not for this illness, it would be interesting to +compare him with Huysmans, who, working as a clerk in a +Governmental office in Paris, produced a series of books which +gave him a commanding and perhaps a permanent place in +French literature.</p> + +<p>Unquestionably some resemblance exists between the passion +for fame, or whatever it may be called, that Barbellion +and Marie Bashkirtseff had in common, although in the case +of the latter its relation to a definite talent was more evident. +But that in either of the two cases it partook in any great +measure of the nature of what is generally understood as ambition—the +ambition, for instance, of Napoleon, Wilhelm II, or +Keats to whom Barbellion compares himself—is not proved by +either of their self-revelations. There is a quality well known +to psychologists that may be described as the passion to attract +attention, which is a distinguishing attribute of the neurotic +temperament. It sometimes acts as an urge to the expression +of a talent in case the possessor of the temperament is also the +possessor of a talent—which is by no means infrequent and +which was undoubtedly true in the case of Marie Bashkirtseff. +It, however, exists in innumerable other cases where the neurotic +has been gifted by nature with no special talent or ability +for expression of any kind. The mere reiteration, therefore, of +a passion to focus the attention of the world upon himself,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</span> +while it would invite questions as to his balance or the lack of +it, affords no proof of mental qualities upon which the hope +of achieving such distinction might reasonably be placed.</p> + +<p>The next question which arises in relation to Barbellion's +ambition or desire for distinction is: What were his intellectual +possessions? And the first step in answering this question is +the examination of his interests. By a man's admirations, as +by his friends, you may know him. He identified himself, in a +measure, with Keats; he had great admiration for Sir Thomas +Browne; James Joyce was a writer after his own heart; and +he admired Dostoievsky and Francis Thompson.</p> + +<p>Barbellion's objective intellect stands out rather clearly in +his record, particularly as the evidence is written more forcibly +between the lines than in his statements. Deduction, induction, +and analysis are rather high. In fact, he possessed wisdom, +ingenuity, caution, and perception; that is, the elements +of objective thought. He showed no great ability to estimate +the nature and bearing of his surroundings or to devise ways +of dealing with them so as to turn them to his advantage, but +had it not been for illness he might have done so. As to the +actual results of his intellectual efforts, naturalists say he made +some important contributions to their science; and, although +these were trifling, they were in the right direction. His working +life really ended at twenty-five, an age at which the working +life of most men of science has scarcely begun.</p> + +<p>It is almost entirely upon his subjective thought, that is upon +his estimate of himself, that the value of his record rests. +Everyone in his progress through life and his intercourse with +his fellows measures himself more or less deliberately against, +and estimates his own capacity relatively to, theirs, not only +with respect to wisdom, cleverness, or caution, but with respect +to special accomplishments. Besides this relative estimate, he +learns to form an absolute estimate of his intellectual powers. +He knows what he can understand at once, what he has to study +hard before he can understand, and what is wholly beyond his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</span> +comprehension. Some people habitually underestimate their +ability; others, the majority, overestimate it. It is very difficult +to say, from the literary remains of Barbellion, whether he +was of the latter class or not. He had literary taste, a prodigious +appetite, and he displayed considerable capacity for +assimilation. It is quite possible that, as the result of these, +he might have revealed constructive imagination; but his life +was very brief, it was riddled with illness, and he matured +slowly.</p> + +<p>Barbellion's estimate of himself may be fairly judged by the +epitome of his whole life which he made in an entry of August +1, 1917, in connection with his retirement from the staff of the +British Museum:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“I was the ablest junior on the staff and one of the ablest +zoologists in the place, but my ability was always muffled by +the inferior work given me to do. My last memoir was the best +of its kind in treatment, method and technique—not the most +important—that ever was issued from the institution. It was +trivial because the work given me was always trivial, the idea +being that as I had enjoyed no academic career I was unsuited +to fill other posts then vacant—two requiring laboratory training—which +were afterwards filled by men of less powers than +my own. There was also poor equipment for work and I had +to struggle for success against great odds. In time I should +have revolutionised the study of Systematic Zoology, and the +anonymous paper I wrote in conjunction with R. in the +<em>American Naturalist</em> was a rare <em>jeu d'esprit</em>, and my most +important scientific work. In the literary world I fared no +better. I first published an article at fifteen, over my father's +name. My next story was unexpectedly printed in the +<em>Academy</em> at the age of nineteen. The American <em>Forum</em> published +an article, but for years I received back rejected manuscript +from every conceivable kind of publication from <em>Punch</em> +to the <em>Hibbert Journal</em>. Recently, there has been evidence of a +more benevolent attitude towards me on the part of London +editors. A certain magnificent quarterly has published one or +two of my essays.... I fear, however, the flood-tide has +come too late.” </p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</span></p> + +<p>In regard to one of the essays, he noted that it called forth +flattering comment in <em>Public Opinion</em>, but that it did not impress +anybody else, even E., his wife, who did not read the +critique, although she read twice a pleasant paragraph in the +press noticing some drawings of a friend.</p> + +<p>It was one of Barbellion's persecutory ideas that he was not +appreciated at his full value.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“Ever since I came into the world I have felt an alien in this +life, a refugee by reason of some prenatal extradiction. I +always felt alien to my father and mother. I was different +from them. I knew and was conscious of the detachment. I +admired my father's courage and happiness of soul, but we +were very far from one another. I loved my mother, but we +had little in common.” </p> +</div> + +<p>When his mother warned him that he was in danger of being +friendless all his life because of his preference for acerbities to +amenities he replied, “I don't want people to like me. I +shan't like them. Theirs will be the greater loss.” </p> + +<p>His family feeling seems to have been concentrated largely +on his brother, A. J., who prefixed a brief account of his life +and character to “The Last Diary.” </p> + +<p>Of him Barbellion said,</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“He is a most delightful creature and I love him more than +anyone else in the wide world. There is an almost feminine +tenderness in my love.” </p> +</div> + +<p>There were times when, despite his habitual self-appreciation, +Barbellion sold his stock fairly low, and especially after +he had been in London for two or three years and realised +what little progress he was making in the world and how small +the orbit of his activity remained.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“I have more than a suspicion that I am one of those who +grow sometimes out of a brilliant boy into a very commonplace +man.” </p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</span></p> + +<p>In speaking of his personal appearance he said, “I am not +handsome, but I look interesting, I hope distinguished”; and +at another time,</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“If sometimes you saw me in my room by myself, you would +say that I was a ridiculous coxcomb. For I walk about, look +out of the window, then at the mirror—turning my head sideways +perhaps so as to see it in profile. Or I gaze down into +my eyes—my eyes always impress me—and wonder what effect +I produce upon others. This, I believe, is not so much vanity +as curiosity.” </p> +</div> + +<p>Naturally Barbellion's estimate of himself and of his potentialities +varied from time to time, but he never rated his +abilities lower than the sum total of his accomplishments would +seem to justify, save in hours of extreme depression and discouragement. +When twenty-one years of age he wrote,</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“Sometimes I think I am going mad. I live for days in the +mystery and tears of things so that the commonest object, the +most familiar face—even my own—becomes ghostly, unreal, +enigmatic. I get into an attitude of almost total scepticism, +nescience, solipsism even, in a world of dumb, sphinx-like +things that cannot explain themselves. The discovery of how +I am situated—a sentient being on a globe in space overshadows +me. I wish I were just nothing.” </p> +</div> + +<p>A more hopeful note, and one that is of interest in that it +foreshadows the plan of publication of the diary, is sounded +after he had been working in the museum for less than a year.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“My own life as it unrolls itself day by day is a source of +constant amazement, delight and pain. I can think of no more +interesting volume than a distilled, intimate, psychological +history of my own life. I want a perfect comprehension at +least of myself. We are all such egoists that a sorrow or +hardship—provided it is great enough—flatters our self-importance.” </p> +</div> + +<p>At the age of twenty-five Barbellion had reached the depth +of depression and discouragement.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</span></p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“I have peered into every aspect of my life and achievement +and everything I have seen nauseates me. My life seems to +have been a wilderness of futile endeavour. I started wrong +from the very beginning. I came into the world in the wrong +place and under the wrong conditions. As a boy I was preternaturally +absorbed in myself and preternaturally discontented. +I harassed myself with merciless cross examinations.” </p> +</div> + +<p>A year later he checked up on such moods and said,</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“My sympathy with myself is so unfailing that I don't deserve +anybody else's. In many respects, however, this Journal +I believe gives the impression that I behave myself in the +public gaze much worse than I actually do.” </p> +</div> + +<p>Man is invariably judged finally by his conduct. Opinion +is often formed of him from what he says, but the last analysis +is a review and estimate of the several activities which together +constitute conduct. Conduct is the pursuit of ends. The conduct +that is conditioned by taking thought does not by any +means embrace all one's activities. The biological discoveries +of the latter half of the Nineteenth Century showed conclusively +that the ultimate end to which all life is directed and +toward which every living being strives is the continuation of +the race to which the individual belongs. Life becomes, therefore, +a trust, not a gift, and the only way in which the obligation +it entails can be discharged is by transmitting life to a new +generation. Barbellion had bodily characteristics which permit +the biologist to say that his gonadal redex was dominant, +and throughout the diary there are frequent entries showing +that, despite his shyness, self-consciousness, and lack of +“Facility” (using the word in its Scottish sense), the opposite +sex made profound appeal to him. His conduct from early +youth would seem to indicate that he held with the Divine +Poet—</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> +<p>“—In alte dolcezze<br> +Non si puo gioir, se non amando.”</p> +</div> +</div> + +<p>But his love was evanescent and he was continually asking +himself if it was real or but the figment of desire.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</span></p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“To me woman is <em>the</em> wonderful fact of existence. If +there be any next world and it be as I hope it is, a jolly gossiping +place with people standing around the mantelpiece and +discussing their earthly experiences, I shall thump my fist on +the table as my friends turn to me on entering and exclaim in +a loud voice, 'Woman!'”</p> +</div> + +<p>Here and there in the “Journal” there are entries which +would indicate that his conduct with women transgressed conventions, +though perhaps in harmony with custom. When he +was twenty-five he went to see the “Irish Play Boy,” and sitting +in front of him was a charming little Irish girl, accompanied by +a man whose appearance and manner were repulsive. He +flirted with her successfully. Later, haunted with the desire +to meet her, he sent a personal advertisement to a newspaper +hoping that her eye would encounter it. The advertisement +and the money were returned, as it was suspected that he was +a white slave trafficker. His admiration of the Don Juan type +of man is evidenced by an entry in which he referred to his +friendship with a bachelor of sixty, a devotee of love and +strong drink.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“This man is my devoted friend and truth to tell I get on +with him better than I do with most people. I like his gamey +flavour, his utter absence of self-consciousness and his doggy +loyalty to myself. He may be depraved in his habits, coarse +in his language, boorish in his manners, ludicrous in the wrongness +of his views, but I like him just because he is so hopeless. +If he only dabbled in vice, if he had pale, watery ideas about +current literature, if he were genteel, I should quarrel.” </p> +</div> + +<p>The entries that show Barbellion's attitude toward what +may be called the minor activities of social life are illuminating. +These are the latest activities to be acquired and, in a way, +testify to or set forth the individual's development or limitations.</p> + +<p>Companionship with one's fellows is necessary to the mental +health of man, and it is of prime necessity that he should secure<span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</span> +their good opinion. The loss of esteem and the knowledge +that he is reprobated and held in contempt and aversion causes +a stress that invariably has its baneful effect, particularly upon +a sensitive, self-conscious youth.</p> + +<p>Barbellion was the type of individual who sits in ready judgment +on his fellows, and oftentimes his judgment was violently +prejudiced. He had little community feeling. As a youngster +he was ostracised by his school fellows because he was different, +and he felt alien. He never played games with them, +but went off on long solitary rambles after school hours. Nor +did he form intimacies with his masters.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“I presented such an invertebrate, sloppy, characterless exterior +that no one felt curious enough to probe further into my +ways of life. It was the same in London. I was alien to my +colleagues. Among them only R. has ventured to approach +my life and seek a communion with me. My wife and child +seem at a remote distance from me.” </p> +</div> + +<p>In another connection he says,</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“A day spent among my fellows goads me to a frenzy +by the evening. I am no longer fit for human companionship. +People string me up to concert pitch. I develop suspicions of +one that he is prying, or of another that he patronises. Others +make me horribly anxious to stand well in their eyes and +horribly curious to know what they think of me. Others I hate +and loathe for no particular reason. There is a man I am +acquainted with concerning whom I know nothing at all. I +should like to smash his face in. I don't know why.” </p> +</div> + +<p>Barbellion retained many infantile traits in his adult years +and these were displayed in his attitude and conduct toward +people.</p> + +<p>At twenty-six he said,</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“I have grown so ridiculously hypercritical and fastidious +that I will refuse a man's invitation to dinner because he has +watery blue eyes, or hate him for a mannerism or an impediment<span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</span> +or affectation in his speech. Some poor devil who has +not heard of Turner or Debussy or Dostoievsky I gird at with +the arrogance of a knowledgeable youth of seventeen.... I +suffer from such a savage <em>amour propre</em> that I fear to enter the +lists with a man I dislike on account of the mental anguish I +should suffer if he worsted me. I am therefore bottled up so +tight—both my hates and loves ... if only I had the moral +courage to play my part in life—to take the stage and be +myself, to enjoy the delightful sensation of making my presence +felt, instead of this vapourish mumming. To me self-expression +is a necessity of life, and what cannot be expressed +one way must be expressed in another. When colossal egotism +is driven underground, whether by a steely surface environment +or an unworkable temperament or, as in my case, +by both, you get a truly remarkable pain—the pain one might +say of continuously unsuccessful attempts at parturition.” </p> +</div> + +<p>This may seem adorned and artificial, but to me it is the most +illuminating entry in the “Journal” and reveals many of his +limitations.</p> + +<p>At twenty-eight he made the entry,</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“The men I meet accept me as an entomologist and <em>ipso +facto</em>, an enthusiast in the science. That is all they know of +me, and all they want to know of me, or of any man. Surely no +man's existence was ever quite such a duplicity as mine. I +smile bitterly to myself ten times a day, as I engage in all the +dreary technical jargon of professional talk with them. How +they would gossip over the facts of my life if they knew! How +scandalised they would be over my inner life's activities, how +resentful of enthusiasm other than entomological!”</p> +</div> + +<p>It would have contributed to his peace of mind had he +studied more closely the writings of the immortal physician of +Norwich, from whom he believed he had spiritual descent:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“No man can justly censure or condemn another; because +indeed no man truly knows another. This I perceive in myself; +for I am in the dark to all the world; and my nearest +friends behold me but in a cloud. Those that know me superficially<span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</span> +think less of me than I do of myself; those of my near +acquaintance think more; God who truly knows me knows +that I am nothing. Further no man can judge another, because +no man knows himself; for we censure others but as they +disagree from that humour which we fancy laudable in ourselves, +and commend others but for that wherein they seem +to quadrate and consent with us. So that in conclusion, all +is but that we all condemn, self-love.” </p> +</div> + +<p>Self-love, or over-appreciation of self, was Barbellion's most +serious stumbling-block. He never got himself in the right +perspective with the world, and it is unlikely, even though his +brief life had been less tragic, that he would have succeeded in +doing so. He was temperamentally unfit.</p> + +<p>Barbellion's friends say that he was courteous and soft +mannered, but his own estimate of capacity for display of the +amenities is so at variance with this that we are forced to +believe the manner they saw was veneer.</p> + +<p>The following description of Lermontov by Maurice was, +he averred, an exact picture of himself:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“He had, except for a few intimate friends, an impossible +temperament; he was proud; overbearing, exasperated and exasperating, +filled with a savage <em>amour-propre</em>, and he took a +childish delight in annoying; he cultivated 'le plaisir aristocratique +de deplair.'... He could not bear not to make himself +felt and if he was unsuccessful in this by fair means he resorted +to unpleasant ones.” </p> +</div> + +<p>Two years later he expressed much the same opinion of his +social characteristics when he described himself as something +between a monkey, a chameleon, and a jellyfish and made himself +out an intellectual bully. He was honest enough not to +omit an invariable trait of the bully—cowardice. He says,</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“The humiliating thing is that almost any strong character +hypnotises me into complacency, especially if he is a stranger.... +But by Jove, I wreak vengeance on my familiars, and on +those brethren even weaker than myself. They get my concentrated<span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</span> +gall, my sulphurous fulminations, and would wonder +to read this confession.” </p> +</div> + +<p>In order that any community may exist and thrive each individual +must do things for the common welfare. He must regulate +his activity so as not to impair or jeopardise the property +and self-respect of his neighbours. He must contribute to its +existence and development by an active execution of deeds that +draw more closely the bonds of fellowship and knit more securely +the fabric of society. He must exercise self-restraint +in those countless ways by which the conduct of a person in +the presence of others is shorn of indulgences which he allows +himself when alone, and he must perform those ceremonies and +benevolences which constitute politeness and courtesy. The +unwritten law which compels these in order that he may have +a reputation for “normalcy” is even more inexorable than the +written law which compels him to pay taxes and serve on +juries and does not permit him to beat carpets or rugs in the +open. Although Barbellion seemed to be very keen in participating +in the defence of the country against external foes, +his diary does not reveal that he had any desire to undertake +municipal, political, or social duties. Illness may explain this, +but illness did not keep him from recording the desire to do +so or the regret that he was prevented from participation in +the full life.</p> + +<p>Every estimate of Barbellion must take his illness into consideration. +Readily might he subscribe to Sir Thomas +Browne's statement, “For the world, I count it not as an inn, +but an hospital; and a place not to live, but to die in.” In the +first entries of the diary he speaks of being ill, and although +the disease of which he died is not habitually associated with +mental or emotional symptoms, it is nevertheless so horribly +incapacitating and is accompanied by such distressing evidences +of disturbed bodily functions that it invariably tinges<span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</span> +the victim's thoughts with despondency and tinctures his emotional +activities with despair.</p> + +<p>Barbellion capitalised his infirmity to an extraordinary degree. +He says we are all such egotists that a sorrow or +hardship, provided it is great enough, flatters our self-importance. +We feel that a calamity by overtaking us has distinguished +us above our fellows. Were it not for his illness his +book would never have found a publisher, for it is not a psychological +history of his own life—which he believed would +make such an interesting volume—but a Pepysian record of his +doings, which, taken <em>in toto</em>, is fairly drab. It was the display +of equanimity, resignation, and courage when confronted with +the inevitable, and the record of his thoughts during that time +that give the book its value and vogue. He was constantly +fighting disease and cognisant of his waning strength.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“I do not fear ill health in itself, but I do fear its possible +effect on my mind and character. Already my sympathy with +myself is maudlin. As long as I have spirit and buoyancy I +don't care what happens, for I know that so long I cannot be +counted a failure.” </p> +</div> + +<p>This is one of the keynotes of his character—that he shall +not be counted a failure. The other—and it is the same—keynote, +is that he shall be a success; that he will make a noise in +the world.</p> + +<p>The entries after he had got a two-months' sick leave are +pathetic. He was on the point of proposing marriage; he had +been to see a well-known nerve specialist who said that a positive +diagnosis could not be made; he had set out for his holiday +at the seaside and had a most depressing time. When he returned +to London he was no better; in fact he was much worse, +and had thoughts of suicide. After he had found out the +nature of his disease he expressed himself with great fortitude, +saying,</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</span></p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“My life has become entirely posthumous. I live now in the +grave and am busy furnishing it with posthumous joys. I accept +my fate with great content, my one-time restless ambition +lies asleep now, my one-time furious self-assertiveness is +anæsthetised by this great war; the war and the discovery +about my health together have plucked out of me that canker +of self-obsession ... for I am almost resigned to the issue +in the knowledge that some day, someone will know, perhaps +somebody will understand and—immortal powers!—even sympathise, +'the quick heart quickening from the heart that's +still.'”</p> +</div> + +<p>Barbellion's account of his experience with physicians engenders +sadness. He went from general practitioner to chest +specialists, digestion specialists, ophthalmologists, neurologists, +without ever getting the smallest intimation of the nature of +his illness, until it had progressed to an advanced stage. For +a long time, indeed, it seemed to baffle all the physicians who +were consulted. One of the distresses of the diary is that it +testifies that doctors are far from omniscient. Nearly always +he was advised to go and live on the prairies; and, like all +sufferers from incurable diseases, the quacks finally got him.</p> + +<p>With the spectre of disease always lurking in the background, +when not taking an evident part in the drama of +Barbellion's life, it is inevitable that his attitude toward death +should colour his thoughts to a very marked degree. As early +as 1912, when he was twenty-three years old, he wrote, “As an +egoist I hate death because I should cease to be I”; and the +next year,</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“What embitters me is the humiliation of having to die, +to have to be pouring out the precious juices of my life +into the dull earth, to be no longer conscious of what goes on, +no longer moving abroad upon the earth creating attractions +and repulsions, pouring out one's ego in a stream. To think +that the women I have loved will be marrying and forget, and +that the men I have hated will continue on their way and forget +I ever hated them—the ignominy of being dead!”</p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</span></p> + +<p>If this latter entry had been written a few years later, one +might suspect the influence of Rupert Brooke. As the date +stands, one can only infer that Barbellion, in spite of his much +vaunted morbidness, possessed a little of the zest of life which +so richly flavoured the genius of that young poet.</p> + +<p>The entries in the “Journal” after the nature of his disease +had been made known to him express a marked difference in +his attitude toward death. In 1917 he said,</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“I ask myself; what are my views on death, the next world, +God? I look into my mind and discover I am too much of a +mannikin to have any. As for death, I am a little bit of +trembling jelly of anticipation. I am prepared for anything, +but I am the complete agnostic; I simply don't know. To +have views, faith, beliefs, one needs a backbone. This great +bully of a universe overwhelms me. The stars make me +cower. I am intimidated by the immensity surrounding my +own littleness. It is futile and presumptuous for me to opine +anything about the next world. But I <em>hope</em> for something +much freer and more satisfying after death, for emancipation +of the spirit and, above all, for the obliteration of this puny +self, this little, skulking, sharp-witted ferret.” </p> +</div> + +<p>This, one might almost say, shows Barbellion at his best.</p> + +<p>A power of fancy which is displayed in few other connections +throughout the book made him say, during the same +year,</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“What a delightful thing the state of death would be if the +dead passed their time haunting the places they loved in life +and living over again the dear delightful past—if death were +one long indulgence in the pleasures of memory! If the disembodied +spirit forgot all the pains of its previous existence +and remembered only the happiness! Think of me flitting +about the orchards and farmyards in——birdnesting, walking +along the coast among the seabirds, climbing Exmoor, bathing +in streams and in the sea, haunting all my old loves and +passions, cutting open with devouring curiosity Rabbits, +Pigeons, Frogs, Dogfish, Amphioxus; think of me, too, at length +unwillingly deflected from these cherished pursuits in the raptures<span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</span> +of first love, cutting her initials on trees and fences instead +of watching birds, day-dreaming over <em>Parker and +Haswell</em> and then bitterly reproaching myself later for much +loss of precious time. How happy I shall be if Death is like +this; to be living over again and again all my ecstasies, over +first times.... My hope is that I may haunt these times +again, that I may haunt the places, the books, the bathes, the +walks, the desires, the hopes, the first (and last) loves of my +life all transfigured and beatified by sovereign Memory.” </p> +</div> + +<p>Nothing in the diaries illustrates more strikingly Barbellion's +zest for living than these allusions to death. In the first +decade of life, the average person gives no thought as to +whether he will live or die; in the second decade he rarely +becomes concerned with thoughts of death unless they are +forced upon him by painful or persistent illness. In the third +decade, when the fear of death is very common, Barbellion +knew that he must soon die. This flair for life, which he must +have possessed to a marked degree, is evidenced in his love of +nature and in his appreciation of beauty and of literature to an +immensely greater extent than in contact with his fellows. His +pleasure in æsthetics was real and profound, and included an +appreciation of sound, colour, and form, both in nature and in +art. His capacity for the appreciation of beauty of sound +was greater than for the beauty of colour or form. Although +apparently he had never studied music, he said of +Beethoven's Fifth Symphony that it “always worked me up +into an ecstasy”; and after listening to music by Tschaikovsky, +Debussy, and others that, “I am chock-full of all this +precious stuff and scarcely know what to write.” </p> + +<p>Whether or not his suspicion that “my growing appreciation +of the plastic art is with me only distilled sensuality” was true, +the appreciation was unquestionably genuine, as shown by his +comment on Rodin's “The Prodigal Son” that it was “Beethoven's +Fifth Symphony done in stone. It was only on my +second visit that I noticed the small pebble in each hand—a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</span> +superb touch—what a frenzy of remorse!,” and on “The Fallen +Angel” that “The legs of the woman droop lifelessly backwards +in an intoxicating curve. The eye caresses it—down +the thighs and over the calves to the tips of the toes—like the +hind legs of some beautiful dead gazelle.” </p> + +<p>Above his appreciation of æsthetic beauty, however, Barbellion +realised, theoretically at least, that the topmost levels of +pleasure and pain are constituted of qualities dependent upon +achievements of the moral order—of duty well done, of happiness +conferred, of services rendered, of benefits bestowed; or +of the antithesis, of remorse for abstention and neglect of these +or for active misdeeds. He says in “The Last Diary,” </p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“Under the lens of scientific analysis natural beauty disappears. +The emotion of beauty and the spirit of analysis and +dissection cannot exist contemporaneously. But just as man's +scientific analysis destroys beauty, so his synthetic art creates +it. And man creates beauty, nature supplying the raw materials. +Because there is beauty in man's own heart, he +naïvely assumes its possession by others and so projects it into +nature. But he sees in her only the truth and goodness that +are in himself. Natural beauty is everyone's mirror.” </p> +</div> + +<p>Barbellion's strong sense of moral values was always coloured +by his passion—which was almost a mania for receiving +appreciation and applause. Although he denied wanting to be +liked, respected, and admired, yet he clamoured for it. He displayed +pain upon receiving the marks of disapprobation, and +reproof he disliked and despised.</p> + +<p>He was singularly free from spontaneous disorder of will; +that is, of delay, vacillation, and precipitation. The only evidence +he gave of vacillation was about his marriage, and that +showed his good judgment. He was much more inclined to +precipitation than to vacillation, and for a neurotic individual +he was strangely without obsession—that is the morbid desire +to do some act which the would-be performer discountenances +and struggles not to do.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</span></p> + +<p>With all his sensitiveness, Barbellion seemed to have been +not without an element of cruelty. This was of the refined, +indirect sort and was chiefly noticeable in references to his +wife. While he was contemplating a proposal of marriage he +made an entry in his diary,</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“I tried my best, I have sought every loophole of escape, but +I am quite unable to avoid the melancholy fact that her thumbs +are lamentable. Poor dear, how I love her! That is why I +am so concerned about her thumbs.” </p> +</div> + +<p>In speaking of his fiancée's letters, he once wrote,</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“These letters chilled me. In reply I wrote with cold steel +short, lifeless, formal notes, for I felt genuinely aggrieved that +she should care so little how she wrote to me or how she expressed +her love. I became ironical with myself over the prospect +of marrying a girl who appeared so little to appreciate +my education and mental habits.” </p> +</div> + +<p>Two years later he added to this entry “What a popinjay!” +But then two years later he was a confirmed invalid and she +was making great sacrifice to take care of him.</p> + +<p>In another place he taunted her, after admitting her letters +disappointed him with their coldness, and added, “Write as +you would speak. You know I am not one to carp about a +spelling mistake”; and at another time he recorded,</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“My life here has quite changed its orientation. I am no +longer an intellectual snob. If I were E. and I would have +parted ere now. I never like to take her to the British +Museum because there all the values are intellectual.” </p> +</div> + +<p>Of his wife the diaries give a very vague picture. Once he +exclaimed, “To think that she of all women, with a past such +as hers, should be swept into my vicious orbit!” but no information +is given regarding this past. The idea of marriage was +in his thoughts for several years, but his attitude was one of +doubt and vacillation. In 1914 he wrote:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</span></p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“I wish I loved more steadily. I am always sidetracking myself. +The title of 'husband' scares me.” </p> +</div> + +<p>When he finally recorded his marriage as having taken place +at the Registry Office he added,</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“It is impossible to set down here all the labyrinthine +ambages of my will and feelings in regard to this event. Such +incredible vacillations, doubts and fears.” </p> +</div> + +<p>“The function of the private journal is one of observation, +experiment, analysis, contemplation; the function of the essay +is to provoke reflection,” wrote Amiel. Barbellion's observation +was of himself and of nature; his experiment how to adjust +himself to the world; his analysis almost exclusively of his +ego; and his contemplation the mystery of life and death. +A “sport” in the biological sense, that is, differing markedly +from his immediate ancestors, he fell afoul of infection early +in life. From the beginning it scarred and debilitated him.</p> + +<p>He was an egotist and proud of it. He did not realise that +the ego is a wall which limits the view rising higher with every +emotional or intellectual growth. There is a certain degree of +greatness from which, when a man reaches it, he can always +look over the top of the wall of his egotism. Barbellion never +reached it. He was a man above the ordinary, capable of +originality and of learning from experience, clever at his profession, +apt at forming general ideas, sometimes refined and +sometimes gross; a solitary, full of contradictions, ironic or +ingenuous by fits, tormented by sexual images and sentimental +ideas, and possessed by the desire to become famous, but +haunted by the fear that he would not live to see his desire +accomplished.</p> + +<p>He had the misfortune to be without faith or ability to acquire +it, but in compensation he was given to an envious degree +immunity to fear, and he endured disease and faced death +with courage and resignation. If we contrast his thought and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</span> +conduct with that of another egotist, Robert Louis Stevenson, +after he came to know the number of days that remained for +him, as thought and conduct are recorded in the “Vailima Letters,” +Barbellion suffers from the comparison, for Stevenson +was devoid of vanity and selfishness. But the comparison would +not be a just one, for euphoria is a feature of the disease with +which Stevenson contended, and despair of Barbellion's. Moreover, +Stevenson was a Celt and had a sense of humour. +Everyone likes to think that his distinguishing characteristic +is a sense of humour. Barbellion believed he possessed it tremendously. +He may have, but his books do not reveal it.</p> + +<p>He forced himself without academic training upon a most +conservative institution, a close corporation, archaically conventionalised, +and he gave earnest that he could mount the +ladder of preferment quickly and gracefully.</p> + +<p>He saw himself with the lucidity of genius, but his admirers +will not admit that he was the man he said he was. One +admirer does.</p> + +<p>Would that he had added to his litany: <em>Defenda me, Dios, +de me!</em>—The Lord deliver me from myself. Had he done so, +he would have accomplished to a greater degree the object of +life: to be happy and to make others happy.</p> + + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" >CHAPTER IX<br> +<small>THE PSYCHOLOGY OF THE DIARIST: HENRI-FRÉDÉRIC AMIEL</small></h2> +</div> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“True serenity does not consist in indifference to the +phenomena of life amongst which we live. It consists +of judging in an elevated way men and facts. True +serenity does not reign apart from life. It is in the land +of the hurricane that it is a grand virtue to know how +to remain calm. Possibly he who can accomplish this +will succeed in avoiding its perils, or surmounting its +consequences. Perhaps it is better to lose one's foothold +in the waves than it is to prosper in a solitude without +echo. Only solitude that has been wrought from the +tumult is precious.” —<span class="smcap">Georges Duhamel.</span></p> +</div> + + +<p>No brief statement ever made applies more fittingly to +Henri-Frédéric Amiel—more widely known now, one +hundred years after his birth, than during his lifetime—than +these words of one of the most promising young men of letters +of France.</p> + +<p>Amiel says in his “Journal Intime”:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“There remains the question whether the greatest problems +which have ever been guessed on earth had not better have +remained buried in the brain which found the key to them, +and whether the deepest thinkers—those whose hand has been +boldest in drawing aside the veil, and their eye keenest in +fathoming the mystery beyond it—had not better, like the +prophet of Iliom, have kept for Heaven, and for Heaven alone, +secrets and mysteries which human language cannot truly +express nor human intelligence conceive.” </p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>“To win true peace, a man needs to feel himself directed, +pardoned, and sustained by a supreme power, to feel himself +in the right road, at the point where God would have him be—in +order with God and the universe. This faith gives +strength and calm. I have not got it. All that is, seems to me +arbitrary and fortuitous. It may as well not be, as be. Nothing +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</span> +in my own circumstances seems to me providential. All +appears to me left to my own responsibility, and it is this +thought which disgusts me with the government of my own +life. I longed to give myself up wholly to some great love, +some noble end; I would willingly have lived and died for the +ideal—that is to say, for a holy cause. But once the impossibility +of this made clear to me, I have never since taken a +serious interest in anything, and have, as it were, but amused +myself with a destiny of which I was no longer the dupe.” </p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>“There is a great affinity in me with the Hindoo genius—that +mind, vast, imaginative, loving, dreamy, and speculative, +but destitute of ambition, personality, and will. Pantheistic +disinterestedness, the effacement of the self in the great whole, +womanish gentleness, a horror of slaughter, antipathy to action—these +are all present in my nature, in the nature at least +which has been developed by years and circumstances. Still +the West has also had its part in me. What I have found +difficult is to keep up a prejudice in favour of any form, nationality, +or individuality whatever. Hence my indifference +to my own person, my own usefulness, interest, or opinions of +the moment. What does it all matter? <em>Omnis determinatio +est negatio.</em> Grief localises us, love particularises us, but +thought delivers us from personality.... To be a man is a +poor thing, to be a man is well; to be <em>the</em> man—man in essence +and in principle—that alone is to be desired.” (Written at the +age of fifty-four.)</p> +</div> + +<p>The “Journal Intime,” upon which alone Amiel's fame rests, +is studded with such expressions, all of which go to prove that +he was handicapped with an inability to participate in life. +One may call it aboulia, or lack of will power; but it was not +lack of will power. That the intellect which could produce +such work was not directed into some practical channel during +a long and healthy life naturally arouses a question; and this +question has been answered by Amiel's admirers and his +critics in various ways. The only conclusion, however, to +which an unbiassed examination of his life and of his book +can lead is the simple one that Amiel was born that way, just +as some people are born Albinos, or, to put it in other words, +that he was temperamentally unfit for practical life.</p> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</span></p> +</div> + + +<figure class="figcenter illowe25" id="ilo_fp223"> + <img class="w100 p2" src="images/ilo_fp223.jpg" alt="ilop221" title="p221ilo"> + <figcaption class="caption p2b"><span class="allsmcap">HENRI-FRÉDÉRIC AMIEL</span></figcaption> +</figure> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</span></p> +</div> + + +<p>Henri-Frédéric Amiel was born in Geneva September 27, +1821, and died there March 11, 1881. His ancestors were +Huguenots who sought refuge in Switzerland after the revocation +of the Edict of Nantes. There is no record that any of +them achieved greatness or had greatness thrust upon them. +Very little has been written of his parents, who died when +he was twelve years old, or of his uncle and aunt, in whose +house he was brought up apart from his two sisters. All +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</span> +those who have written about Amiel himself are singularly +silent about his boyhood, so that we know practically nothing +of the formative years of his life save that he was a sensitive, +impressionable boy, more delicate than robust, disposed to +melancholy, and with a deep interest in religious problems. In +school and college he was studious but not brilliant; he had +no interest in games or sports and made few intimacies, and +these with men older than himself. When he was nineteen he +came under the influence of a Genevan philologist and man of +letters, Adolphe Picquet, whose lectures answered many a +positive question and satisfied many a vague aspiration of this +youth already in the meshes of mysticism. They exercised +a decisive influence over his thought, filled him with fresh +intuitions, and brought near to him the horizons of his dreams.</p> + +<p>When he was twenty he went to Italy and stayed more than +a year, and while there he wrote several articles on Christian +Art, and a criticism of a book by M. Rio. The next four years +he spent in Germany, where he studied philosophy, philology, +mythology, and history. After this he travelled about the university +cities of Central Europe for two years, principally +Heidelberg, Munich, and Vienna; and in 1849, when he was +twenty-eight years old, he returned to Geneva and secured the +appointment of Professor of Moral Philosophy in the Academy +there. The appointment was made by the Democratic Party, +which had just then come into control of the Government.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</span> +The Aristocratic Party, which had had things their own way +since the days following the restoration of Geneva's independence +in 1814, would have nothing to do with intellectual +upstarts, puppets of the Radical Party, so Amiel, by nature +and conviction a conservative, found himself in the right pew, +but the wrong church; and many of his friends thought that +the discouragement which was manifest in his writings and in +his conduct may, in a measure at least, have been due to the +conflict between his discomfiture and his duty.</p> + +<p>He had few friends, but these he impressed enormously by +his learning and his knowledge. He made no particular reputation +as a professor or as a poet, and had it not been for the +“Journal,” he would never have been heard of save by his +friends and pupils. It is now forty years since the first volume +of the book was published at Geneva. It had been put together +from the thousands of sheets of diary which had come into +the hands of his literary heirs. The Preface to the volume +announced that this “Journal” was made up of his psychological +observations and impressions produced on him by books. +It was the confidant of his private and intimate thoughts; a +means whereby the thinker became conscious of his own inner +life; a safe shelter wherein his questionings of fate and future, +the voice of grief, of self-examination and confession, the +soul's cry for inward peace might make themselves freely +heard.</p> + +<p>It made a great noise in the world and the reverberations +of it will not cease.</p> + +<p>Some consider that the “Journal Intime” occupies a unique +place in literature, not because it is a diary of introspection, +but because of the tragedy which attended its production. +This is the height of absurdity. There was no tragedy about +its production. Amiel lived an unhealthy life, thwarted nature's +laws, and nature exacted the penalty. N. J. Symons, in +an article in the <em>Queen's Quarterly</em>, says, “To be gifted with +the qualities of genius, yet to be condemned by some obscure<span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</span> +psychosis to perpetual sterility and failure; to live and die in +the despairing recognition of this fact; and finally to win posthumous +fame by the analysis and confession of one's failure is +one of the most puzzling and pathetic of life's anomalies.” It +would be if it were true. But what were the qualities of genius +that Amiel had? And how did he display the obscure psychosis? +He discharged the duties of a professor from the time he was +twenty-eight until he was sixty. He poetised pleasantly; he +communed with nature and got much pleasure from it; and he +had very definite social adaptability. His general level of +behaviour was high. He was a diligent, methodical worker; +he reacted in a normal way to conventional standards; he had +few personal biases or peculiarities and none that drew particular +attention to him; and he seemed to have adjusted +himself without great difficulty to the incidences of life that he +encountered.</p> + +<p>To say that such a man was the victim of some obscure +psychosis is either to speak beyond the facts or to speak from +the possession of some knowledge that is denied one familiar +with his writings and what has been written about him.</p> + +<p>Unique the “Journal Intime” unquestionably is, in that it is +the sincere confession of failure, both as a man and as a +writer, of a man whose intellectual qualities justified his +friends in expecting from him a large measure of success as +both. Both admirers and critics agree that Amiel's failure +was his refusal or his inability to act. This refusal to act was +not the expression of some obscure psychosis, but was entirely +consistent with his philosophy of life, which was arrived at +through a logical process of thought. “Men's thoughts are +made according to their nature,” says Bacon. It is to Amiel's +nature, or temperament, or personality, that we must look for +the answer to the question: To what can his confessed failure +be charged?</p> + +<p>Any estimate of personality must weigh not only the capacity +for dealing with thoughts, but the capacity for dealing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</span> +with men and with things as well. Intellectual qualities are +of value only in relation to the dynamic quality of the mind; +emotional qualities must be measured by the reactions to the +environment; and the individual, in the last analysis, must +take his standing among his fellows upon his acts, not upon +his thoughts. In a balanced personality act harmonises with +thought, is conditioned and controlled by it. Purely impulsive +action carried to the extreme means insanity, and in +milder degrees it exhibits itself in all grades and forms of +what is known as lack of self-control. Such action is too familiar +to call for comment. But there is the opposite type of +individual whose impulses are not impelling enough to lead +to expression in outward form of either thoughts or emotions. +Such thoughts and emotions are turned back upon themselves +and, like a dammed-up stream, whirl endlessly around the +spring, the ego, until the individual becomes predominantly +introspective and egocentric.</p> + +<p>Amiel possessed the power of clear logical thought to a +high degree, but he limited its expression largely to the introspective +musings of the diary. Aside from his daily life, which +was narrow but normal and conventional, it is to Amiel's deepest +interests and admirations as revealed by his diary that one +must look for light upon his emotional make-up. The things +with which he occupied himself were extremely few: introspective +literature, philosophy and religion, and contemplation +of God and the hereafter. The diary covers the years of his +life from twenty-seven to sixty, the entire fruitful span of most +men's lives. During all of this time his interests showed little +or no variation. Nowhere throughout the record do we find any +evidence of interest in the developments which were shaping +the course of the world's history. Still less do we find any indication +of a desire or a conscience to participate in such history. +Amiel evidently felt no urge to be an actor in the drama. +He was not even a critic or an interested on-looker. Rather<span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</span> +did he prefer to withdraw to a sheltered distance and forget +the reverberations of the struggle in contemplation of abstractions.</p> + +<p>He lived in an era in which the world was revolutionised. +The most deforming institution which civilisation has ever +tolerated, slavery, was razed and dismantled; yet he never +said a word about it. He was a witness of one of the +greatest transformations that has ever been wrought, the +making of things by machinery rather than by hand; and +he never commented on it. His life was contemporaneous +with the beginning of discovery in science, such as the origin +of species and the general evolutionary doctrine associated +with Darwin's name; and it seems only to have excited his +scorn.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“The growing triumph of Darwinism—that is to say of materialism, +or of force—threatens the conception of justice. +But justice will have its turn. The higher human law cannot +be the offspring of animality. Justice is the right to the maximum +of individual independence compatible with the same +liberty for others;—in other words, it is respect for man, for +the immature, the small, the feeble; it is the guarantee of those +human collectivities, associations, states, nationalities—those +voluntary or involuntary unions—the object of which is to +increase the sum of happiness, and to satisfy the aspiration +of the individual. That some should make use of others for +their own purposes is an injury to justice. The right of the +stronger is not a right, but a simple fact, which obtains only +so long as there is neither protest nor resistance. It is like +cold, darkness, weight, which tyrannise over man until he has +invented artificial warmth, artificial light, and machinery. +Human industry is throughout an emancipation from brute +nature, and the advances made by justice are in the same +way a series of rebuffs inflicted upon the tyranny of the +stronger. As the medical art consists in the conquest of disease, +so goodness consists in the conquest of the blind ferocities +and untamed appetites of the human animal. I see the +same law throughout:—increasing emancipation of the individual, +a continuous ascent of being towards life, happiness,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</span> +justice, and wisdom. Greed and gluttony are the starting-point, +intelligence and generosity the goal.” </p> +</div> + +<p>Nor is there anything in the “Journal Intime” to indicate +that he had ever heard of Pasteur, or Morton, or Simpson, who +laid the foundation of a diseaseless world and a painless world. +His diary is a record of his own thoughts, to be sure, but one's +thoughts are engendered, in a measure at least, by what is +going on in the world. An inhabitant of any other world +whose knowledge of this could be obtained only from Amiel's +book, would be left with an abysmal ignorance of the subject. +He would learn something of the German philosophers +and of French littérateurs and of Amiel's ideas of God and of +infinity.</p> + +<p>Schopenhauer says that</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“It is not by the unification of the intellect and the will that +man attains to higher truth, but by their dissociation. When +the intellect casts off the yoke of the will it rises above the +illusion of finite life and attains a vision of transcendent truth. +When one can contemplate without will, beyond, when he can +dissolve the life instinct in pure thought, then he possesses the +field of higher truth, then he is on the avenue that leads to +Nirvana.” </p> +</div> + +<p>Higher truth is possible only through the annihilation of the +will, and if this annihilation is done after taking thought, that +is after planning to do it and determining to do it, the price +that one has to pay, or the penalty that is exacted, is an incapacity +or diminished capacity for practical life. Amiel was a +real mystic, not by choice, perhaps, but by birth. He was +proud of it in his youth and early maturity; he questioned it in +his late maturity; and regretted it in his senescence. When he +was fifty years old he wrote,</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“The man who gives himself to contemplation looks on at +rather than directs his life, is a spectator rather than an actor, +seeks rather to understand than to achieve. Is this mode of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</span> +existence illegitimate, immoral? Is one bound to act? Is such +detachment an idiosyncrasy to be respected or a sin to be +fought against? I have always hesitated on this point, and +I have wasted years in futile self-reproach and useless fits of +activity. My western conscience, penetrated as it is with +Christian morality, has always persecuted my Oriental quietism +and Buddhist tendencies. I have not dared to approve +myself, I have not known how to correct myself.... Having +early caught a glimpse of the absolute, I have never had the +indiscreet effrontery of individualism. What right have I to +make a merit of a defect? I have never been able to see any +necessity for imposing myself upon others, nor for succeeding. +I have seen nothing clearly except my own deficiencies and the +superiority of others.... With varied aptitudes and a fair +intelligence, I had no dominant tendency, no imperious faculty, +so that while by virtue of capacity I felt myself free, yet when +free I could not discover what was best. Equilibrium produced +indecision and indecision has rendered all my faculties +barren.” </p> +</div> + +<p>If Amiel had been a real Christian, that is, if he had taken +his orientation and orders from Christ, he would have had no +doubt whether such a mode of existence was illegitimate and +immoral or not. He could have found specific instruction telling +him he was bound to act. He was a nominal Christian, +but a <em>de facto</em> Buddhist.</p> + +<p>Next to the output of a man's activity as shown by his work, +his selection of recreational outlets for his emotional life is +illuminating. What were Amiel's amusements? So far as the +diary shows, day dreaming, poetising, fancy, and a contemplation +of nature furnished the only outlets for his more organised +emotional nature. For play in any form he apparently +felt no need.</p> + +<p>There is a type of individual whose failure to bring his performance +up to the standard which his intelligence would seem +to warrant takes the form of inability to face concrete situations. +Unable to adjust himself to his environment when realities +present difficulties that call for solution, such an individual<span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</span> +becomes burdened with a sense of his own inadequacy; and +from this he is inclined to seek escape in impersonal abstractions, +usually described by him as ideals. Mystic philosophy +in some form is the frequent refuge of such tender souls from +their own sense of inability to cope with life and its concrete +problems.</p> + +<p>Throughout the record divergence between ideals and acts +stands out. Idealism is everywhere pled as the basis of the +hesitation to act. The conscious and foredoomed disparity +between conception and realisation is made the excuse for the +absence of effort.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“Practical life makes me afraid. And yet, at the same time, +it attracts me; I have need of it. Family life, especially, in all +its delightfulness, in all its moral depth, appeals to me like a +duty. Sometimes I cannot escape from the ideal of it. A +companion of my life, of my work, of my thoughts, of my +hopes; within, a common worship, towards the world outside, +kindness and beneficence; educations to undertake, the thousand +and one moral relations which develop round the first—all +these ideas intoxicate me sometimes. But I put them aside, +because every hope is, as it were, an egg whence a serpent may +issue instead of a dove, because every joy missed is a stab, +because every seed confided to destiny contains an ear of grief +which the future may develop.” </p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>“I have never felt any inward assurance of genius, or any +presentiment of glory or happiness. I have never seen myself +in imagination great or famous, or even a husband, a father, +an influential citizen. This indifference to the future, this +absolute self-distrust, are, no doubt, to be taken as signs. +What dreams I have are vague and indefinite; I ought not to +live, for I am now scarcely capable of living.—Recognise your +place; let the living live; and you, gather together your +thoughts, leave behind you a legacy of feeling and ideas; you +will be more useful so. Renounce yourself, accept the cup +given you, with its honey and its gall, as it comes. Bring God +down into your heart. Embalm your soul in him now, make +within you a temple for the Holy Spirit; be diligent in good<span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</span> +works, make others happier and better. Put personal ambition +away from you, and then you will find consolation in +living or in dying, whatever may happen to you.” </p> +</div> + +<p>Complaining of a restless feeling which was not the need +for change, he said,</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“It is rather the fear of what I love, the mistrust of what +charms me, the unrest of happiness.... And is there not +another reason for all this restlessness, in a certain sense of +void—of incessant pursuit of something wanting?—of longing +for a truer peace and a more entire satisfaction? Neighbours, +friends, relations—I love them all; and so long as these affections +are active, they leave in me no room for a sense of want. +But yet they do not <em>fill</em> my heart; and that is why they have +no power to fix it. I am always waiting for the woman and +the work which shall be capable of taking entire possession of +my soul, and of becoming my end and aim.” </p> +</div> + +<p>Amiel's life was a constant negation. His ideals were all +concerned with concepts of perfection, with the absolute, and +being sane enough to realise the impossibility of attaining such +perfection, he refused compromises. He would not play the +game for its own sake, nor for the fine points. If he could +not win all the points—and being sane he knew beforehand +that he could not—he preferred not to play at all. But he +made a virtue of his weakness and called it idealism. Had he +possessed the courage to hitch his wagon to a star—and let +the star carry him where it would; had he heeded the warning,</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> +<p>“And the sin I impute to each frustrate ghost<br> +Is—the unlit lamp and the ungird loin”;</p> +</div> +</div> + +<p>or gone the way of thousands of practical idealists who have +made their idealism an incentive to action and thereby left the +world richer for having passed through it, he would have +needed no excuse for his failure to attain perfection. On the +contrary, he would have learned with the sureness of a +hard-learned lesson that idealism is worth our loyalty only<span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</span> +when it becomes an inspiration to living, and that it is worse +than futile when it serves merely as a standard for thought +or an excuse for failure.</p> + +<p>Amiel coddled his sensibilities for fear of rebuff; he hid +his intellectuality in the diary lest he should suffer from the +clear light of publicity; he denied life out of apprehension that +life might bruise his ego. He told himself that he was protecting +his idealism. In reality he was protecting his egoism. +If he had been the victim of a psychosis he would not have +recognised his limitations nor stated them so clearly. It was +sanity that enabled him to see the impossibility of attaining +the perfection of which he dreamed and wrote. It was cowardice, +not a psychosis, which made him refuse to act in the face +of this knowledge. Had he been a Roman Catholic, he +might have rested upon the conception of absolute perfection +offered in the authority of the Church and the life of the +cloister. But being a Protestant, both by inheritance and by +conscience, he had to think things out for himself; and the +more he thought the wider became the breach between his +conception of perfection and his hope of realising it. He was +tortured by a conscience goading him to action and a temperament +paralysing him with the fear that the end would fall short +of anticipation. He lacked the moral courage to put his power +to the test and be disappointed. He was without the stamina +of the man who fights and runs away. He was too much of an +egoist to risk a losing game, and in consequence he never +tasted the sweet flavour of work well done—even though the +end was apparent failure.</p> + +<p>The growing sense of inadequacy between the conscience to +act and the temperament to deny action is written plainly in +these random quotations from the “Journal” during the record +of many years. At thirty he wrote,</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“He who is silent is forgotten; he who abstains is taken at +his word; he who does not advance, falls back; he who stops is +overwhelmed, distanced, crushed; he who ceases to grow<span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</span> +greater becomes smaller; he who leaves off gives up; the +stationary condition is the beginning of the end—it is the +terrible symptom which precedes death. To live, is to achieve +a perpetual triumph; it is to assert oneself against destruction, +against sickness, against the annulling and dispersion of one's +physical and moral being. It is to will without ceasing, or +rather to refresh one's will day by day.” </p> +</div> + +<p>Ten years later when the conflict was closing in upon him he +wrote,</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“In me an intellect which would fain forget itself in things, +is contradicted by a heart which yearns to live in human beings. +The uniting link of the two contradictions is the tendency +towards self-abandonment, towards ceasing to will and +exist for oneself, towards laying down one's own personality, +and losing—dissolving—oneself in love and anticipation. What +I lack above all things is character, will, individuality. But, +as always happens, the appearance is exactly the contrary of +the reality, and my outward life the reverse of my true and +deepest aspiration. I whose whole being—heart and intellect—thirsts +to absorb itself in reality, in its neighbour man, +in Nature and in God—I, whom solitude devours and destroys—I +shut myself up in solitude and seem to delight only +in myself and to be sufficient for myself.” </p> +</div> + +<p>At forty-seven, when most men's work is at the high tide +of realisation, he said,</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“I have no more strength left, I wish for nothing; but that is +not what is wanted. I must wish what God wishes; I must +pass from indifference to sacrifice, and from sacrifice to self-devotion. +The cup I would fain put away from me is the +misery of living, the shame of existing and suffering as a +common creature who has missed his vocation; it is the bitter +and increasing humiliation of declining power, of growing old +under the weight of one's own disapproval, and the disappointment +of one's friends.” </p> +</div> + +<p>At fifty-four,</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“What use have I made of my gifts, of my special circumstances, +of my half century of existence? What have I paid<span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</span> +back to my country?... Are all the documents I have produced +... anything better than withered leaves?... When +all is added up—nothing! And worst of all, it has not been a +life used up in the service of some adored object, or sacrificed +to any future hope.” </p> +</div> + +<p>Psychology teaches that too much emphasis cannot be laid +in education upon the reconciliation of ideals and performance, +nor too much effort devoted to the formation of habits of +facing concrete situations squarely, reaching definite decisions, +and thereby making efforts, however ineffective and crude, to +link ideals to action. It has been proved that if natural dispositions +are ignored or denied by the repression of normal +primary instincts, disassociation of personality is likely to be +the result. Amiel's ineffectiveness, his lack of dynamic +quality, while in no sense a psychosis, may be considered as a +personality defect. How far this defect may have been conditioned +by his denial of the basic springs of human action +cannot be stated. Neither can it, in any impartial estimate of +his life and personality, be ignored. Next to the instinct of +self-preservation, the instinct for the preservation of the race +to which one belongs is the dominant impulse of the individual. +No system of thought, no plan of life can ignore it +and not pay the penalty. Amiel's diary is full of such denials, +and they frequently carry with them the consciousness that he +realised the death sentence to aspiration and realisation which +he was reading to himself between the lines.</p> + +<p>Amiel was a shy, sensitive, solitary child. We know very +little about his adolescent struggles and transition to heterosexual +fixation. Indeed we do not know whether it ever +came about, and that is where the chief hiatus in our +knowledge of Amiel lies. As a youth he became intoxicated +with philosophic idealism, and Hegel was for him the fountainhead +of all philosophic thought.</p> + +<p>There is nothing in the diary to indicate that the normal +love-making of healthy youth had any part in his thoughts<span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</span> +or his life. Later, his sex consciousness colours the record to +a great extent—indeed it might be said to give the colour +to the book—but always in the guise of repressions, fears, +hesitations, and longings for unattainable perfection, and +finally of half-hearted regrets for his own denials.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“I am capable of all the passions, for I bear them all within +me. Like a tamer of wild beasts, I keep them caged and lassoed, +but I sometimes hear them growling. I have stifled more +than one nascent love. Why? Because with that prophetic +certainty which belongs to moral intuition, I felt it lacking in +true life, and less durable than myself. I choked it down in +the name of the supreme affection to come. The loves of +sense, of imagination, of sentiment—I have seen through and +rejected them all; I sought the love which springs from the +central profundities of being. And I still believe in it. I will +have none of those passions of straw which dazzle, burn up, +and wither; I invoke, I await, and I hope for the love which +is great, pure, and earnest, which lives and works in all the +fibres and through all the powers of the soul. And even if I +go lonely to the end, I would rather my hope and my dream +died with me, than that my soul should content itself with any +meaner union.” </p> +</div> + +<p>This is the basis of monasticism in the Catholic Church, +and it is, in my judgment, the most violent offence to God that +can be given. Goethe says that he never wrote a new poem +without having a new love affair. Amiel was intrigued by +Goethe secondly only to Hegel. If he had copied Goethe +more nearly in living, he might have said with him,</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> +<p>“Wonach soll man am Ende trachten?<br> +Die Welt zu Kennen und nicht zu Verachten.”</p> +</div> +</div> + +<p>There have been books made up of beautiful quotations +from Amiel's “Journal Intime,” which are supposed to help +people live, to mitigate pain, to disperse apprehension, and to +assuage misery. They are not a patch on the Bible or on the +writings of Socrates.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</span></p> + +<p>“The oracle of today drops from his tripod on the morrow,” +said John Morley. Will this apply to Amiel? Is he +a passing fashion? And why has his popularity grown? The +best answer to these questions is found in the nature of his +audience. To what kind of people does Amiel appeal? To +the contemporary purveyors of cloudy stuff; to mystics; to +the tender-minded; to those who prefer the contemplation of +far horizons to travelling the road just ahead. He does not +appeal to anyone with fighting blood, whether he be facing the +conflict with the glorious self-confidence of healthy untried +youth, the magnetism of past success, the tried measure of his +own limitations and powers, the scars of honest defeat, or the +pluck of the one who fights a losing fight with more courage +and idealism than he would have mustered for a winning one.</p> + +<p>Amiel's tragedy was that he outraged nature's unique law and +nature exacted the penalty. If the world had a few thousand +Amiels and they got the whip hand, it might cease to exist.</p> + + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" >CHAPTER X<br> +<small>GEORGES DUHAMEL: POET, PACIFIST, AND PHYSICIAN</small></h2> +</div> + +<p>The world is thronged with people who are busying themselves +with world ordering. They may be divided into +two great groups: those who believe that it is to be brought +about by revolution; and those who are convinced that it is +to be accomplished by following the instructions given by the +Master to the lawyer who asked the question: “Which is <em>the</em> +great commandment in the law?” The former are called +Bolshevists; the latter Pacifists; and both terms are habitually +used derisively. Amongst the latter there are few more conspicuous +in France than Georges Duhamel, a physician by +profession, a littérateur by choice, who at thirty-eight years of +age finds himself in a commanding position in French letters.</p> + +<p>I have recently had the opportunity of an interview with +this brilliant young man, and it occurs to me to present a +summary of his aspirations and an estimate of his accomplishments.</p> + +<p>His history is brief. Early success, like a happy country, +does not furnish history. He was born in Paris in 1884, the +son of a physician and the grandson of a farmer. This evolution +from farmer to littérateur in three generations Duhamel +says is common in France, indeed in all Central Europe. His +tastes seem to have been largely influenced, if not formed, by +the setting and atmosphere with which his father's profession +surrounded his early life. Until he was mobilised in 1914 +Duhamel had not practised medicine. Even as a youth he had +experienced the literary urge and felt that he would eventually +succumb to it. He, however, devoted himself to the sciences +and to medicine in the firm belief that such study provides +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</span> +the best preparation for the vocation of literature. In +this M. Duhamel is in full accord with another famous theoretical +world orderer, Mr. H. G. Wells, but in disagreement +with a practical one, Mr. Charles E. Hughes.</p> + +<p>“One does not learn life from letters, but from life, through +seeing suffering and death,” said he when asked to speak of +the factors that influenced him to abandon medicine for +letters.</p> + +<p>In the midst of his studies as a youth he had what he now +calls rather a strange adventure.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“I spent much time in the society of friends: writers, painters +and sculptors. All of us were seized with a strong desire to +shrink from society as it was constituted. Although we were +not all Fourierites, we decided to form a phalanstery in which +we could live a community life, each one taking part in the +work and in the joy of living in an atmosphere adapted to our +tastes and our professions. We agreed to make our living by +means of manual work, and to abolish the relation of master +and servant. We decided to adopt the trade of typography, +which would permit us to advance our art. Through mutual +economies we bought a printing press and our first books were +published by 'L'Abbaye de Creteil,' as our little publishing +house was called. The phalanstery was disbanded for financial +reasons, but we had a taste of an agreeable life, independent, +oftentimes difficult, but in many respects quite ideal.” </p> +</div> + +<p>When asked about his earliest literary productions and why +he essayed poetry rather than prose, he replied,</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“Generally speaking, all writers begin with poetry and gradually +forsake metre. Our little group wanted to initiate a great +literary epoch and we believed that this could be done only by +creating an atmosphere favourable to intellectual work.” </p> +</div> + +<p>He might have borrowed Socrates' reply when Cebes asked +the same question: “For I reflect that a man who means to be a +poet has to use fiction and not facts for his poems.” M. +Duhamel's training had been in facts, and his greatest success +in letters has been in the recording of facts. His smallest +success has been in establishing postulates based upon them.</p> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</span></p> +</div> + +<figure class="figcenter illowe25" id="ilo_fp241"> + <img class="w100 p2" src="images/ilo_fp241.jpg" alt="ilop239" title="p239ilo"> + <figcaption class="caption"><span class="allsmcap">GEORGES DUHAMEL</span></figcaption> +</figure> +<p class="center p2b">From a drawing by <em>Ivan Opffer</em> in <em>THE BOOKMAN.</em></p> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</span></p> +</div> + +<p>In 1909 M. Duhamel received his degree in medicine and +shortly after appeared the four plays which, with his poetry, +“Des Légendes, des Batailles,” a collection of verse published +by “L'Abbaye” in 1907; “L'Homme en Tête,” in 1909; +“Selon ma Loi,” in 1910; and “Compagnons,” in 1912, gave +him a definite place in the literary hierarchy. These plays +were “La Lumière,” which appeared in 1911; “Dans l'Ombre +des Statues,” in 1912; “Le Combat,” a symbolic drama in <em>vers +libres</em>, in 1912; and “L'Œuvre des Athlètes” in 1920. All of +these were produced on the Paris stage and all save the last +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</span> +have appeared in translations by Sasha Best in <em>Poet Lore</em>, +Boston, in 1914 and 1915.</p> + +<p>These dramas, as well as his early poetry, show the influence +of Walt Whitman. His message is conveyed through the +medium of symbolism, his method being to create types rather +than individual studies, and his purpose to bring art closer to +the masses. The result, as might have been expected, is drama +of no great popularity.</p> + +<p>Almost simultaneously with his work as poet and dramatist +M. Duhamel achieved prominence as a critic. For some years +he was critic of poetry for <em>Le Mercure de France</em>, and his +articles contributed to that publication were collected in book +form in 1914 under the title of “Les Poètes et la Poésie.” His +earliest critical work, however, was a collaboration with M. +Charles Vildrac, called “Mots sur la Technique Poétique.” +“Propos Critique,” published in 1912, is largely devoted to +comments on the efforts of the younger and, at that time, comparatively +unknown writers, and it is of special interest that +many of these writers are now famous.</p> + +<p>“Paul Claudel: le philosophe—le poète—l'ecrivain—le dramaturge,” +published in 1913, is considered by some of Duhamel's +admirers as the best of his critical works, marked as it<span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</span> +is by the same gifts of analysis and charm of style which distinguished +his briefer critical writings.</p> + +<p>It is, however, chiefly of his work since the beginning of +the war, and the direction which his ideas and aims have taken +under the influence of the war, that this article is concerned.</p> + +<p>When the war broke out it found Georges Duhamel—then +about thirty years of age—intent upon his literary work: +poetry, criticism, interpretation, which had put him in the first +rank of littérateurs of his country. Mobilised in the Medical +Corps he first went to Verdun and found himself in the thick +of the carnage; but he was soon transferred to the Marne where +in the comparative quiet of a hospital he was able to make the +observations and write the reflections which have carried his +name throughout the civilised world. During the four years of +the war he produced four remarkable volumes: “Vie des Martyrs” +(The New Book of Martyrs), “Civilisation,” “Possession +du Monde” (The Heart's Domain), and “Entretiens dans le +Tumulte” (Interviews in the Tumult), four of the most noteworthy +and important books inspired by the war.</p> + +<p>Plunged at once into the great war hopper whose purpose +was to reduce all human material to a homogeneous mass that +would furnish energy for the war machine, Duhamel preserved +his perspective and his individual outlook both upon the war +and upon life. Nothing illustrates this so strikingly as some +of his stories in “Civilisation,” gathered from scenes with +which he came into contact after he had become a seasoned +soldier.</p> + +<p>No stronger proof is needed of the essential wholesomeness +and strength of Duhamel's make-up than the fact that while +these stories, and those of “Vie des Martyrs,” were inspired +by the horrors of the war, they do not depict horrors, nor do +they create an atmosphere of horror. It is not the picture of +healthy men in the flower of youth, in the vigour of virility +fed to the war machine and left lacerated and broken, that +Duhamel impresses upon the imaginations of his readers. It<span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</span> +was thus that he had seen them in the first days of the siege +of Verdun, in an improvised ambulance where from minute to +minute new torments developed to increase their previous torments, +while the fragile roof over their heads became a great +resounding board for the projectiles of the siegers and the assieged. +He had, however, the vision to see them in another +light, and he was filled with pity and admiration for the French +poilu. It is these two emotions, rather than horror, which +make the atmosphere and colour of the two books of war +stories. He sensed the significance of pain and saw the reactions +of strong men to suffering. He saw man in his agony +give the lie to the most misleading of all statements: that man +is born equal. For neither in living nor in dying is there equality. +Men are equal, we trust, before God, and they are alleged +to be equal before the law, but after that equality of man does +not exist.</p> + +<p>It is this book particularly that makes Duhamel the interpreter +of the poor, the obscure, the stupid, the inarticulate. +With an unerring intuition he reaches the soul. His +sympathies are so large, his understanding so comprehensive, +and his reflection of them so complete, that his readers suffer +with the suffering. It seems impossible to depict the sufferings +of these poor martyrs, sent like droves of cattle to be struck +down for what purpose they knew not, more accurately and +convincingly than he does. With the reader's sympathy +thus awakened, one wonders that the individual can be deprived +of his own right to judge whether the cause is great +enough for him to lay down his all; to be crushed by the +chariots of the god of war.</p> + +<p>M. Duhamel, in “Vie des Martyrs,” has succeeded in making +his martyrs immortal. To him has been given in a superlative +degree that seeing eye, that understanding heart, that +power of vision which, perhaps more than any other gift, +enriches life, since it enables the fortunate possessor to rid<span class="pagenum" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</span> +himself of the trammels of his own narrow existence and live +the lives of many.</p> + +<p>He has made a contribution to behaviouristic psychology +in these little stories, or better said sketches from life, that will +endure. He has been able to convey to unenlightened man +the difference between the <em>bon</em> and the <em>mauvais blessé</em> and to +show that it is soul difference as well as bodily difference. He +has portrayed in simple colours the desire to live, and the determination +to live, factors which physicians know are most +important in forecasting the chances of recovery of every sick +man. And with it all there is tenderness, which the author has +had the power to convey through delicacy of style that makes +prose poetry of much of his narrative of the thoughts, aspirations, +sentiments, and plans of individual men who, from their +appearance and position, are the most commonplace of the commonplace. +There is no anger, violence, hatred, or despair +in any of his pictures. There is sometimes irony, but it is of +so gentle a nature that it strengthens the impression of sympathy +with his characters, rather than suggesting judgment of +them.</p> + +<p>“A human being suffers always in his flesh alone, and that +is why war is possible,” says M. Duhamel in “Civilisation.” +This is one of those marvellous epitomes of human conduct, +of which he has framed many. It is vouchsafed to but few +to understand and suffer another's pain. To the majority of +mankind it is denied. Were it not so, the fellow-feeling that +makes us wondrous kind would displace greed.</p> + +<p>There are so many remarkable features of M. Duhamel's +war books, such, for instance, as what may be called the thesis +of “Vie des Martyrs”: that men suffer after their own image +and in their own loneliness; or of “Civilisation”: that consciousness +has outrun life; that it has created for itself reactions +and inhibitions so intricate and profound that they cannot +be tolerated by life, that I was keen to learn how these attitudes +had developed. When questioned, this is what he said:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</span></p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“I am forced to divide things in the way practiced in the +sciences; that is to say, not to confuse the study of facts with +conclusions drawn from them. In these two books I showed +as faithfully as I could the life and sufferings of soldiers during +the war. In the latter two (“The Heart's Domain” and “Interviews +in the Tumult”) I drew conclusions from the facts established +in the first two. This procedure seemed to me the best +way to handle anti-war propaganda. The weakness of most +books results from the fact that the idea or subject is confused +with other, regrettably often sentimental, considerations. The +procedure employed in the sciences seems to be more orderly, +and therefore more convincing for the exposition of my ideas. +These books awoke a great echo, because they corresponded +closely to the state of mind of sensible men who are bent on +doing everything to make war impossible. Because of this I +was looked upon as a Pacifist, and I regard this as an honour. +I have never been politically active nor do I belong to any +political group. However I am a Pacifist and an Internationalist. +I believe that it is only the individual that can be an +Internationalist. A nation will never be Internationalist for the +reason that Pacifism and Internationalism are indissolubly +bound up with individualism.” </p> +</div> + +<p>M. Duhamel's work cannot, therefore, be considered solely +in the light of its literary qualities. By his own admission he +is a writer with a purpose, and this purpose is the suppression +of war. In the interview he stated that this purpose fills all +of his work and “will be, I believe, the axis of my work all +my life.” </p> + +<p>Regarding the four war books in this light, a sincere critic +can hardly escape the conviction that the author has accomplished +the first part of his task with immeasurably greater +success than the latter part. Of the convincing appeal of the +two books which aim only to present vivid and truthful pictures +of the sufferings of the soldiers during the war there +can be no question. But of the author's power as a propagandist +against war, as expressed in the two latter books, it is +by no means easy to form so satisfactory an estimate.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</span></p> + +<p>Duhamel does not believe that the war developed a <em>modus +vivendi</em> for the world. He thinks it left us where it found us, +only exhausted. Unless something is devised while this exhaustion +is being overcome, the conflict will be taken up again. +He believes that a revolution is necessary, but not a revolution +in the sense of the term that applies to the affairs of Russia +or Ireland.</p> + +<p>When Duhamel is read in the light of history, especially of +the last one hundred and twenty-five years, one is less hopeful +than if he were ignorant of history. If any <em>ex cathedra</em> statement +is justifiable it would seem to be this: the world war +flowed more or less directly from the revolutionary movement +which began with the dissemination of the doctrine of the +French philosophers, especially Rousseau, toward the end of +the Eighteenth Century. His discourse “On the Origin of Inequality +Amongst Men” is the fountainhead of modern socialism +and the source from which the ferment that brought about +the world revolution emanated. Rousseau's thesis was that +civilisation had proven itself to be the curse of humanity and +that man in his primitive state was free and happy.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“The first time he knew unhappiness was when convention +stepped in and said 'you must not do this and you must not +do that,' and the State stepped in and said 'this is private property.' +The first man who bethought himself of saying 'this +is mine,' and found people simple enough to believe him was +the real founder of civil society. What crimes, what wars, +what murders, what miseries and horrors would he have spared +the human race who, snatching away the spade and filling in +the ditches, had cried out to his fellows: 'beware of listening +to this impostor; you are lost if you forget that the fruits of +the earth belong to all and the earth to no one.'”</p> +</div> + +<p>It was the dissemination of this doctrine and the writings of +Voltaire which led to the “Feast of Reason,” and the publication +of the “Encyclopédie” that led to the world volcanic +eruption of 1789, which had its repetition in 1914.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</span></p> + +<p>It seems that most of these ideas were to be found in the +writings of Adam Weishaupt, an apostate Catholic, who +founded the secret society known as the “Illiminati” in 1776. +It is interesting to compare some of his statements with Duhamel's +aspirations.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“When men united themselves into nations, national love +took the place of universal love. With the division of the globe +into countries benevolence restricted itself behind boundaries +that it was never again to transgress. It became a virtue to +spread out at the expense of those who did not happen to +be under our dominion. In order to attain this goal it became +permissible to despise foreigners and to deceive and offend +them. This virtue was called patriotism. Patriotism gave birth +to localism, to the family spirit, and finally to egoism. Thus +the origin of states or governments of civil society was the +seed of discord and patriotism found its punishment in itself. +Do away with this love of country, and men will once more +learn to know and love each other as men; there will be no +more partiality; the ties between hearts will unroll and +extend.” </p> +</div> + +<p>Duhamel wants to develop this relationship between men, +but he wants to do it in a very different way.</p> + +<p>This moral revolution will be accomplished when men love +one another, and when they reward good for evil. Even though +this had not been shouted from the housetops and whispered +through the lattice, in every tongue and in every clime for +the past twenty centuries, we should still feel that M. Duhamel +is in error, for these precepts are at variance with the teachings +of biology, the science for which M. Duhamel has so much +respect. You might just as well ask a man who is drowning +not to struggle as to ask a man to return good for evil—that is +unless he is doing it as a stunt, an artefact, or in redemption +of the promise to be saved. It is against nature. First teach +him to put a new valuation on life and to get new standards of +what makes life worth living. Then M. Duhamel will have a +foundation to build upon.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</span></p> + +<p>That M. Duhamel is no less earnest than sincere in his purpose +is proved by his lectures through Europe during the last +few years, as protagonist for the suppression of war; and also +by the fact that he was one of the co-founders of “Clarté,” so +named for the book by Barbusse, which is a group of men who +preach anti-militarism, the intellectual solidarity of nations, +and the social equality of all citizens.</p> + +<p>“Possession du Monde” is by virtue of its title a frank +avowal of its aim to set forth the author's idea of finding some +satisfactory substitute for the world possession for which the +war was fought. It is the effort of a wholesome, buoyant, sympathetic +man, after having been brought into contact with the +horrors of the war, to find a substitute for orthodox religion; +the expression of an emotionally religious man without a creed. +M. Duhamel, who was brought up a Catholic, lost all religion, +he said, when he was fifteen years old.</p> + +<p>The panacea which Duhamel offers in this book for human +suffering and world ills is the conscious striving for happiness +by means of a sort of “culture of the soul.” He puts a personal +construction upon happiness and holds that it is and +should be the object of all humanity and of the whole world +of living things. He quotes Maeterlinck to the effect that “As +man is created for health, so was man created for happiness.” +This soul culture is rather an attitude of feeling toward things +than an attitude of thought. There is no attempt to think out +any of the problems which have puzzled men for ages. Neither +is there any denying of them. He simply says substantially: +I am a practical man. Of course I take things as they are—or +as they seem to be—but I take the best that is in them. I take +the sunshine, the flowers, the wisdom of the ages, the art that +has come down to us, the science, human love, the fine qualities +of friendship, work, play, my sorrows and adversities, even +religion—but I take only what is good out of them all; and +I take that temperately, sanely, according to the limitations<span class="pagenum" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</span> +which nature and circumstances have imposed. And I am +happy. You can do likewise and you can be happy.</p> + +<p>But can I take poverty and want, and particularly can I +take them with equanimity while my neighbour or brother is +swaggering with riches, some of which he has robbed me +because he is stronger or cleverer than I? Duhamel's formula +for achieving happiness, as well as his conception of what constitutes +happiness, only fits the average man, and it has been +proven countless thousands of times that there is no such +person. It is sufficient, perhaps, for people who feel normally +and do not think for themselves. So it may be sufficient for +the present for a mass of people who want to be led—if they +are pious and healthy.</p> + +<p>But how about the people who are different, or who are +not healthy, or who think they are safer custodians of wealth +and power than their so-called brothers? It brings no help to +the people who are tortured by an insistent need to think things +out for themselves, or else to find something which will answer +their questions as to the why. Nor does it tell those who are +handicapped, physically, mentally, or even temperamentally, +how they can overcome their handicaps so as to, as it were, +extract the honey from the flowers. The world is full of people +with all degrees of unusualness and abnormality. One may +ignore them, but no scheme of things can deny them. Duhamel +uses them by preference as a basis for his fiction.</p> + +<p>In his conception of happiness Duhamel reads himself and +his own emotions into all things. He avers that the algæ +growing in a tank of water with nothing but a few grains of +dust and sunlight are happy because they subsist and work +out their humble joy. Has any sentient soul told him he was +happy under parallel circumstances? That is the question. +He reads his own philosophy into the algæ. To him to be +living as nature intended one to live is to be happy. But who +can say? Just here I am reminded of a quotation from Anatole +France of which Duhamel makes use in this book: “Men<span class="pagenum" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</span> +have cut each others' throats over the meaning of a word.” +People might argue forever over the meaning of the word +“happiness” and never get anywhere.</p> + +<p>Duhamel says that happiness is the ultimate end of life and +that religion is the search for happiness in a life to come after +this. Everybody wants to be happy in this life and some +people expect to be happy in a life after this—of these two +assertions there can be no doubt. But Duhamel says there +is no life after this, and that the sole object of life is to be +happy in this world. He does, however, speak of “saving the +soul,” and he implies his belief in God. He says substantially +that the plants are happy because they are fulfilling their +destiny, or doing what God meant them to do; and implies that +man will be happy if he does the same. Very likely. But +shall he strive to fulfill his destiny—to do what God meant +him to do—merely in order to be happy? Or shall he strive to +fulfill his destiny—and happiness will follow incidentally? +Which should be his conscious end, happiness or the fulfilment +of his destiny? Most religious people would say the latter. +Duhamel says the former. But, for working purposes they +are about the same, except that, for people who are at all +temperamental or who meet with many discouragements, +it is frequently difficult to strive for a happiness which seems +elusive. Whereas, such people, if they are spiritually minded, +can always find a stimulus in trying to do what they were +intended to do. And if they believe in God the stimulus becomes +greater. And if they can believe that the soul grows +through every honest effort—that nothing is ever lost, whether +the result appears to be success or failure—and that the limits +of its growth are not bounded by what their senses can tell +them in this life, their capacity for striving becomes sometimes +amazing. How else account for the man who expends +ten times the effort in playing a losing game that he would +have spent in one that promised an easy success?</p> + +<p>That the soul will find its greatest happiness in the contemplation<span class="pagenum" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</span> +of itself, is Duhamel's belief. “He is the happiest +man who best understands his happiness; for he is of all men +most fully aware that it is only the lofty idea, the untiring +courageous human idea, that separates gladness from sorrow,” +he quotes from Maeterlinck. A man should think about his +soul at least once every day. But it would be safe to say that +for one man who finds happiness in a life of contemplation ten +find it in a life of action. The wholesome, sane, average, happy +men—of whom Duhamel is an excellent example—are mostly +men of action. The very existence of this book is a contradiction +of his happiness of contemplation theory as applied to +himself. It may well be questioned whether Duhamel would +have written “Possession du Monde” if he had not been the +kind of man who finds happiness in giving expression to every +emotion. Besides self-study is safe only for strong natures. +Self-analysis was the undoing of the man in one of Duhamel's +best books, “Confession de Minuit.” </p> + +<p>Finally, what is “happiness”? Is it merely a feeling? Gladness? +If that were all, and the ultimate end of life, would not +the logical conclusion be that the happiest—and therefore the +most successful—man would be the joyful maniac?</p> + +<p>The publication of M. Duhamel which has the greatest +popularity is the one that his admirers would wish he had +not written: “Possession du Monde.” It is a protest against +the evaluation of life commercially, and a plea for a moral or +spiritual standard. This is a topic for an epoch maker, and one +who has not a vision or a plan should not essay it. M. Duhamel +may have both, but he does not reveal them. He displays +only the wish that the world should be better. In the +jargon of the Freudian, it is a wish-fulfilment that does not +realise. It is neither well done nor convincing, and it has been +well and convincingly done by many writers, and still we have +not profited by it. Amiel did it; Maeterlinck did it; Karr did +it; and “others too numerous to mention.” They may have +had some effect upon individuals, but the history of the past<span class="pagenum" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</span> +eight years shows that they had no effect upon the world at +large, its evolution, or devolution. Moreover, there is a note +of unction and self-satisfaction running through the book that +is displeasing, if not offensive. It is quite true, or likely to be +true, that “to think about the soul, to think about it at least +once in the confusion of every crowded day, is indeed the beginning +of salvation,” but there is a book in which this is said +in a more convincing way than M. Duhamel can ever hope +to say it.</p> + +<p>Viewed from a literary standpoint alone, the book is in +keeping with, if not quite up to, the standard of his other +works. His prose is always musical, and he often creates an +atmosphere rather than an edifice. He is never emphatic, +mandatory, severe, superlative. He is soft, gentle, often +ironical, but always human.</p> + +<p>Two remarkable pieces of fiction constitute Duhamel's output +since the four war books: “Les Hommes Abandonnés” +(Abandoned Men) and “Confession de Minuit” (Midnight +Confession). The first contains eight histories which try to +prove that when men are gathered together in a crowd they are +abandoned by the individual soul. It is an illustration on the +reverse side in favour of individualism.</p> + +<p>“Confession de Minuit” is particularly significant as being +named by the author in the interview as his favourite work. +“As a human research I believe that it is the one with the most +meaning,” he said of this novel; and it is, therefore, a matter +of self-congratulation on the part of the writer that he found +this book to be the one which interpreted to him the author's +particular genius in the most convincing and interesting light +The story has its bearing upon the author's theories because +it illustrates more clearly than any of his other works a statement +made by him in the interview:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“People often reproach me with being interested only in my +stories with sick people or with children. Healthy men do not<span class="pagenum" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</span> +register the motives which govern them. When one studies +a sick person one is able to see the relations between moral +characteristics which in the healthy man exist, but are hidden.” +However, I hold that the average man, healthy, typical, +scarcely exists in literature, and that the most interesting creations +from the human point of view had for their subjects men +who were unbalanced—from Hamlet to Leopold Bloom; from +Raskolnikov to Dorian Gray.</p> +</div> + +<p>“Confession de Minuit” is the self-revelation of a man who +was decidedly unbalanced. As a bit of art work the book is +unique and remarkable. Almost the unity of a short-story is +preserved without recourse to any of the usual machinery of +the ordinary novel, such as plot, action, or conversation, except +a very little of the most casual nature. To a person who +reads fiction for character delineation this absence of trappings +is a distinct gain.</p> + +<p>“Confession de Minuit” is the story of a man than whom +a more uninteresting person could hardly be found in life; +and yet as told by the man himself, Duhamel sustains the +interest of the reader in the recital of pitiful weakness from the +first page to the last without one lapse into dryness or loss +of sympathy for the character, with whom, in the flesh, it +would have been hard to feel any sentiment besides pity. +It opens with the incident which causes the man to lose +his position as a small clerk in an office through an utterly +senseless—although perfectly harmless—performance: yielding +to a sudden impulse to touch the ear of his employer just +to assure himself that the employer was really made of flesh +and blood, as himself. As society, or in this case the employer, +is more afraid of an insane person than of a criminal, the +reader does not share the man's feeling of injustice because +he is first confronted with a revolver and then thrown speedily +and bodily out of the office where he had been a faithful +worker for several years; although he is able to pity the victim. +The story, as told by the man himself, traces his rapid deterioration<span class="pagenum" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</span> +through progressive stages of self-pity, self-absorption, +and inability to get hold of himself, to make an effort to +re-establish himself, or even to seek advice or sympathy, until +the last night when he pours out his “confession” to a stranger, +with the statement that, on account of his failure in every +relation in life, he is never going home to his old mother who +has supported him with her small income and her needlework—nor +is he ever going anywhere else, so far as the reader can +see. He does not commit suicide. In fact, the story leaves +one with the impression that he is merely “going crazy.” +Whether or not he is insane when the recital begins with the +commission of the insane act is a matter for neither the novelist +nor the critic to state.</p> + +<p>The great art of the writer lies in his ability to sustain +interest at a high level in a pure character study of what is +frequently described as a “shut-in personality.” </p> + +<p>This novel seems to have been written without reference +to the author's happiness or “cult of the soul” theory. It +might almost be construed as a contradiction of it. One might +put a fatalistic construction upon it, if one did not take a +material point of view of health and disease. I do not see +how anyone could get away from the conviction that the man +who makes the “Midnight Confession” of his own pitiful +failure in life is a victim of either his own mental limitations, +or else of his particular environment, or of both. The only +other way in which anyone might account for his utter inability +to get hold of life or to stand up against his first discouragement +is the refuge of the Radical Socialist—that society +gave him no chance, the concrete illustration being the cruel +way in which constituted authority, or his employer, treated +his first downward step. But if the author had intended to +condemn the employer and to excuse the man he would hardly +have selected for this step an act which would so readily arouse +a question as to the man's sanity, nor would he have followed +the incident with a story in which the only development was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</span> +rapidly increasing loss of touch with the outside world. +No philosophy, or religion, or cult could have helped this man, +who was handicapped with a nature so weak that it could not +resist an impulse which would have been suppressed instantly +by any well-balanced person; nor could it have given him +the strength to withstand the simple discouragements that are +the inevitable lot of all men. He simply was not able to cope +with something—define it as one may.</p> + +<p>One moral the story teaches. And that is the nobility +of sympathy with even the weakest, most despised, and least +interesting of human beings.</p> + +<p>M. Duhamel consecrates his life to the prevention of war. +It is a noble gesture. He is gifted, sane, articulate, and temperamentally +adapted and adjusted to the task. Were he a +platonist and not a neo-platonist, I am sure greater success +would crown his efforts. Twenty-five hundred years ago a +man who penetrated the mysteries of life and death more +deeply than anyone before or since said to his pupils who had +gathered to speed him to the Great Beyond, the ship having +returned from Delos and the Eleven having decided to release +Socrates from his fetters:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“The body fills us with passions and desires, and fears, and +all manner of phantoms and much foolishness; and so, as the +saying goes, in very truth we can never think at all for it. It +alone and its desires, cause war and factions and battles for +the origin of all wars is the pursuit of wealth.” </p> +</div> + +<p>Until that pursuit can be substituted, the labours of M. Duhamel +and his co-founders of “Clarté” are likely to be in vain.</p> + + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" >CHAPTER XI<br> +<small>EVEN YET IT CAN'T BE TOLD—THE WHOLE TRUTH ABOUT<br> +D. H. LAWRENCE</small></h2> +</div> + +<p>About twenty years ago a brilliant, unbalanced, young +Austrian Jew wrote a book, “Sex and Character,” whose +purpose was to show that woman had played a greater rôle +in the world than her possessions warranted, that she was +inherently devoid of morality, and that men should cease to +procreate. In the autumn of 1903 its author, Otto Weininger, +then twenty-three years old, shot and killed himself in the +house in Vienna in which Beethoven had died. The author's +awful theme and his tragic end caused the book to be widely +read and even more widely discussed. Amongst those impressed +by it was a boy of humble but uncommon parents, bred +in the coal-fields of mid-England where he had led a strenuous +life struggling with the sex question, contending with the stream +of consciousness as it became swollen with the tributaries of +puberty—“Oh, stream of hell which undermined my adolescence.” +While still a youth he felt the influence of another +Austrian mystic of the same faith, Sigmund Freud, who maintains +that the unconscious is the real man, that its energiser +and director is the libido, and that the conscious is the artificed, +the engendered man whose tenant and executive is the ego. +By day and by night this exceptionally gifted and burdened boy +took his grist to these two mystic millers. To comfort himself, +to keep up his courage in the dark on his journeys to +the mill and from it, he read the Bible, the poetry of Walt +Whitman and Robert Browning, and the prose of Thomas +Hardy. From the Old Testament he got an unsurpassed +capacity for narrative and metaphor, while the “grey poet”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</span> +whetted his appetite for worship and exaltation of the human +body. Well might he say of Whitman, as Dante said of Virgil:</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> +<p>“Tu sè'lo mio maestro e il mio autore<br> +Tu sè'solo colui, da cui io tòlsi<br> +Lo bèllo stile che m'à fatto onore.”</p> +</div> +</div> + +<p>Thus D. H. Lawrence, like Jeshurun, waxed fat and kicked, +forsook God which made him, and lightly esteemed the Rock +of his Salvation. And he began to pour forth his protest in +a series of books, each a little more lawless than its predecessor, +culminating in “The Rainbow.” The book was suppressed +by the Government of his own country, but the censors +of our “free country,” who pronounced “Jurgen” a book +prejudicial to public morals, allowed “The Rainbow” to be +published here. Perhaps that is the reason “Jurgen” has been +published in England without molest. After that, when Mr. +Lawrence wished to circulate his contributions to world-purification +and progress, which many call pornography, he resorted +to the camouflage of “published privately for subscribers only.” </p> + +<p>My information is that Mr. Lawrence is not so widely read +in the United States as are many of his contemporaries, Mr. +Compton Mackenzie or Mr. Frank Swinnerton, for example. +But there is a Lawrence cult here and it is growing, particularly +amongst those who like to be called Greenwich Villagers, the +breath of whose nostrils is antinomianism, especially sex antinomianism. +Moreover, he has a way of interpolating between +his salacious romances and erotic poetry books of imagination, +observation, and experience, such as “Bay” and “Twilight in +Italy,” that are couched in language whose swing and go few +can withstand. These are replete with descriptions of sense-stirring +scenery and analyses of sex-tortured souls, analyses +which give lyric expression to the passions of the average man, +who finds their lurid and ecstatic depiction diverting. Finally, +Mr. Lawrence is striving to say something—something of sex +and self which he believes the world should know; indeed, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</span> +which is of paramount importance to it—and his manner of +saying it has been so seductive that there are probably many +who, like myself, have been clinging to him, as it were, buying +his books and reading him with the hope that eventually he +would succeed.</p> + +<p>The time limit given him by one of his admirers and well-wishers +has expired. In taking leave of him I purpose to set +down my reasons for severing the emotional and intellectual +thread that has kept us—even though so very loosely, and to +him, quite unawaredly—together.</p> + +<p>This renders unavoidable a line or two about criticism. +I accept Matthew Arnold's estimate of the function of criticism, +“to make known the best that is thought and known in the +world,” providing that the critic also exposes the poor and +meretricious which is being palmed off as “just as good,” or +which is bidding for estimate, high or low. A guide should +not only show the traveller upon whose eyes the scales still +rest, or who has set out on a journey before the dawn, the right +road, but he should also warn him of perilous roads and specify +whether the peril is from bandits, broken bridges, or bellowing +bulls. It is needless to say that the guide should have +travelled the road and should know it and its environment +well, and that his information should be recent.</p> + +<p>The road that Mr. D. H. Lawrence has been travelling for +the past decade and more, and making the basis for descriptions +of his trips, is well known to me. I have worked upon it, +laughed upon it, cried upon it for more than a quarter of a +century. My information of it is recent, for there, even now, I +earn my daily bread. It is the road leading from Original Sin +to the street called Straight. All must travel it. Some make +the journey quickly; some laboriously. Some, those who have +morbid sex-consciousness in one form or another, inadequate +or deviate genetic endowment, are unable to finish the journey +at all.</p> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</span></p> +</div> + +<figure class="figcenter illowe25" id="ilo_fp261"> + <img class="w100 p2" src="images/ilo_fp261.jpg" alt="ilop259" title="p259ilo"> + <figcaption class="caption p2b"><span class="allsmcap">D. H. LAWRENCE</span></figcaption> +</figure> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</span></p> +</div> + +<p>Mr. Lawrence seems to have learned early that he could not +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</span> +fulfill his own nature passionately, and he has been struggling +all his life to find the way in which fulfilment lies. It is generally +believed that “Sons and Lovers” is largely autobiographical +and that the writer is to be identified with Paul. In that +book he gave ample testimony that he could not fulfill himself +because of the conflict between mother-love and uxorial +love; for we may venture to catalogue Paul's consortional +experiences under that heading, even though he had no marriage +lines. He has never been able to define just how he +expected to fulfill his nature, but one may legitimately conclude +from some of his recent publications that he believes, +if the strings of the lyre of sensuality can be made taut enough +and twanged savagely enough, the tone produced will constitute +not only fulfilment and happiness, but an eternity of +ecstasy, a timeless extension of that indescribable exaltation +that Dostoievsky was wont to experience in moments +preceding his epileptic seizures, which is so vividly described +by him and which made such an impression upon his thoughts +and so influenced his imagery. Mr. Lawrence apparently believes +that fulfilment will be meditated by one “who will touch +him at last on the root and quicken his darkness and perish on +him as he has perished on her.” When this happens,</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p>“We shall be free, freer than angels, ah, perfect”;</p> +</div> + +<p>and,</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p>“After that, there will only remain that all men detach themselves and become unique<br> +Conditioned only by our pure single being, having no laws but the laws of our own being.”</p> +</div> + +<p>Finally:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p>“Every human being will then be like a flower, untrammelled.”</p> + +<p>“Ideas and ideals are the machine plan and the machine +principles of an automatonised Psyche which has been so prejudicial<span class="pagenum" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</span> +to human progress and human welfare. We must get rid +of them both.” </p> +</div> + +<p>In fact, it is a world without ideals for which Mr. +Lawrence is clamouring and which he maintains he is in +process of creating. It must be allowed that he is working +industriously to do it, but most people, I fancy, will continue +to believe that his world will not be a fit place to live in should +he be able to finish his task. Meanwhile he is doing much +to make the world less livable than it might otherwise be, +particularly for those who are not competent to judge whether +any of Mr. Lawrence's contentions are tenable or any of his +statements in harmony with the evidence of science.</p> + +<p>“Psychoanalysis and the Unconscious” contains more misinformation +in a small space than almost any recent book save +the “Cruise of the Kawa.” It may reasonably be expected that +anyone who writes upon psychoanalysis and the unconscious +today and expects a hearing should know something about +biology. But no biologist would accept such dogmatic statements +as</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“Life begins now, as always, in an individual living +creature. In the beginning of the individual living creature +is the beginning of life, every time and always. And life has +no beginning apart from this.... There is no assignable and +no logical reason for individuality.” </p> +</div> + +<p>To give such sentences the semblance of truth there should +have been added, “so far as I know.” It is misleading to follow +up such statements by saying, “having established so much,” +etc. A poet may be permitted to say that “The young bull in +the field has a wrinkled and sad face.” Indeed, he may +abandon all morphology and animal behaviour and make the +graceful serpent rest its head upon its shoulder! But the man +who invades the field of science should, at least, practise some +accuracy of expression, even though he give himself the latitude +of poetic license.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</span></p> + +<p>“The White Peacock” was Mr. Lawrence's first novel. It +was favourably received. Letty, the principal character, is +the trial portrait of all his later heroines. Her creator, in his +youth and inexperience, did not know how to make her “carry +on,” but she is the <em>anlage</em> for all his female characters, their +immoralities and bestialities. Her story is a simple one. Her +mother, a lady of fine character, has been put to the acid test +by the moral defalcation of her father, a drunkard and wastrel +with charm. Leslie, a young man with money and social position, +commonplace, emotionally shallow, spiritually inelastic, +unimaginative, but intelligent and straightforward, wooes the +temperamental, volatile, romantic Letty. The appeal which +Leslie did not make to her is made by George, a young farmer +“stoutly built, brown-eyed and fair-skinned,” whom Letty +finds “ruddy, dark and with greatly thrilling eyes” and whom +she calls her bull. Meanwhile George and Letty's brother form +a friendship which is in dimmest outline the prototype of that +extraordinary relationship existing between Gerald Crich and +Rupert Birkin in “Women in Love.” </p> + +<p>The book shows the influence of Thomas Hardy, after whom +Lawrence in his early youth sedulously patterned himself. In +those days he was concerned with the photographic description +of rustic scenes and particularly the lives of farmers and miners—which +he knew from experience—and showed a sensitive +appreciation of natural beauty. But the interest of the book +is in the fact that it contains trial pictures of most of his +later characters. George is Tom Brangwen of “The Rainbow”; +Leslie, grown up and more arrogant, is Gerald in “Women in +Love” and Gerald Barlow in “Touch and Go”; Cyril, more experienced +and daring, is called Rupert Birkin when he is introduced +again. In all of Lawrence's books the same characters +appear. They vary only in having different standards and +different degrees of immorality. The environment is always +the same—a mining town; a countryside pitted with collieries; +farms teeming with evidence of vegetable and animal life which<span class="pagenum" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</span> +is described with such intensity that the reader feels he is +witnessing a new era of creation; mean drab houses; and +squalid pubs. Into these and the schoolhouses and churches +he puts his sex-tortured men and hyper-sexed women and +surges them with chaotic vehemence of invitation and embrace +and with the aches, groans, and shrieks of amorous love.</p> + +<p>His second novel, “The Trespassers,” shows the author +to have, in addition to a sensitive and impassioned apprehension +of nature, great capacity for describing the feelings of +commonplace people. Helena, headstrong, determined, emancipated, +self-sufficient, falls in love with her music teacher, +Sigmund, a man of forty who had married when seventeen a +matter-of-fact young woman who gave him many children +which he ill-supported while she slaved and became sour and +slatternly. Helena notices that Sigmund is tired and suggests +that they spend a few days together in the Isle of Wight. She +makes the plans, finds a nice motherly person who will take +them into her cottage more for company than money, and, +though this seems to be her first adventure, she acts with the +certainty which attends experience. The scenery and tools +that Mr. Lawrence uses so skilfully are all here: moonlight +and its effect to produce ecstasy; bathing and lying naked on +the sand or the grass and gazing approvingly at the body; +lovely flowers and plants; and above all, a knowledge of the +effects of baffled eroticism, of collision between primitive simple +passion and artificial fantasying aberrant passion. Like +Hermione Roddice of “Women in Love,” Helena's genetic instincts +are abnormal. She has her Louisa, ten years her senior, +whom she treats with indifference, cruelty, or affection, as it +pleases her. Early in the history of man the prototype of +Helena and Hermione was known. Shuah's second son, it is +alleged, was the first example. The Lord slew Onan as soon +as he deliberately violated the first and most essential principle +of nature, but this drastic measure did not eradicate the biologic +aberration, for it has displayed itself in the human<span class="pagenum" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</span> +species from that day to this, and even today gives more concern +to parents and pedagogues than any other instinct deviation. +Fortunately novelists, until the advent of Mr. Lawrence, +have not featured this infirmity.</p> + +<p>Even in these juvenile days, Mr. Lawrence left very little +to the imagination. Helena and Sigmund, lying on the cold +wet beach in the twilight, enveloped in the Scotch mist (parenthetically +it may be said that his heroes and heroines are +wholly insensitive to bodily discomfort when they are in the +throes of concupiscence) were practising the “Overture to +Love,” </p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“and when Helena drew her lips away she was much exhausted. +She belonged to that class of dreaming women with whom +passion exhausts itself at the mouth. Her desire was accomplished +in a real kiss. She then wanted to go to sleep. She +sank away from his caresses, passively, subtly drew back from +him.” </p> +</div> + +<p>The next morning Sigmund goes into the sea, and this +gives the author opportunity to display the burning passion +which the sight and contemplation of the male human body +seems to cause in him.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“He glanced at his wholesome maturity, the firm plaiting +of his breasts, the full thighs, creatures proud in themselves, +and said 'She ought to be rejoiced at me, but she is not. She +rejects me as if I were a baboon under my clothing.'”</p> +</div> + +<p>When Mr. Lawrence convinced himself that he could write +a more panoplied description of erotic ecstasy than that with +which he afflicted Helena, he wrote the description of Ursula's +encounter with the moon in “The Rainbow.” Indeed the real +motive of “The Trespassers” is a trial portrait of Ursula; and +while making up his mind as to the size of the canvas and the +colours that he would use in painting that modern Messalina, +Mr. Lawrence gave the world “Sons and Lovers,” which more +than any other of his books, gave him a reputation for an +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_266">[Pg 266]</span> +understanding of the strange blood bonds that unite families +and human beings, and for having an unusual, almost exquisite +discrimination in the use of language.</p> + +<p>From boyhood Mr. Lawrence seems to have been possessed +of a demon who whispered to him by day and shrieked to +him by night, “Be articulate, say it with words,” and the +agony of his impotence is heartrending, as frustration after +frustration attends his efforts. He tries it in prose, then in +verse. Gradually, from taking thought, from sex experience +and from hasty perusal of scientific and mystic literature, +there formulated in his mind a concrete thought, which in time +engendered a conviction, finally an obsession. A brief exposition +of the mental elaboration and the Laocoon grip that +it took on him follows:</p> + +<p>The Greeks, fanning the embers of Egyptian civilisation and +getting no fire for their torch, said,</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“Let there be an ideal to which all mankind shall bow the +knee. Let consciousness and all its manifestations be expressed +in terms of ideals and ideas or in conduct that expresses +them, and finally let everything that tends to hinder such +expression, such as the sensual and animal in man be subdued +and repressed.” </p> +</div> + +<p>Christianity went a step further and said,</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“Not only shall ideals be exalted, but pure spirituality and +perfection—man's goal—can only be obtained by the annihilation +of what are called Animal Instincts.” </p> +</div> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</span></p> +</div> + +<figure class="figcenter illowe25" id="ilo_fp269"> + <img class="w100 p2" src="images/ilo_fp269.jpg" alt="ilop267" title="p267ilo"> + <figcaption class="caption"><span class="allsmcap"><span class="allsmcap">D. H. LAWRENCE</span></span></figcaption> +</figure> +<p class="center p2b">From a drawing by <em>Jan Juta.</em></p> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_268">[Pg 268]</span></p> +</div> + +<p>Christianity's promoters and well-wishers realised, however, +that the continuance of the race depended upon the +gratification of these appetites, and so laws and conventions +were made under whose operation they could be legitimately +indulged, there being small hope that the wish expressed by +Sir Thomas Browne, the author of “Religio Medici” and a flock +of children, that man might procreate as do the trees, should +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</span> +ever be gratified. In civilised lands the conquest of the lower +self has been objective. Man has moved from a great impulse +within himself, the unconscious. Once the conquest has been +effected, the conscious mind turns, looks, and marvels:</p> + + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> +<p>“E come quei che con lena affannata<br> +Uscito fuor del pelago alla riva,<br> +Si volge all'acqua perigliosa, e guata.”</p> +</div> +</div> + +<p>This self-conscious mental provoking of sensation and reaction +in the great affective centres is called sentimentalism or +sensationalism. The mind returns upon the affective centres +and sets up in them a deliberate reaction. These are passions +exploited by the mind. Or the passional motive may act +directly, and not from the mental provocation, and these reactions +may be reflected by a secondary process down into the +body. This is the final and most fatal effect of idealism, because +it reduces everything to self-consciousness into spuriousness, +and it is the madness of the world today. It is this madness +that Mr. Lawrence has sworn to cure. He is going to do +it by conquering what he calls the lower centres, by submitting +the lowest plane to the highest. When this is done there will +be nothing more to conquer. Then all is one, all is love, even +hate is love, even flesh is spirit. The great oneness, the experience +of infirmity, the triumph of the living spirit, which at +last includes everything, is then accomplished. Man becomes +whole, his knowledge becomes complete, he is united with +everything. Mr. Lawrence has mapped out a plan of the +sympathetic nervous system and has manipulated what biologists +call the tropisms in such a way as to convince himself +that he has laid the scientific foundation for his work, but as +there is scarcely a page or paragraph in his little book that +does not contain statements which are at variance with scientific +facts, it is unnecessary to say that his science will not +assist him in his propaganda nearly so much as his fiction. +Like Weininger, he finally eliminates women. As he puts it:<span class="pagenum" id="Page_270">[Pg 270]</span> +“Acting from the last and profoundest centres, man acts womanless.” +It is no longer a question of race continuance. It +is a question of sheer ultimate being, the perfection of life +nearest to death and yet furthest away from it. Acting from +these centres man is an extreme being, the unthinkable warrior, +creator, mover, and maker. “And the polarity is between +man and man.” </p> + +<p>That sentence contains to him who can read it aright the +whole truth of Mr. D. H. Lawrence. To some that brief +statement has the luminousness and significance of the writing +on the wall. Anyone who reads Mr. Lawrence's later books +attentively—and I appreciate that it is some task to do it—will +understand it; and those who, like myself, have devoted +themselves to study of aberrations, genesic and mental, +as they display themselves in geniuses, psychopaths, and +neuropaths, as well as in ordinary men, will sense it correctly.</p> + +<p>Mr. Lawrence thinks there are three stages in the life of +man: the stage of sexless relations between individuals, families, +clans, and nations; the stage of sex relations with an all-embracing +passional acceptance, culminating in the eternal +orbit of marriage; and finally, the love between comrades, the +manly love which only can create a new era of life. One state +does not annul the other; it fulfills the other. Such, in brief, +is the strange venture in psychopathy Mr. Lawrence is making, +and contributions to it up to date are “Women in Love,” +“Psychoanalysis and the Unconscious,” and “Aaron's Rod.” +“The Prussian Officer,” “The Rainbow,” “The Lost Girl,” +“Look, We Have Come Through” were merely efforts to get +his propaganda literature into shape.</p> + +<p>The Adam and Eve of Mr. Lawrence's new creation are +Tom Brangwen and his wife; and to understand their descendants +(and no one, not even Mr. Lawrence, can understand +them fully) one must study the parents. Tom, the youngest +of the Brangwen family, as a boy is rather heavy and stupid +intellectually, sensitive to the atmosphere around him, brutal<span class="pagenum" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</span> +perhaps, but at the same time delicate, very delicate. He does +not get on in school, so he leaves precipitously when he is +fifteen, after having laid open the master's head with a slate, +but not before he has formed a masochistic friendship with +a warm clever frail boy. Sex desire begins soon to torment +him. His first experience causes his sensibilities to rebel, +and the second is a failure because of his self-consciousness +and the dominancy of a budding inferiority complex. He +is on the way to anæsthetising desire by brandy drinking, to +which he periodically gives himself, when one day he meets on +the street a demure lady whose curious absorbed flitting +motion arrests him and causes a joy of pain to run through him.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“She had felt Tom go by almost as if he had brushed +her. She had tingled in body as she had gone up on the +road. Her impulse was strong against him because he was +not of her sort. But one blind instinct led her to take him, +to have him, and then to relinquish herself to him. It would +be safety. Also he was young and very fresh.” </p> +</div> + +<p>Her passional reactions are not from the mind. They are +spontaneous and know no inhibition. After a second quite +casual meeting, Tom goes to the vicarage where she, a Polish +lady, is housekeeper since her husband, a doctor obliged to +leave his country for political reasons, had died and left her +and her baby daughter in dire want. “Good evening,” says +Tom, “I'll just come in a minute”; and having entered, he +continues, “I came up to ask if you'd marry me.” He arouses +an intensity of passion in her that she cannot, or wishes not, +to withstand. But Tom is conventional and so they are married. +The description of his marital lust is lurid to the last +degree, and finally after one great debauch “he felt that God +had passed through the married pair and made Himself known +to them.” Tom is largely brawn and brute, though he has a +vein of sentiment, and finally he yields to drink and meets a +violent death, leaving two sons, a namesake who is attracted<span class="pagenum" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</span> +to his own sex, Fred who suffers the tortures of a mother-sapped +spirit, and Anna, his stepdaughter.</p> + +<p>Anna hates people who come too near her until she meets +Will Brangwen, the son of Tom's brother who had flagrantly +offended matrimonial convention. She is fascinated by this +æsthetic serious self-satisfied youth with a high-pitched voice, +who sings tenor and who is interested in church architecture +and ritualism. Anna hurls herself at Will's head and tells +him in no uncertain tones of her all-consuming love before +he makes any protests. She arranges the wheat shocks in the +moonlight so that they will propitiate her purpose, but only +passionate caresses and a proposal of marriage result. This +disappoints her, but the men of the Brangwen family, though +consumed with elemental passion, are sex-slackers compared +with the women. Will goes into states of ecstasy sitting +motionless and timeless, contemplating stained-glass windows +and other religious symbols, and she hates him violently.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“In the gloom and mystery of the church his soul lived and +ran free, like some strange, underground thing, abstract. In +this spirit he seemed to escape and run free of her.” </p> +</div> + +<p>They are happy only when in the throes of conjugality. She +is profoundly fecund and has periods of ecstasy when she +thinks God has chosen her to prove the miracle of creation. +In her exaltation, big with child as she is, she dances naked +in her bedroom, to the Creator to Whom she belongs.</p> + +<p>In order to develop the now widely disseminated Freudian +ideas about the love of the eldest girl for the father, the antagonism +between the mother and daughter, etc., Will falls in +love with his oldest child, Ursula. “His heart grew red-hot +with passionate feeling for the child” when she is about a +year old. “Her father was the dawn wherein her consciousness +woke up wide-eyed, unseeing, she was awakened too soon.” +The writer, master as he is of the mysteries of perversion, uses +this sympathy and Will's extrauxorial vagaries and wanderings<span class="pagenum" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</span> +to cause, vicariously, a welling-up of passion in Anna. After a +revolting scene with a grisette, Will goes home to his wife who +immediately detects that there is a change in him, that he has +had a new experience. She is excited to wild lubricity, and +“he got an inkling of the vastness of the unknown sensual +store of delight she was.” But this is the book of Ursula. +The spontaneous passions of the grandmother and mother are +incidental.</p> + +<p>Ursula goes through with the son of the old Polish clergyman +Baron the same sort of experience that her father went through +with the flapper that he picked up at the movie, only not with +such <em>slancio</em>. The purpose of this episode is to point out the +intensity of love in the female and her clamour for the dominant +male. When Ursula finds that Skrebensky is a slacker,</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“She stood filled with the full moon, offering herself. Her two +breasts opened to make way for it, her body opened wide like +a quivering anemone, a soft, dilated invitation touched by the +moon. She wanted the moon to fill into her, she wanted more, +more communion with the moon, consummation.” </p> +</div> + +<p>Since Ursula has not met the one-hundred-per-cent male, +and as “her sexual life flamed into a kind of disease within +her,” Mr. Lawrence now brings her into relations with a finely +portrayed Lesbian, Winifred Inger. The description of their +first real contact in the bungalow at night and their night bath +is willfully and purposely erotic. Ursula, tired of Winifred, +plans to marry her to her uncle, Tom. When they meet “he +detected in her a kinship with his own dark corruption. Immediately +he knew they were akin.” One might safely say that +Mr. Lawrence had before him, or in his mind's eye, when he +penned the description of Tom, the photograph of one of his +fellow-poets of a generation ago whom the English public +found necessary to put in the Reading Gaol.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“His manner was polite, almost foreign, and rather cold. He +still laughed in his curious, animal fashion, suddenly wrinkling<span class="pagenum" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</span> +up his wide nose, and showing his sharp teeth. The fine beauty +of his skin and his complexion, some almost waxen quality, +hid the strange, repellant grossness of him, the slight sense of +putrescence, the commonness which revealed itself in his +rather fat thighs and loins.” </p> +</div> + +<p>It is in the chapter “The Bitterness of Ecstasy” that Mr. +Lawrence takes off the brakes. In London, whither she has +gone with Skrebensky, Ursula decides to solve the riddle of +the Sphinx. She goes about it in the conventional Brangwen +way by biting him, clawing him, and generally tearing him to +pieces. It seems good to him and he likes her and wants to +marry her. One day, after they have had some tall bouts of +love at Richmond, she tells him that she won't marry him and +he has a grand crisis of hysteria. She is sorry she has hurt +him. She hails a cab and takes the sobbing wooer home, and +the lecherous cabby is moved nearly to violence by the radiation +of passion from Ursula. She senses danger and persuades +Tony to walk. She knows then that he is but a simulacrum +of man, and when she has gone home she decides that she will +not marry. Finally, however, she gives in and the date is more +or less arranged. Then comes the <em>grande finale</em> with the scene +wonderfully set in the moonlight by the seashore. There she +makes an onslaught on him that is tigress-like to the last degree, +throws him on the sand, devours him, wrings him like a +dirty rag, shows him that he is no good, and hurls him from +her, a sucked lemon. He sneaks away and offers himself to +his Colonel's daughter, is accepted, and is off to India, leaving +“the need of a world of men for her.” </p> + +<p>Then comes “The Rainbow,” a parody of Freud's exposition +of the dream of being trampled upon by horses. Ursula finds +after a time that the customary result has followed her experiences, +so she writes a letter to Skrebensky saying she'll be good +and go out and marry him. She goes for a walk in the mist +and the rain, into the wood where the trees are all phallic symbols +“thrust like stanchions upright between the roaring overhead<span class="pagenum" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</span> +and the sweeping of the circle underfoot.” She begins to +hallucinate, to feel her subconsciousness take possession of her, +and the sight of a group of horses fills her bestial soul with a +hope that she might finally be possessed in such a way as +would give her satisfaction, that she might get “some fantastic +fulfilment in her life.” She goes into a state of delirium and +several weeks later, when it has passed, she finds that she has +miscarried. This is followed by a mild dementia; she thinks +she is moral and will be good, but as she gets strong she sees +the rainbow, which is Eros kindling the flames again.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“And she saw in the rainbow the earth's new architecture, +the old brittle corruption of houses and factories swept away, +the world built up in a living fragment of Truth, fitting to the +overarching heaven.” </p> +</div> + +<p>Mr. Lawrence, exhausted with the perpetration of these +sensual delights and disappointed with the distrusts of the +flesh, turned for a short time to nature to refresh his spirit and +bathe his soul. He sensed frustration despite the unleashment +of passion; he realised that sublimation had eluded him, and so +he turned to primitive life and primitive people, the peasants +of Italy. Soon his torments began to creep up again in “Twilight +in Italy.” The roused physical sensations will not subside. +They penetrate pastoral scenes and emanate from sylvan +scenery.</p> + +<p>After having refreshed himself, he gave the world “The Lost +Girl,” whose genesic aberrations are comparatively mild, and +whose antics with the half-gipsy, half-circus folk are rather +amusing. Some of Mr. Lawrence's early admirers were encouraged +to look for his reformation, especially after the appearance +of a thin book of poems entitled “Bay.” Even in +this, here and there, the inhibited and mother-sapped spirit +crops out, as in the poem called “The Little Town in the Evening,” +but for the most part the verses are founded on sane +ideas, even ideals, truths, and morality. Most of them are<span class="pagenum" id="Page_276">[Pg 276]</span> +poems of the war, wonderful pen pictures and silhouettes, such +as “Town,” a London transformed by the war as no picture +or prose description could render it, ending,</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> +<p>“It is well,<br> +That London, lair of sudden<br> +Male and female darknesses<br> +Has broken her spell.”</p> +</div> +</div> + +<p>In previous volumes of poems, particularly in “Amores” and +in “Look, We Have Come Through,” he had published verse +which was highly appraised by competent critics, and hailed by +a small group steeped in preciosity, as epoch-making. However, +if most of his poems have any central or dominant idea, +he is unable to express it. They are the verbal manifestations +of moods expressed symbolically, allegorically; of sensuous desires, +satisfactions, and satieties “seeking polarity,” to borrow +his favourite expression. Nearly everything is passion with +Mr. Lawrence, or suggestive of passion. The pure lily is a +phallic symbol, the bee sucking honey from a flower is a ravisher +of innocence, the earth itself bursts asunder periodically +in the throes of secret sensuality. Only the sea is free from the +trammels of lust, and it is</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> +<p>“Sworn to a high and splendid purposelessness<br> +Of brooding and delighting in the secret of life's going.”</p> +</div> +</div> + +<p>“New Poems,” published in this country in 1920, did not +fame or defame him, although “Piano,” “Intime,” “Sickness,” +and “Twenty Years Ago” might well have done the former, +and “Seven Seals” the latter.</p> + +<p>The lull did not last long, and it was only a lull before a +storm, a hurricane, a tornado which spent its force and destruction +upon the author and made him the outlaw, if not the +outcast, of English literature. “Women in Love” is the adventure +of two sisters, Ursula and Gudrun Brangwen, the +Brangwens whose frightful passions we have now known for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_277">[Pg 277]</span> +three generations, and two men of breeding, wealth, and culture, +Gerald Crich, a Sadist by inheritance and natural inclination, +and Rupert Birkin, an intellectual, apparently male, +but contradicted in this by his instinct and by his conduct, +whose purpose and ambition is to fall into the long African +process of purely sensual understanding.</p> + +<p>The portrait of Rupert Birkin is superb. No excerpt could +convey Mr. Lawrence's capacity for characterisation as well as +the paragraph which describes him:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“He was thin, pale and ill-looking. His figure was narrow +but nicely made. He went with a slight trail of one foot, which +came only from self-consciousness. His nature was clever and +separate. He did not fit at all in the conventional occasion. +He affected to be quite ordinary, perfectly and marvellously +commonplace. And he did it so well, taking the tone of his +surroundings, adjusting himself quickly to his interlocutor and +his circumstance, that he achieved a verisimilitude of ordinary +commonplaceness that usually propitiated his onlookers for a +moment, disarmed them from attacking his singleness. He +did not believe in any standards of behaviour though they are +necessary for the common ruck. Anyone who is anything can +be just himself and do as he likes. One should act spontaneously +on one's impulses—it's the only gentlemanly thing to do, +provided you are fit to do it.” </p> +</div> + +<p>Hermione Roddice, daughter of a Derbyshire baron, a tall +slow reluctant woman, with a weight of fair hair and pale long +face that she carries lifted up in the Rossetti fashion, and that +seems almost drugged as if a strange mass of thoughts coil +in the darkness within her allowing her no escape, is in love +with him. “She needed conjunction with Rupert Birkin to +make her whole and, she believed, happy. But the more she +strove to bring him to her, the more he battled her back.” </p> + +<p>Gerald Crich, whose gleaming beauty and maleness is like +a young good-natured smiling wolf, flashes upon Gudrun +Brangwen and she succumbs at once, just as the Polish lady did +when Gudrun's grandfather got sight of her from the tail of his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_278">[Pg 278]</span> +eye. The first time Gerald and Rupert meet “There was a +pause of strange enmity between the two men that was very +near to love.” Going up in the train to London together, they +have a talk about ideals, the object and aim of life. This gives +Rupert time to formulate his thought that Humanity does not +embody the utterance of the incomprehensible any more. Humanity +is a dead letter. There will be a new embodiment in a +new way. Let humanity disappear as quickly as possible. +They are introduced into bohemia; that is, the haunts of the +semi-abandoned and the perverted. Birkin shares a flat with +Halliday, a degenerate “with a moving beauty of his own,” and +his friends. Just how far this group expresses Mr. Lawrence's +own views of art and philosophy, in their discussion of wood +carvings of the primitive negroes of West Africa, we need not +attempt to estimate, but that need not deter us from saying +that the description of a gathering around the fireplace in a +state of complete nudity is indecent and disgusting, even +though Mr. Lawrence thinks this kind of thing marks a milestone +on the way to that which he calls “Allness.” </p> + +<p>A large portion of the book is, in my judgment, obscene, deliberately, +studiously, incessantly obscene. Obscenity, like +everything else, has its gradations, its intensities, its variations, +and the author of this book knows how to ring the changes +upon obscenity in a way that would make Aretino green with +envy. For instance, the so-called wrestling scene between +Rupert and Gerald is the most obscene narrative that I have +encountered in the English language—obscene in the etymological +sense, for it is ill-omened, hence repulsive; and +in the legal sense, for it tends to corrupt the mind and to +subvert respect for decency and morality. The major part of +Hermione's conduct with Rupert is in the realm of perversion, +and Rupert in his speech to her conveys by innuendo what +Mr. Lawrence knows the laws of his country would not permit +him to say directly. The Marquis de Sade was a mere novice +in depicting the transports of lust that result from inflicting<span class="pagenum" id="Page_279">[Pg 279]</span> +injury or causing humiliation compared with Mr. Lawrence; +and as for Sacher-Masoch, who worked on the other side of +the shield, he merely staked out the claim for a young Britisher +to cultivate.</p> + +<p>Hermione says that if we could only realise that in the spirit +we are all one, all equal in spirit, all brothers there, the rest +would not matter. There would then be no more struggle for +power and prestige, the things which now destroy. This drives +Rupert to violence. He denies it savagely. We are alike in +everything <em>save</em> spirit. In the spirit he is as separate as one +star from another; as different in quality and quantity. +Establish a state on that. This destroys the last vestige of +Hermione's restraint and facilitates the consummation of +voluptuous ecstasy at last. With a beautiful ball of lapis +lazuli, a paper weight, she smashes his skull while he is sitting +in her boudoir.</p> + +<p>A second blow would have broken his neck had he not shied +it with a volume of Thucydides (a deft touch to make the +immortal Greek save the prototype of the Superman that Mr. +Lawrence is introducing while he buries Greek idealism).</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“She must smash it, it must be smashed before her ecstasy +was consummated, fulfilled forever. A thousand lives, a thousand +deaths matters nothing now, only the fulfilment of this +perfect ecstasy.” </p> +</div> + +<p>But he gets away from her.</p> + +<p>“Then she staggered to the couch, and lay down, and went +heavily to sleep”; and he wanders into the wet hillside that +is overgrown and obscure with bushes and flowers. Here +Mr. Lawrence gives a classic description of masochistic lust.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“He took off his clothes and sat down naked among the +primroses ... but they were too soft. He went through the +long grass to a clump of young fir trees, that were no higher +than a man. The soft-sharp boughs beat upon him, as he +moved in keen pangs against them, threw little cold showers<span class="pagenum" id="Page_280">[Pg 280]</span> +of drops on his belly, and beat his loins with their clusters of +soft-sharp needles. There was a thistle which pricked him +vividly, but not too much, because all his movements were +discriminate and soft. To lie down and roll in the sticky young +hyacinths, to lie on one's belly and cover one's back with handfuls +of fine wet grass, soft as a breath, softer and more delicate +and more beautiful than the touch of any woman; and then +to sting one's thighs against the living dark bristles of the +fir-boughs; and then to feel the light whip of the hazel on one's +shoulders, stinging, and then to clasp the silvery birch trunk +against one's breast, its smoothness, its hardness, its vital knots +and ridges—this was good, this was all very good, very satisfying.” </p> +</div> + +<p>And this is the man who Mr. Lawrence would have us believe +was Inspector of Schools in England in the beginning of +the Twentieth Century! The idea that he wants a woman +is now absurd. This is his idea of bliss. He knows where +to plant himself, his seed: along with the trees in the folds of +the delicious fresh-growing leaves. This is his place, his +marriage place.</p> + +<p>It may interest Mr. Lawrence to know that this procreative +idea of Birkin's is not original with him. Many years ago I +encountered a man in the Kings Park State Hospital who was +of the same belief and addicted to the same practice.</p> + +<p>It would not be convincing if only æsthetes, intelligentsia, +artists, and the like had revolutionary ideas. Gerald, a man +of business, an executive, a coal baron, aggressive, capable, also +had them, inherited from his mother, acquired from Birkin and +“made in Germany” where he had been sent to school. He +makes love to Ursula by expounding his theories of life:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“If only man was swept off the face of the earth, creation +would go on so marvellously, with a new start, non-human. +Man is one of the mistakes of creation—like the ichthyosauri. +If only we were gone again, think what lovely things would +come out of the liberated days; things straight out of the fire.” </p> +</div> + +<p>He wants her without contract, understood or stated:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_281">[Pg 281]</span></p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“There is a final me which is stark and impersonal and beyond +responsibility. So there is a final you. And it is there I +should want to meet you—not in the emotional, loving plane—but +there beyond, where there is no speech and no terms of +agreement. There we are two stark, unknown beings, two +utterly strange creatures. I should want to approach you and +you me.—And there could be no obligation, because there is no +standard for action there, because no understanding has been +reaped from that plane. It is quite inhuman—so there can be +no calling to book, in any form whatsoever—because one is outside +the pale of all that is accepted, and nothing known applies. +One can only follow the impulse, take that which lies in front, +and responsible for nothing, asked for nothing, giving nothing, +only each taking according to the primal desire.” </p> +</div> + +<p>In other words, sheer savagery, and the worst African variety +at that!</p> + +<p>One of Mr. Lawrence's obsessions is that he can distinguish +between the sexual writhings of his characters, depending upon +the environment in which they writhe and the immediate exciting +cause. This justifies him in describing the same writhe +over and over with a different setting. Of the five hundred +pages, at least one hundred are devoted to descriptions of the +sensations that precede and accompany ecstasy provoked and +induced by some form of unhealthy sexual awareness.</p> + +<p>It is impossible to give even a brief synopsis of “Women in +Love.” One chapter, however, must be mentioned, for in a +way it is the crux of the book. For some time Birkin has been +trying to state his case to Ursula and stave off her clamour +for consummation. He wants sex to revert to the level of +the other appetites, to be regarded as a functional process, not +as fulfilment. He wants her to give him her spirit.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“He knew he did not want further sensual experience, he +thought. His mind reverted to the African statues in Halliday's +rooms. They displayed their thousand upon thousand +of years of sensual knowledge, purely unspiritual. Thousands +of years ago that which was imminent in himself must have +taken place in these Africans. This is what was imminent in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_282">[Pg 282]</span> +him; the goodness, the holiness, the desire for creation and +productive happiness must have lapsed, leaving the single impulse +for knowledge in one sort, mindless, progressive knowledge +through the senses, knowledge arrested and ending in the +senses, mystic knowledge in disintegration and dissolution. Is +the day of our creative life finished or are we not ready for the +sensual understanding, the knowledge in the mystery of dissolution? +The man Ursula would take must be quaffed to the +dregs by her, he must render himself up to her. She believed +that love surpassed the individual. She believed in an absolute +surrender to love. He didn't.” </p> +</div> + +<p>They then have a violent verbal altercation in which Ursula +tells him what she thinks of his obscenity and perverseness in +words that admit of no misunderstanding. She then leaves him +in a state of wrath and resentment after having thrown the +topaz engagement ring, bought from a second-hand dealer, in +his face. But her ardour conquers her righteousness and she +goes back to him, saying, “See what a flower I found you.” +And then it is settled quietly and as if they were normal +humans. They go to a hotel and there they have super-corporeal +contact that beggars description. As far as can be +made out, there is no consortion in the ordinary sense. It +is neither love nor passion.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“She had established a rich new circuit, a new current of +passional electric energy, between the two of them released +from the darkest poles of the body and established in perfect +circuit, and she had done this in some mysterious ways by +tracing the back of his thighs with her sensitive fingertips, his +mysterious loins and his thighs. Something more mystically-physically +satisfying than anything she had imagined or known—though +she had had some experience—was realised. She +had thought that there was no source deeper than the phallic +source, but now from the strange marvellous flanks and thighs +came the flood of ineffable darkness and ineffable riches.” </p> +</div> + +<p>They laughed and went to the meal provided. And this is +what they had:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_283">[Pg 283]</span></p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“There was a venison pasty, of all things, a large broad-faced +cut ham, eggs and cresses, and red beet root, and medlars +and apple tart, and tea.” </p> +</div> + +<p>There is a deep, dark significance in this meal, which the +Freudian will understand perfectly, but which to the uninitiated +will seem quite meaningless, even after Ursula says, “What +<em>good</em> things. How noble it looks.” </p> + +<p>There is a lot more about the full mystic knowledge that she +gets from his suave loins of darkness, the strange, magical +current of force in his back and his loins, that fills with nausea. +They finish by driving to Sherwood Forest, taking all their +clothes off and beginning anew their effort for fulfilment.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“She was to him what he was to her, the immemorial magnificence +of mystic, palpable, real utterance.” </p> +</div> + +<p>I have neither the strength nor the inclination to follow +Gudrun in her search for her amatory <em>Glückeritter</em>, or to hear +further exposition of the <em>credo</em> of the strange freak of nature +that Mr. Lawrence strives to apotheosise. Suffice it to say that +the precious quartette go off to the Tyrol, Ursula and Birkin +having gone through the formality of marriage; Gudrun and +Gerald dispensing with it. And there Gudrun begins writhings +which are designed to put all the others in the shade. And in +a way they do, because Gerald's violent death is required to +facilitate her supreme moment. They introduce a super-degenerate +Loerke, a sculptor, who represents the rock bottom +of all life to Gudrun.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“There was the look of a little wastrel about him that intrigued +her, and an old man's look, that interested her, and +then, besides this, an uncanny singleness, that marked out an +artist to her. He had come up from a street Arab. He was +twenty-six, had thieved, sounded every depth. He saw in +Gudrun his soul-mate. He knew her with a subconscious, +sinister knowledge, devoid of illusions and hopes. The degradation +of his early life also attracted her. He seemed to be<span class="pagenum" id="Page_284">[Pg 284]</span> +the very stuff of the underworld of life. There was no +going beyond him. Birkin understood why they should like +him, the little obscene monster of the darkness that he is. He +is a Jew who lives like a rat, in the river of corruption.” </p> +</div> + +<p>Birkin and Ursula come back for Gerald's funeral. Birkin +does some soliloquising, the burden of which is “He should +have loved me. I offered him.” He is sure Gerald would have +been happy if he had accepted. When Ursula wants to know +if she is not enough for him, he says,</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“No, to make life complete, really complete, I wanted eternal +union with a man too, another kind of love.” </p> + +<p>“It is a perversity,” she said.</p> + +<p>“Well——,” he said.</p> + +<p>“You can't have two kinds of love. Why should you?” she +said.</p> + +<p>“It seems as if I can't,” he said. “Yet I wanted it.” </p> + +<p>“You can't have it because it's wrong, impossible,” she said.</p> + +<p>“I don't believe that,” he answered.</p> +</div> + +<p>And that is the unvarying and final answer of the advocates +of the enigmatic aberration whose doctrines Mr. Lawrence is +trying to foist upon an unsuspecting English-reading public.</p> + +<p>In “Aaron's Rod” Mr. Lawrence returns to the theme of +“The Rainbow” and “Women in Love.” His ardour, fortunately, +has cooled somewhat, but his psychology is more at +variance with facts and his philosophy more mystic than in +either of these. Aaron Sisson, a miner's checkweighman, with +a talent for music, marries when twenty, an over-sexed young +woman of better social position than himself. Though he soon +betrays her, they manage to live, with their three children, an +average family life for twelve years. He then determines that +he will not be the instrument and furnisher of any woman. +He rebels against the sacrament by which we live today; +namely, that man is the giver, woman the receiver. He can +not and will not tolerate the life centrality of woman. Man's<span class="pagenum" id="Page_285">[Pg 285]</span> +contact with woman should be for procreational purposes, but +man should blend his spirit with man: “Born in him was a +spirit which could not worship woman, and would not.” </p> + +<p>So he sets up the Christmas tree for the children, goes out to +buy candles for it, and never returns. Instead, he falls in with +a family group of inverts which the little mining towns always +seem to have—a man of perverted type; his fiancée, a Lesbian, +the daughter of a promiscuous Hermione and her complaisant +husband; and several others—and they proceed to have a mild +orgy in the ugly midland mining town, “in which it is remarkable +how many odd or extraordinary people there are to be +found.” Aaron gets a position as flutist in an orchestra, and +at the opera he meets Mr. Lilly, who, though married, is by +nature of inverted genesic instinct. He is Aaron's downfall.</p> + +<p>It is to be noted that there is a deep symbolism in the names +that Mr. Lawrence selects for his heroes and heroines. Aaron +is sure that he never wanted to surrender himself to his wife, +nor to his mother, nor to anybody. But he falls ill, and Lilly +cares for him and nurses him like a mother, and then goes off +to Italy—Aaron after him like a hound after the scent. We +are introduced to a choice lot of males in Florence, all portraits +of exiled Britishers who find it suits their tastes, which +their country calls their infirmities, to live there, and easily +recognisable by anyone who has lived in Florence. We are +regaled with their philosophy and with Mr. Lawrence's reflections +on art and Sixteenth Century music. Finally, to show +Aaron's charm and concupiscense, the author throws a modern +brooding Cleopatra—Anthony-less—across his path. She +is an American woman from the Southern States whose father +was once Ambassador to France. Aaron capitulates at the +second interview and then despises himself. But again he falls +a few days later, and then he realises that there is nothing left +for him but flight, flight to Lilly and abandonment of the love +idea and the love motive. Life submission is his duty now, and +when he looks up into Lilly's face, at the moment resembling<span class="pagenum" id="Page_286">[Pg 286]</span> +a Byzantine Eikon, and asks, “And to whom shall I submit?” +the reply comes, “Your soul will tell you.” </p> + +<p>And my soul tells me that he who submits himself to reading +the doctrines promulgated by D. H. Lawrence deserves his +punishment. Moreover, I maintain that, both from the artistic +and the psychological standpoints, Mr. Lawrence's performances +are those of a neophyte and a duffer. He can make +words roar and sing and murmur, and by so doing he can make +moral, poised, God-fearing, sentiment-valuing man creep and +shudder, indeed, almost welcome the obscurity of the grave, +so that he will not have to meet his fellow again in the flesh. +He libels and he bears false witness against man. There are +persons in the world such as Mr. Lawrence describes. So are +there lepers and lunatics. We do not talk about them as if the +whole world were made up of them; and we do not confidently +look for world reformers or world orderers among them.</p> + +<p>Mr. Lawrence is a self-appointed crusader who is going to +destroy European civilisation and at the same time revivify +that of six thousand and more years ago. He is the most +shining avatar of mysticism the Twentieth Century has yet +produced, and the most daring champion of atavism in twenty +centuries. He is using a medium to facilitate his manifestations +and embodiments of which he is a consummate master, +viz., fiction. But his statements, both when he uses the language +of science, and when he uses that of fiction, are at variance +with truth and fact; and he has not furnished, nor can he +furnish, a particle of evidence to substantiate his thesis: enhancement +of the awareness and potency “of that other basic +mind, the deepest physical mind” by sensuous satisfaction or +through sexual ecstasy. His “broodings and delightings in the +secret of life's goings” are anathema.</p> + +<p>During the past decade biology has accumulated a convincing +amount of evidence to show that sex intergrades, or +imperfect sex separation and differentiation frequently exist, +and furthermore it may be produced experimentally. These<span class="pagenum" id="Page_287">[Pg 287]</span> +facts justify the belief that individuals with the convictions +and conduct of Birkin result from a definite developmental +condition, which is the fundamental cause of the peculiar sex +reactions. Such persons are actually different from fully expressed +males or females, and their peculiar condition is permanent, +present from childhood to old age, and uninfluenceable +by any measures; pedagogy or punishment, mandate or +medicine.</p> + +<p>My experience as a psychologist and alienist has taught me +that pornographic literature is created by individuals whose +genesic endowment is subnormal <em>ab initio</em>, or exhausted from +one cause or another before nature intended that it should be, +and that those who would aid God and nature in the ordering +of creation are sterile, or approximately so. This is a dispensation +for which we cannot be too grateful.</p> + +<p>There are two ways of contemplating Mr. Lawrence's effort. +Has he a fairly clear idea of what he is trying to say, of what +he is trying to put over; or is he a poetic mystic groping in +abysmal darkness? I am one of those who is convinced that +he knows just what he wants to accomplish, and that he could +make a statement of it in language that anyone could understand, +did the censor permit him. Public opinion is adequate +to deal with the infractions of taste and ethics that he has +perpetrated, and it is quite safe to leave him finally to that +judiciary.</p> + +<p>Mr. Lawrence once wrote, “The Americans are not worthy +of their Whitman. Miracle that they have not annihilated +every word of him.” To which I would make rejoinder, “The +Britishers have not deserved D. H. Lawrence. Pity it is that +they do not annihilate every trace of him.” </p> + +<p>Ten years have gone since Henry James, walking up and +down the charming garden of his picturesque villa in Rye, discussing +the most promising successors of Hardy, Meredith, and +Conrad, said to me, “The world is sure to hear from a young +man, D. H. Lawrence.” It has heard from him. He has sown<span class="pagenum" id="Page_288">[Pg 288]</span> +in glory and raised in corruption. He has triumphed, and his +triumph has stained English literature. He has debased an +unusual talent and devoted his splendid endowment of artistry +to spoking the wheel of evolutionary progress, even to spinning +it in a reverse direction. He has arrived, and in arriving has +brought with him a sweltering, suffocating South African atmosphere, +difficult and dangerous for one of his former admirers +to breathe, who as he withdraws from it ventures to call +the attention of others to its noxiousness.</p> + + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_289">[Pg 289]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" >CHAPTER XII<br> +<small>THE JOY OF LIVING—AND WRITING ABOUT IT:<br> +JOHN ST. LOE STRACHEY</small></h2> +</div> + +<p>Twenty-five years ago, browsing among the second-hand +book-shops of Shaftesbury Avenue, my attention +was arrested by a sombre volume entitled “From Grave to +Gay,” by J. St. Loe Strachey.</p> + +<p>Until then I had not heard of Mr. Strachey, and though I +admit it with reluctance, I had not even heard of his famous +cousin, Henry Strachey, who was private secretary to Lord +Clive. But the subtitle of his book: “Concerned with Certain +Subjects of Serious Interest, with the Puritans, with Literature +and with the Humours of Life, Now for the First Time Collected +and Arranged,” intrigued me. Those were the very subjects, +I had convinced myself, with which I was concerned, +for did they not give spice to life and make for surcease +of its burdens? “Now for the First Time Collected +and Arranged” I construed to be a belief on the part of +the writer that from time to time he could substitute for +the word “first” the other numerals in progressive order. +Whether or not he has been able to do so, I have not determined, +but every one knows that he became “editor and sole +proprietor” of the London <em>Spectator</em> and has occupied a conspicuous +place in journalism for the past quarter of a century. +And now he recounts his life, or such parts of it as seem to +him will permit others to understand how and why he has +carried on, and he calls it “The Adventure of Living: A Subjective +Autobiography,” stressing “the influences that have +affected my life and for good or evil made me what I am.” +He emphasises that the interesting thing about a human being +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_290">[Pg 290]</span> +is not what he is, but how he came to be what he is, which +naturally includes what he does and why he does it.</p> + +<p>Mr. Strachey came to be what he is from his heredity, aided +and guided—after it had formulated itself in the organism to +which, a few months later, the name John St. Loe was given—by +Mrs. Salome Leaker, the family nurse. Once the reader +gets her name out of the realm of risibility, he falls in love +with her. A face radiant with a vivid intelligence, a nature +eager and active, a fiery temper—reserved almost entirely for +grown-ups—an appreciation for good literature and art, which, +although she had been brought up in illiteracy, she had developed +by self-education and “threw quotations from the +English classics around her in a kind of hailstorm,” supplemented +a genuine love of children and abounding common +sense.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“There was no nonsense in her nursery as to over-exciting +our minds or emotions, or that sort of thing. She was quite prepared +to read us to sleep with the witches in 'Macbeth' or the +death scene in 'Othello.' I can see her now, with her wrinkled, +brown face, her cap with white streamers awry over her black +hair beginning to turn grey. In front of her was a book, +propped up against the rim of a tin candlestick shaped like a +small basin. In it was a dip candle with a pair of snuffers. +That was how nursery light was provided in the later 'sixties +and even in the 'seventies. As she sat bent forward, declaiming +the most soul-shaking things in Shakespeare between nine +and ten at night, we lay in our beds with our chins on the +counterpane, silent, scared, but intensely happy. We loved +every word and slept quite well when the play was over.” </p> +</div> + +<p>The pen picture of Mrs. Salome Leaker, and the photograph, +are of the book's best. It is not unlikely that Mr. Strachey +owes his worldly success and pleasure quite as much to his +nurse as to “the famous men, and our fathers who begat us,” +of whom his father, “though without a trace of anything approaching +pride, was never tired of talking.” </p> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_291">[Pg 291]</span></p> +</div> + +<figure class="figcenter illowe25" id="ilo_fp293"> + <img class="w100 p2" src="images/ilo_fp293.jpg" alt="ilop291" title="p291ilo"> + <figcaption class="caption"><span class="allsmcap">J. ST. LOE STRACHEY</span></figcaption> +</figure> +<p class="center p2b">From a drawing by <em>W. Rothenstein.</em></p> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_292">[Pg 292]</span></p> +</div> + +<p>In his early childhood he was subject to occasional experiences—a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_293">[Pg 293]</span> +sense of spiritual isolation with poignancy amounting +to awe. Although he devotes several pages to them he does +not succeed in describing his sensations, but in characterising +them. One day while standing in a passage he suddenly had a +sensation of being alone, not merely in the house, but in the +world, the universe. With this came a sense of exaltation and +magnification of personality so ample that it was difficult to +describe. He felt then, though he was only six, that his soul +had become naked. The effect on him was intensely awe-inspiring, +so much so as to be disturbing in a high degree. +Though not terrified, he experienced a kind of rawness and +sensitiveness of soul, such as when a supersensitive mucous +membrane is touched roughly by a hand or instrument. In +addition to this awe and sensitiveness, was a sudden realisation +of the appalling greatness of the issues of living, not only of +the imminence but of the ineffable greatness of the whole +of which he was a part. He felt that what he was “in for” +as a sentient human being was immeasurably great. It was +thence that the sense of awe came, thence the extraordinary +sensitiveness, thence the painful exhilaration, the spiritual +sublimation. “As a human being I was not only immortal +but <em>capax imperii</em>,—a creature worthy of a heritage so tremendous.” </p> + +<p>Mr. Strachey defines his state as one of <em>isolement</em>, and further +defines it as ecstasy. The latter term has probably been +borrowed from current psychoanalytic terminology. It is +purely a subjective term, and as this is a subjective autobiography, +satisfies his needs, though it puts us only a little +way on the road to understanding.</p> + +<p>No objective description of this state has been worked out. +A scheme for it would be elaborate and require more patience +than the behaviourists have so far displayed. They know some +things in an exact way about organic reactions to simplified +laboratory situations. They have never followed out the life +history of any of the reactions they describe, either exactly or<span class="pagenum" id="Page_294">[Pg 294]</span> +in tentative descriptive terms. Autobiographic writings furnish +rich material for an objective psychologist. Mr. Strachey, +for instance, has an unusual memory, has never suffered any +serious breaks in his reaction system, and would seem not to be +subject to any wealth of parallel reactions. The objective +psychologists may, in the not distant future, work out a description +of <em>isolement</em> in terms of organic reactions, and their +life histories in terms of organic memory. I do not see how a +highly organised intelligence in such a setting—reminiscent +father, tradition-ladened background, cultivated and uncultivated +mysticism of his nurse—could have failed to develop +some such moments.</p> + +<p>It is quite likely that the main outlines of Mr. Strachey's +intelligence as a working mechanism had been laid down, even +at this early age. It was said of him that when a little more +than two and a half years old, when his family was starting on a +long journey to Pau, he insisted that his father should take +with him Spenser's “Faerie Queene!” He must have had +in late childhood a rich freight of memories. An elaborate +and delicate set of reaction mechanism, spontaneously called +forth these definite movements of detachment in the interests +of further internal organisation. Moreover, it seems to me +entirely a normal experience, in view of the fact that there was +so much incentive to fantasy and so little progress beyond mere +normal ecstasy.</p> + +<p>It is a fearsome thing to contemplate how little fruit the +arrival of powers of abstraction bring with them. Immediately +Mr. Strachey was plunged into the artificial region of letters +and politics, he made no effective contacts with scientific and +social thinking of his period. His whole mental career from +this standpoint was a gradually elaborated detachment, significant +mainly for its richness, brilliancy, and generally prevailing +consistency.</p> + +<p>One other psychic experience he records, a dream during an +afternoon nap: His wife came to him with a telegram in her<span class="pagenum" id="Page_295">[Pg 295]</span> +hand which related that his son had been killed in a hunting +accident in France. The incident of this telepathic dream +from the objective standpoint is not very significant. The +dreamer had plenty of reasons for apprehension over the welfare +of his son, who was in a country where hazards were of +frequent enough occurrence to make some time identity between +dream and occurrence possible. The form of the hazard +in the dream could probably have been traced at the time to +some recent event or hearsay, and was gratuitously attached +to the state of apprehension which came to the surface in the +dream state.</p> + +<p>The story of one who for a third of a century has been in +British journalism while the world was being recast and remoulded +must of necessity be rich in the raw material of +“human interest,” as well as of history and politics. But it is +not this material which the author of the subjective autobiography +has chosen to present. It is with the adventure of his own +life that he would interest the reader. He says,</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“Every life is an adventure, and if a sense of this adventure +cannot become communicated to the reader, any one may feel +sure that it is the fault of the writer, not of the facts.” </p> +</div> + +<p>He quotes Sir Thomas Browne's advice to a son about to +write an account of his travels in Hungary</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“not to trouble about methods of extracting iron and copper +from the ores, or with a multitude of facts and statistics, but +not to forget to give a full description of the 'Roman alabaster +tomb in the barber's shop at Pesth.'”</p> +</div> + +<p>The alabaster tomb in the barber's shop, rather than high +politics or even high literature, is the goal which he has set before +him in writing this book. The test by which he invites +judgment of it is the power to enthrall the imagination of the +reader with the sense of adventure.</p> + +<p>The “supreme good luck to be born the second son of a +Somersetshire squire and to be brought up in a Somersetshire<span class="pagenum" id="Page_296">[Pg 296]</span> +country-house” was reinforced by the influence of parents to +whose qualities he pays tribute in a chapter devoted to memories +of his parents, and in another devoted to the stories told +him as a child by his father. These stories serve to cloak the +genealogical facts that always flavour so keenly, to the adventurer +himself, the zest of his adventure. In this case they +leave the reader free to trace, should he possess a relish for +such a trail, through the rattling rust of ancient armour, the +spell of great country houses and other symbols of authority. +One may also trace Mr. Strachey's hereditary urge for literature, +for there was a certain ancestor who “almost certainly +knew Shakespeare” and “had a considerable amount of book-writing +to his credit,” including “two or three pamphlets +written by him and published as what we should now call 'Virginia +Company propaganda.'” No light is thrown upon the +heritage, guardian angel, or kind fate which was responsible +for providing the adventurer at the outset of his journey with +the most fortunate of all possessions, the temperament to “take +the good the gods provide,” and for relieving him of all encumbrances +in the way of “inferiority” and other complexes, +which have become so fashionable a part of the modern adventurer's +equipment.</p> + +<p>If, indeed, anything in the way of good fortune was wanting +in the gifts of fate to the author of the autobiography, he was +more than compensated by a disposition which made it easy +for him to appreciate the good qualities of others, even of his +mother-in-law—that usually most unappreciated of all human +relations—and to live in unimpaired serenity in her family. Of +her we are told that</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“she was an admirable talker and full of clear and interesting +memories. I had no sooner entered the Simpson house and +family than I found that there were a hundred points of +sympathy between us. She had known everybody in London +who was worth knowing ... and had visited most of the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_297">[Pg 297]</span> +political country houses in England on the Whig side, and +most of the neutral strongholds.” </p> +</div> + +<p>Aside from the chapters on his parents and old nurse, only a +few glimpses are given of a normal and happy childhood passed +in the good old days when ladies still had time to cultivate the +art of correspondence—of which he says, “I have no time to +dwell on my mother's most intimate friendship with Lady +Waldegrave and with their habit of writing daily letters to each +other.” The salient point of his childhood seems to be that +he was saturated with precocity and filial piety. He was not +quite so strong as other boys and was not sent to public +school, and “the irony of accident,” he says, “had designed +my mental equipment to be of a kind perfectly useless for the +purposes of the preliminary Oxford examinations.” Knowledge +of literature, a power of writing, a not inconsiderable +reading in modern history, and a commendable grasp of mathematics +were of no use whatever for the purpose of matriculation. +So the youthful Strachey turned to Latin and Greek +and finally entered Balliol as an unattached student. The first +discord in the harmony of his relations with life was sounded +when he became a student at Balliol, where he did not get on +well with the Dons.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“I can say truthfully that I never received a word of encouragement, +of kindly direction, or of sympathy of any sort or +kind from any of them in regard to work or anything else. +The reason, I now feel sure, was that they believed that to take +notice of me would have only made me more uppish.” </p> +</div> + +<p>His recollections of Jowett, the Master of Balliol, are tempered +by the successes and the good fortune that have come +to him in the intervening forty years, but he remains convinced +that “the Master of Balliol evidently felt the Stracheyphobia +very strongly, or perhaps I should say felt it his duty +to express it very strongly.” The sarcasm that Jowett poured +upon him on his return to Balliol after his first year as an<span class="pagenum" id="Page_298">[Pg 298]</span> +unattached student still rankles. But in those early days +there must have been an atmosphere of self-sufficiency, complacency, +possibly one might be justified in saying conceit, +that dissolved the testy Master's inhibitions.</p> + +<p>Mr. Strachey is never tired of emphasising the good fortune +of his friendships.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“I have no doubt I was considered odd by most of my +contemporaries, but this oddness and also my inability to +play football or cricket never seemed to create, as far as +I could see, any prejudice. Indeed I think that my +friends were quite discerning enough and quite free enough +from convention to be amused and interested by a companion +who was not built up in accordance with the sealed pattern.” </p> +</div> + +<p>Nothing better illustrates his mental endowment and his cultural +equipment as estimated by himself than this statement:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“In my day we would talk about anything, from the Greek +feeling about landscape to the principles the Romans would +have taken as the basis of actuarial tables, if they had had +them. We unsphered Plato, we speculated as to what Euripides +would have thought of Henry James, or whether Sophocles +would have enjoyed Miss ——'s acting, and felt that it was of +vital import to decide these matters.” </p> +</div> + +<p>Good old days, indeed! We can imagine what the fate of +the student at Harvard, let us say, would be today if he +shaped his talk to indicate that “the most important thing +in the world” was talk of this kind.</p> + +<p>At an early age Mr. Strachey yielded to the urge of poetry +writing, and even had a book of verses printed by a local +publisher, of which he says:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“The thing that strikes me most, on looking back at my +little volume of verse, is its uncanny competence, not merely +from the point of view of prosody, but of phraseology and +what I may almost term scholarship.” </p> +</div> + +<p><em>Omne ignotum pro magni-</em> (or <em>miri</em>) <em>fico</em>. In spite of this +he felt no great desire to adopt poetry-making as his profession.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_299">[Pg 299]</span></p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“Possibly I thought the trade was a bad one for a second son +who must support himself. It is more probable that I instinctively +felt that although it was so great a source of joy +to me, poetry was not my true vocation. Perhaps, also, I +had already begun to note the voice of pessimism raised by +the poets of the seventies, and to feel that they did not believe +in themselves.” </p> +</div> + +<p>“The pivot of my life has been <em>The Spectator</em>, and so <em>The +Spectator</em> must be the pivot of my book.” His connection with +it began when he was about twenty-six, after he had settled in +London to study for the Bar. The book opens with an account +of the spectacular success of his first adventure of +writing for this journal. Armed with a formal introduction +from his father, who had been a friend of the joint editors, +Mr. Hutton and Mr. Townsend, and a frequent contributor to +the paper, Mr. Strachey called at <em>The Spectator</em> office in +Wellington Street and listened to the well-worn story—no less +true thirty years ago than it is today—of “more outside reviewers +than they could possibly find work for,” and received, +out of friendship for his father alone, the choice of five volumes +to notice. One of them was an edition of “Gulliver's +Travels,” and it was destined to play a leading rôle in the +adventure of John St. Loe Strachey. Nothing daunted by the +indifferent encouragement, he promptly despatched the completed +reviews, and in due time again presented himself at the +office for the sole purpose of returning the books. Great was +his amazement when, instead of a lukewarm reception, he was +immediately asked to select anything he would like to review, +from a new pile of books. When he protested that he had not +come to ask for more books to review, he learned that the +position of the editors had been entirely changed by the review +of “Gulliver's Travels,” and “they hoped very much that +I should be able to do regular work for <em>The Spectator</em>. I was +actually hailed as 'a writer and critic of the first force.'” Even<span class="pagenum" id="Page_300">[Pg 300]</span> +a stronger head might have been turned by such praise from +such a source.</p> + +<p>This, however, was only the first chapter of his successful +adventure with <em>The Spectator</em>. Shortly afterwards, he received +a letter from Mr. Hutton asking him to write a couple of +leaders a week and some notes while Mr. Townsend was away +for a holiday. His first leader brought a delighted response +from Mr. Townsend, who requested him to remain as his assistant +while Mr. Hutton was away, and soon afterward suggested,</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“with a swift generosity that still warms my heart, that if +I liked to give up the Bar, for which I was still supposing +myself to be reading, I could have a permanent place at +<em>The Spectator</em>, and even, if I remember rightly, hinted that I +might look forward to succeeding the first of the two partners +who died or retired, and so to becoming joint editor or joint +proprietor.” </p> +</div> + +<p>His second political leader, entitled the “Privy Council +and the Colonies,” brought down even bigger game than +the first. Fate, always the ally of Mr. Strachey, so arranged +that Lord Granville, then Colonial Secretary, had been +prevented by a fit of gout from preparing a speech which he +was to deliver when he received the Agents-General of the +self-governing Colonies, and he supplied the hiatus by beginning +his speech with the words: “In a very remarkable article +which appeared in this week's <em>Spectator</em>”—and then going on +“to use the article as the foundation of his speech,” with the +result that Mr. Hutton was “greatly delighted, and almost said +in so many words that it wasn't every day that the editors of +<em>The Spectator</em> could draw Cabinet Ministers to advertise their +paper.” </p> + +<p>So the “first two leaders had done the trick.” Still, as the +young adventurer was soon to learn, it was possible for an +aspirant to success to get by both editors, and even a Cabinet +Minister, and still fail of entire recognition from the most<span class="pagenum" id="Page_301">[Pg 301]</span> +critical member of <em>The Spectator</em> staff. Even this distinction, +however, Mr. Strachey was destined promptly to achieve. +“The last, the complete rite of initiation at <em>The Spectator</em> +office,” occurred one day as he was talking over articles, when</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“a large, consequential, not to say stout black tom-cat slowly +entered the room, walked around me, sniffed at my legs in a +suspicious manner, and then, to my intense amazement and +amusement, hurled himself from the floor with some difficulty +and alighted upon my shoulder.... The sagacious beast had +realised that there was a new element in the office, and had +come to inspect it and see whether he could give it his approval. +When that approval was given, it was conceded by +all concerned that the appointment had received its consecration.” </p> +</div> + +<p>And so, having received the unqualified endorsement +of the office cat, the future “editor and sole proprietor” of +<em>The Spectator</em>, within a few weeks of his introduction to the +office, had his career mapped out for him. That Mr. Strachey +has been content with that career this subjective autobiography +is likely to convince the most sceptical.</p> + +<p>Two chapters are devoted to an estimate of Meredith Townsend, +who was successively his chief, his partner, and later—after +Mr. Strachey became “sole proprietor and editor-in-chief”—merely +leader-writer for <em>The Spectator</em>. The sketch of +Mr. Townsend, which will undoubtedly appeal more to British +than to American readers, is vivid and sympathetic, bringing +into high relief the rather picturesque side of an altogether +lovable and thoroughly practical personality—although any +weak points which he may have displayed as leader-writer +are not blurred over. His fairness, both toward his junior +partner and toward those who differed with him, is emphasised, +as well as his sound philosophy, his wit, his capacity for felicitous +epigram, and his mental directness and forcefulness.</p> + +<p>Mr. Strachey has the same pleasure in recalling his early<span class="pagenum" id="Page_302">[Pg 302]</span> +days with <em>The Spectator</em> that the aged courtesan is alleged to +have in telling of her youthful <em>amours</em>.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“When an occasion like this makes me turn back to my old +articles, I am glad to say that my attitude, far from being one +of shame, is more like that of the Duke of Wellington. When +quite an old man, somebody brought him his Indian dispatches +to look over. As he read, he is recorded to have muttered: +'Damned good! I don't know how the devil I ever managed +to write 'em.'”</p> +</div> + +<p>When Mr. Strachey became “proprietor, editor, general +manager, leader-writer, and reviewer” of <em>The Spectator</em> he +naturally asked himself: “What is the journalist's function in +the State, and how am I to carry it out?” After reflection and +deliberation he decided that the journalist must be the watch-dog +of society, and this in full recognition of the fact that the +watch-dog is generally disliked, often misunderstood, and +burdened with a disagreeable job, even with its compensations. +He defends the watch-dog for barking,</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“in a loud and raucous way, even for biting occasionally. It is +good for the dog and it is good for the one who is barked at +or bitten, though the latter, like the boy who is being flogged +for his good, neither sees it nor admits it.” </p> +</div> + +<p>Mr. Strachey recites a specific instance of his watch-dog +methods in dealing with Cecil Rhodes, whose methods of expanding +the British Empire seemed to <em>The Spectator</em> dangerous +and inconsistent with the sense of national honour and good +faith. He therefore</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“warned the British public that Rhodes, if not watched, would +secretly buy policies behind their backs and that the party +machine, when in want of money, would with equal secrecy +sell them. And I proved my point, incredible as it may seem.” </p> +</div> + +<p>Mr. Strachey says that he could, of course, mention other +examples of the way in which this particular watch-dog gave +trouble and got himself heartily disliked, but recounting them<span class="pagenum" id="Page_303">[Pg 303]</span> +would touch living people. Mr. Strachey does not bow the +knee to archaic conventions like “<em>De mortuis nil nisi bonum</em>.” </p> + +<p>Next to the watch-dog function of the journalist is that of +publicity. Publicity is one of the pillars of society, and while +this has long been recognised in America, Mr. Strachey says, +it is only very recently that it has come to be thoroughly +appreciated in his country. Publicity is as important a thing +as the collection and preservation of evidence at a trial, but +it is not the whole of journalism. Comment is an important +part, and infinitely more important apparently in Britain than +in this country. The journalism of comment may be divided +into two parts: judicial, and the journalism of advocacy. It is +the former that Mr. Strachey has practised or that he has +meant to practise.</p> + +<p>On the ethics of newspaper proprietorship he thinks that +it makes for soundness that newspaper proprietors should be +pecuniarily independent. It is also most important that they +should be men whose money is derived from their newspapers, +and not from other sources. A great newspaper in the hands +of a man who does not look to it for profit, but owns it for +external reasons, is a source of danger. In view of this opinion, +it is interesting to recall that the control of the greatest +newspaper in the world has recently passed, in great part, into +the hands of a man who possesses a considerable portion of +one of America's greatest fortunes.</p> + +<p>The chapters of Mr. Strachey's book which should have +been most interesting are those entitled “Five Great Men,” in +which he discusses Lord Cromer, John Hay, Theodore +Roosevelt, Cecil Rhodes, and Joseph Chamberlain. Many will +find them the most disappointing, particularly those who knew +in the flesh any of these great men. They would be less disappointing, +perhaps, if they were not so palpably self-laudatory. +Mr. Strachey had a profound admiration for Lord +Cromer and he shared it with thousands of his countrymen<span class="pagenum" id="Page_304">[Pg 304]</span> +and Egyptian well-wishers the world over. Recalling a visit +to Lord Cromer in Cairo, he says:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“Inexperienced as I then was in public affairs, it was a +matter of no small pleasure and of no small amount of pride +to find my own special opinions, views, and theories as to +political action plainly endorsed by an authority so great. +In not a single case was I disappointed or disillusioned either +with what had been my own views or with what were Lord +Cromer's.” </p> +</div> + +<p>This reminds strangely of Mr. Strachey's opinion of the +Dons in his youthful days at Oxford. Future biographers +of Lord Cromer will have to note the fact that “he was, with +the single exception of my cousin, Lytton Strachey, the most +competent reviewer I ever had,” and that “he wrote a review +every week for <em>The Spectator</em> on some important book,” also +that “he took an immense amount of trouble to realise and +understand <em>The Spectator</em> view, and to commit me to nothing +which he thought I might dislike.” </p> + +<p>In the same way, Mr. Strachey tells with great relish how he +won the approval of Roosevelt with his tact and discretion +when the President invited him to be present at one of his +Cabinet meetings, and of Roosevelt's admiration when Mr. +Strachey went with him in floods of rain for a ride on a dark +November evening. In curious contrast to his statement that +on this occasion he was mounted on a superb Kentucky horse +procured from the cavalry barracks, “a creature whose +strength and speed proved how well deserved is the reputation +of that famous breed,” is the photograph of Mr. Strachey on +his pony at the end of the chapter, from which one would not +readily gather that he had been selected by Mr. Roosevelt to +accompany him “on these afternoon winter rides” as a test +of men.</p> + +<p>Mr. Strachey says that the bed-rock of his political opinions +is a whole-hearted belief in the principles of democracy, and +he defines his conception of democracy as being</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_305">[Pg 305]</span></p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“not devotion to certain abstract principles or views of communal +life which have the label 'democratic' placed upon them, +but a belief in the justice, convenience and necessity of ascertaining +and abiding by the lawfully and constitutionally expressed +Will of the Majority of the People.” </p> +</div> + +<p>He states his belief in the referendum</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“in order to free us from the evils of log-rolling and +other exigencies of the kind which Walt Whitman grouped +under the general formula of 'the insolence of elected persons.'”</p> +</div> + +<p>He admits, however, that a whole-hearted belief in the +democratic principles need not prevent one from having +strong views on special points of policy, and one of his special +points of policy is in regard to Ireland.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“I objected to Home Rule as bad for the Empire, bad for +the United Kingdom, and bad in an even extremer degree for +Ireland herself. If, however, it should be determined that some +measure of Home Rule must be passed, then the existence +of the two Irelands must be recognised in any action which +should be determined upon. When, therefore, the support +which the Unionist party decided on giving to Mr. Lloyd +George at the end of the war made some form of Home Rule +seem almost inevitable, I strongly advocated the division of +Ireland as the only way of avoiding a civil war in which the +merits would be with Northern Ireland.” </p> +</div> + +<p>One who comes to this delightful narrative as an admirer +of the author may feel, on taking leave of it, that what Mr. +Strachey has said of a famous fellow editor, William T. Stead, +might also be said of him:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“Stead, though a man of honest intent, and very great +ability, was also a man of many failings, many ineptitudes, +many prejudices and injustices. Further, there was an element +of commonness in his mental attitude, as in his style.” </p> +</div> + +<p>Yet this would not be quite fair or accurate. Mr. Strachey +is a man of honest intent and very great ability, but there<span class="pagenum" id="Page_306">[Pg 306]</span> +is no element of “commonness” in his mental attitude. His +admirers would not admit that he is a man of many failings +and many injustices. The word “some” should be substituted +for “many,” in any case. But then there are his pronunciamentos +on Ireland and his recollections of Cecil Rhodes.</p> + + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_307">[Pg 307]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" >CHAPTER XIII<br> +<small>THE KING OF GATH UNTO HIS SERVANT: MAGAZINE INSANITY</small></h2> +</div> + +<p>For one who has devoted a considerable portion of his +life to a study of the human mind in dissolution there +are few things more diverting than popular disquisitions on +the subject of insanity. If popular comments and interpretations +regarding other subjects—world politics, for instance—are +as apropos and penetrating as are those on mental disorder, +the less readers are guided by them the more instructed they +may expect to be.</p> + +<p>I have recently read in an important magazine an article +entitled “Up from Insanity” which has all the qualities that +a contribution intended to be instructive and helpful should +not have. It reeks with misinformation, not only misstatement +of facts, but unwarranted inferences and unjustifiable +and illogical conclusions.</p> + +<p>The Editor of that distinguished and dignified periodical +says: “It is a revealing narrative, genuine down to the latest +detail.” And so it is. It reveals the writer's incapacity to grasp +the fundamental principles of psychology, established experimentally +and empirically, and which have taken their place +amongst the eternal truths of the world; and it reveals that the +writer, whether because of his previous mental disorder, or +willfully, is quite ignorant of what has been accomplished by +countless students and innumerable workers in the field of +psychiatry by way of throwing some light upon the mysteries +of the normal mind.</p> + +<p>“I am almost a pioneer in the field of written experience of +insanity,” he writes; and yet Mr. Clifford Beers' book, “A +Mind that Found Itself,” and “The Autobiography of a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_308">[Pg 308]</span> +Paranoic,” two comparatively recent works that are most +illuminating and have had a great effect in concentrating the +attention of the public on insanity as a social problem, must +have been known to him.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“It is a privilege conferred upon few men in the world to +return from the dark and weird adventure [meaning insanity] +to live a normal life.” </p> +</div> + +<p>Considering that upward of one-third of all insane individuals +recover, there is no other interpretation to be put upon +this statement than that the writer of it does not know whereof +he speaks.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“A friend of mine lost his mind from thinking too much +about his income tax.” </p> +</div> + +<p>This may be an attempt at facetiousness on the part of the +writer. No physician who has dealt with the insane has +ever encountered an individual made insane by “thinking too +much.” If so, he has been silent about it.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“I suppose, first of all, you would like to know how it +feels to be insane. Well, it is indeed a melancholy situation.” </p> +</div> + +<p>It is, indeed, a melancholy situation if you have melancholia, +but if you have mania, and especially if you have certain +forms in which your self-appreciation is enhanced and your +belief in your potencies and possessions quickened to an +immeasurable degree, it is far from being a melancholy sensation. +It is a sensation of power and possession which renders +its possessor incapable of believing that any such thing +as depression exists in the world.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“Lately a movement has arisen to change the name of +insane asylums to 'mental hospitals.' We now recognise +former madmen as merely sick people. We used to think of +insane people as wild-eyed humans gnawing at prison bars +or raving in a straight-jacket.” </p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_309">[Pg 309]</span></p> + +<p>The casual reader might infer from this that “lately” means +within the past few years, and yet three generations have come +and gone since Conolly, Hack, Tuke and others initiated the +movement which accomplished this.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“It was inconceivable to a well-known New York publisher +that an insane man could play golf, go to Africa, or talk +about his experiences.” </p> +</div> + +<p>The mental and emotional make-up of “well-known New +York publishers” is enigmatic. There is general agreement on +that point, but if there is one amongst them who believes that +an insane man cannot play golf, he could readily divorce himself +from the conviction by driving past any hospital for the +insane. There he will see a golf course and some of the +patients playing, though he will not be able to distinguish them +from “regular” golfers. As for an insane man talking about +his golf or his experiences in Africa, no New York publisher, +well-known or otherwise, would need proof to convince him +that an insane man can do that.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“On my way through New York I called on a celebrated +specialist who told me that I had only six months to live and +told me to go out and hunt, roam the world and make the best +of the passing hours. Six months later that great physician +died insane.” </p> +</div> + +<p>It is to be assumed that the celebrated specialist was a +specialist in diseases of the mind. If that is so, the +writer is in error. No celebrated alienist of New York has +died insane within the past quarter of a century. In the +second place, there has never been a celebrated alienist in +New York who would fit the description,</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“forty, rich, famous, living in an elegant home amid exquisite +surroundings on University Heights with his wife, one of the +most beautiful women I ever looked upon, a statuesque blonde +of astounding loveliness.” </p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_310">[Pg 310]</span></p> + +<p>save in the last qualification. Each one of them has had a +beautiful wife, but none “a statuesque blonde of astounding +loveliness.” </p> + +<p>If the writer consulted a physician who made that statement +to him, he had the misfortune not only to be insane +himself but to seek the counsel of a physician who was also +insane.</p> + +<p>The writer of the article says that he will attempt seriously +to show that the centre of the will is distinct from the centre +of the mind, and is a separately functioning organ; but in the +stress of relating his experiences he forgot to do so. In fact, +there would be no more satisfactory way of estimating his +mental possessions and equilibrium than from an examination +of this written document.</p> + +<p>Those who are experienced with the insane give great diagnostic +weight to their writings, not only the orthography +and the syntax, but the sequence of thought, the rhythm +of expression, the continuity of narrative, the pertinency of +reference, the credibility of citation or example, the discursiveness +of the narrative, and the way in which the writer develops +and finally presents the central thought or idea. All +these and other features of the written document are evidences +to which he gives great weight. “Up from Insanity” is neither +sequential in thought nor in narrative. Nearly every paragraph +furnishes evidence of the distractibility of the writer's +mind, and the discursiveness of the entire article amounts +almost to rambling. It is marked with journalese jargon +which reminds me of the newspaper accounts of the kidnapping +or spiriting from Cuba of Señorita Cisneros.</p> + +<p>The pith of the human document that we are discussing is +that “every man's strength wells up from some centre deeper +in him than the brain.” It does. A man's personality at any +moment is the sum total of all the reactions of every cell or +physiological unit in his body; but acceptance of this fact +does not alter the universally accepted belief that the brain is<span class="pagenum" id="Page_311">[Pg 311]</span> +the organ of mind. To have it said by a psychopathic individual +that his restoration to a normal mental state came after +he had observed “that a double nerve centre at the base of the +spine had been aroused and the function of these centres +brought balance and poise and strength, which was instantly +reflected in every movement and thought, and that these basic +nerve centres are the centre of the will,” neither proves that +there is such a centre nor makes it at all probable that it +exists.</p> + +<p>Why such humanistic and scientific puerilities as these +should have been taken seriously is not easy to understand.</p> + +<p>Our knowledge concerning the human mind is not by any +means complete or satisfactory, but there are certain things +about it which we know. For instance, we know that there +is a conscious mind and a subconscious mind. The discovery +in 1866 of the “subliminal consciousness” of the psychologist +(the “unconscious mind” of the psychoanalyst), was called +by William James the greatest discovery in modern psychology. +We know that the person the individual thinks he is +is the equivalent of his conscious mind. The man that he +really is is the man his unconscious mind makes him. The +face that he sees when he looks in the glass is the face that +goes with his conscious mind. The face that others see is the +one that fits his unconscious mind. Anyone who would observe +the revelations of that unconscious mind in literature +can readily gratify his wish by reading the “Portrait of the +Artist as a Young Man,” that remarkable presentation by +James Joyce.</p> + +<p>Many believe today that a man's ego or individuality is the +equivalent of this unconscious mind; that therein lies the +power of genius, the source of vision, the springs of inspiration +that gush forth in prophecy, in artistic creation, in invention.</p> + +<p>We are now engaged in investigating this subliminal consciousness, +or unconscious mind, with every means at our<span class="pagenum" id="Page_312">[Pg 312]</span> +disposal, and year by year we are making headway. Our +progress is not adequate, perhaps, to satisfy the impatient +and the impulsive, but with each succeeding decade there is a +distinct achievement. Nevertheless, in the half-century during +which we have been working at the matter in a methodical—perhaps +one might almost say a scientific—way, we have +discovered things about the mind which are truly epoch-making.</p> + +<p>It is evident that the writer of the article, “Up from Insanity,” +has never been insane. He is a psychopathic individual +who has had distressing episodes. At times these episodes +have parallelled with considerable closeness the features +of definite mental diseases such as manic depressive insanity, +at other times they seem to have resembled the features of +dementia præcox; but he never was the victim of either one. +He inherited an unstable nervous system which displayed +itself in youth as a shut-in, markedly sensitive, anti-social +personality. Like the majority of individuals so burdened, he +was subject to periods of excitation, at which times he did +things at top speed. Neurologists call this a “hypo-manic +state,” that is, a state that resembles mania in miniature. Such +states would be followed by periods of inadequacy, of retardation +of mental and physical activity, and of depression.</p> + +<p>After a severe attack which he suffered when he was +twenty-one, he had what is called in polite circles a “nervous +breakdown,” the chief symptoms being abortive delusions of +reference. He thought that certain parts of his body had +changed so materially that it was necessary to hide them from +the gaze of onlookers. It made him sick to look at his own +face. He had to wear coloured glasses in order that others +might not read his secret from his eyes, and his sense of relationship +with everything constituting the external world was +disordered disagreeably. Accompanying this there were a +series of symptoms which constitute “feeling badly,” and all +the functions of the body that were concerned with nutrition<span class="pagenum" id="Page_313">[Pg 313]</span> +were disordered, so that he became weak and lost flesh. +Oftentimes his depression of spirits was so great that he convinced +himself he wanted to die, but he did not embrace +a good opportunity to accomplish this end when it was offered +to him. In fact, he struggled so valiantly with the run-away +horse that he checked him and “slid from his back ingloriously,” +physically exhausted. It would be interesting to know +why sliding off the back of a horse who has run away and +whose frenzy has been subdued by the rider should be an +inglorious dismounting. Of course it might be more glorious +to tame him to such a degree that his master could stand upon +his back and direct his capriciousness with a glance or a silken +cord, but surely there is nothing inglorious about any kind of +dismount from the back of a horse who has been transformed +from a gentle to a wild animal.</p> + +<p>Nevertheless, the experience was a beneficial one. When +he reviewed his prowess he realised that he had imposed his +will-power, mediated by muscle, upon the animal, and it occurred +to him, a victim of aboulia like the majority of psychopathic +individuals, that to impose a similar will-power +upon himself would be a salutary procedure. With this discernment +came other revelations. One was that he had always +been lacking in concentration and was easily distracted—psychopathic +hallmarks which can be effaced to a remarkable +degree, in many instances, by training. The first fruit of +his labour in this direction was the discovery that Dr. Cook +had been understudying Ananias, Munchausen, <em>et al.</em></p> + +<p>In another part of his article he says, with consummate +familiarity, “You are from Missouri when it comes to asking +you to accept new thoughts.” He may be assured that one of +his readers is not. New thoughts are as acceptable to this +reader as breath to his nostrils; but he would claim citizenship +in that State if asked to accept it as an indication of perspicacity +to have discovered that Dr. Cook was a fake.</p> + +<p>Despite the fact that the writer of the article had “developed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_314">[Pg 314]</span> +the sixth sense to a startling degree,” which assured him +success as a journalist, he was chafing under his impotencies +when he met a former medium who “had given up that life +since her marriage.” Unlike the celebrated specialist's wife, +who was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen up to the +time he met his own wife, this one was “the most insignificant +little woman I ever saw.” Whether it was her experience +gained as a medium, or as the wife of a rich lumberman of the +Middle West, that prompted her to shy the alleged lunatic, +fearing he would bore her with a narrative of his troubles, or +whether she did not want to rake up her past, cannot be +gathered from the meagre narrative. However, he got from +her this nugget of wisdom:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“To be really successful you must get in touch with the +great reservoir of experience.” </p> +</div> + +<p>From “one of the country's greatest physicians,” the like +of which are his personal friends, he got a paraphrase of the +Scripture:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“Learn a lesson from the flowers of the field, be humble and +modest, be natural and play a man's part.” </p> +</div> + +<p>It was then that calm repose settled upon him, and his +nervous energy returned to the old channels and nourished +him.</p> + +<p>If Mr. E. J. had only appended a few of his dreams to his +human document, there would be very little difficulty in pointing +out the emotional repression that was at the bottom of all +his mental symptoms. That he conforms to a certain well-known +type of psychic fixation there is very little doubt. He +has always been bereft, because he has a feeling of being +spiritually or mentally alone. He never learned to be independent +in mind, but always looked for an uncritical, soothing, +maternal sort of love from people who were not ready or willing +to give it. He has not changed materially. Now that his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_315">[Pg 315]</span> +so-called recovery has come, and being unable to find what +he demands, he takes refuge in the next best thing, and plays +at obtaining it vicariously; he convinces himself that he is +going to devote himself to doing for others “all the little kindnesses +that life offers.” </p> + +<p>The layman who would get some knowledge of insanity +should avoid such confessions as that of E. J. If he would +make acquaintance with the self-coddling of a neurotic individual +who delights in self-analysis, self-pity, and exaggeration +of his symptoms, and who is a fairly typical example of juvenile +fixation, his purpose will be accomplished by reading this +and similar articles. There is, however, a safer and more satisfactory +way of securing such information, and that is by +reading the writings of Pierre Janet. There he will find the +obsessed, the hysteric, the aboulic, the neurasthenic individual +discussed in masterly fashion, and he will find the presentation +unmixed with mediæval mysticism and puerile platitudes, unflavoured +with specious “uplift” sentiment and psychological +balderdash.</p> + +<p>On the other hand, he may get real enlightenment from +“The Jungle of the Mind,” published recently in the same +magazine, providing he closes his eyes to the editorial comment +and refuses to read the letter “of a physician of reputation” +which sets forth that “according to all our text-book symptoms +of dementia præcox she was surely that.” </p> + +<p>The purpose of such editorial comment must be either to suggest +that the enigmatic dissolution of the mind to which Schule +gave the name “precocious dementia” may eventuate in recovery, +or to show that doctors make mistakes. If it is the +former, it needs a lot of proof; if the latter, none whatsoever. +Though students of mental pathology know little or nothing of +the causes of the mental disorders of hereditarily predisposed +individuals who get wrecked on the cliffs of puberty, or of the +alterations and structure of the tissues that subserve the mind, +they know, as they know the temperaments of their better<span class="pagenum" id="Page_316">[Pg 316]</span> +halves, the display, the types, the paradigms of the disease. +And the lady who has recently contributed some notes on a +disfranchisement from the state of <em>non compos mentis</em> to the +<em>Atlantic Monthly</em> with such subtle display of proficiency in the +literary art, may be assured that the doctors who averred she +had dementia præcox added one more error to a list already +countless. With the daring of one who hazards nothing by venturing +an opinion, I suggest that she merely made a journey +into a wild country from whose bourne nearly all travellers +return. The country is called “Manic-Depressive Insanity.” </p> + +<p>A young woman of gentle birth develops, while earning her +bread in uplift work, “nervous prostration,” that coverer of a +multitude of ills. Her sister's home, to which she goes, brings +neither coherence nor tranquillity. In fact, she gathers confusion +rapidly there, and seeks to get surcease of it in oblivion. +After three attempts at suicide, she is sent to a sanitarium. +Six months of that exhausts her financial resources. This, +with increasing incoherency and fading actuality, necessitate +transfer to a state hospital, and there she remains three years, +going through the stages of violence, indifference, tranquillity, +resignation, and finally the test of work and recreation, culminating +happily in probational discharge and resumption of +previous work.</p> + +<p>This is the record of thousands in this country and in every +civilised country. The variety of insanity which she had +(and it is the commonest of all the insanities) nearly always +terminates in recovery—that is, from the single attack. There +is, of course, the likelihood of recurrence. How to avoid that is +what we are keen to learn from mental hygienists and from +those taught by experience. If this disenfranchised lady will +tell us ten years hence what she has done to keep well and how +her orientation has differed from that of the ten years following +puberty, she will make a human document of value intellectually, +not emotionally, as this one is. Meanwhile, should she +be disposed to do something for future psychopaths, she may<span class="pagenum" id="Page_317">[Pg 317]</span> +record the experiences of her life from childhood to the period +of full development, and particularly of the decade following +her fifth year. If she will do this with the truthfulness of +James Joyce, the chasteness of Dorothy M. Richardson, and +the fullness of Marie Bashkirtseff, it may be said of her: “Out +of the mouths of babes and sucklings thou hast perfected +praise.” </p> + +<p>It may be literature to describe one's fellow inmates of a +psychopathic hospital, to portray their adult infantilisms, to +delineate their schizophrenias, to recount their organised +imageries, but it does not contribute an iota to our knowledge +of insanity, how to prevent it, and how to cure it.</p> + +<p>We need intrepid souls who will bare their psychic breasts +and will tell us, without fear or shame, of their conventionalised +and primitive minds: how the edifice was constructed, the +secrets of the architect, and of the builder. If Dostoievsky had +been insane, not epileptic, the literature of psychiatry would +today be vastly more comprehensive.</p> + + +<p class="p2 center big2">THE END</p> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75230 ***</div> +</body> +</html> + diff --git a/75230-h/images/cover.jpg b/75230-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..fc73d92 --- /dev/null +++ b/75230-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/75230-h/images/ilo_fp121.jpg b/75230-h/images/ilo_fp121.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..8f8eaf6 --- /dev/null +++ b/75230-h/images/ilo_fp121.jpg diff --git a/75230-h/images/ilo_fp129.jpg b/75230-h/images/ilo_fp129.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..499a510 --- /dev/null +++ b/75230-h/images/ilo_fp129.jpg diff --git a/75230-h/images/ilo_fp155.jpg b/75230-h/images/ilo_fp155.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..a58efd0 --- /dev/null +++ b/75230-h/images/ilo_fp155.jpg diff --git a/75230-h/images/ilo_fp175.jpg b/75230-h/images/ilo_fp175.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..f3411ab --- /dev/null +++ b/75230-h/images/ilo_fp175.jpg diff --git a/75230-h/images/ilo_fp185.jpg b/75230-h/images/ilo_fp185.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..8f7415b --- /dev/null +++ b/75230-h/images/ilo_fp185.jpg diff --git a/75230-h/images/ilo_fp223.jpg b/75230-h/images/ilo_fp223.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..ab502ff --- /dev/null +++ b/75230-h/images/ilo_fp223.jpg diff --git a/75230-h/images/ilo_fp241.jpg b/75230-h/images/ilo_fp241.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..d4c36ca --- /dev/null +++ b/75230-h/images/ilo_fp241.jpg diff --git a/75230-h/images/ilo_fp261.jpg b/75230-h/images/ilo_fp261.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..9974dac --- /dev/null +++ b/75230-h/images/ilo_fp261.jpg diff --git a/75230-h/images/ilo_fp269.jpg b/75230-h/images/ilo_fp269.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..48985f3 --- /dev/null +++ b/75230-h/images/ilo_fp269.jpg diff --git a/75230-h/images/ilo_fp293.jpg b/75230-h/images/ilo_fp293.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..ceeaaaf --- /dev/null +++ b/75230-h/images/ilo_fp293.jpg diff --git a/75230-h/images/ilo_fp39.jpg b/75230-h/images/ilo_fp39.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..3a8b77f --- /dev/null +++ b/75230-h/images/ilo_fp39.jpg diff --git a/75230-h/images/ilo_fp65.jpg b/75230-h/images/ilo_fp65.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..8036582 --- /dev/null +++ b/75230-h/images/ilo_fp65.jpg diff --git a/75230-h/images/title_page-ilo.jpg b/75230-h/images/title_page-ilo.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..1677ce7 --- /dev/null +++ b/75230-h/images/title_page-ilo.jpg |
