HENRY JAMES, JR. (1843-1916) The inheritance and the early, as well as the later, training of Henry James and of his brother William James, the psychologist, were refining and cultural in the most exclusive sense. The father, Henry James, Senior, was a scholar, a mystic, a theorist of the Bronson Alcott type, who could live without a profession and write books for the few on such subjects as Swedenborg and The Nature of Evil. The younger Henry James was born in Albany and reared until early boyhood in New York City,- a sequestered childhood with little contact with other children, with education from carefully chosen tutors, and with books as the central interest. At twelve he was sent abroad for education with the privilege of pursuing only such studies as pleased him. He learned French and French literature, estheticism,- art. Returning to America, he attended a few lectures at the Harvard law school, but with no serious intention of learning a profession, and then settled down like his father to a life of intellectual and esthetic leisure. In France he had been impressed with the new brilliant school of novelists and short story writers, and, with abundance of leisure, he tried his own hand at fiction. His first story appeared in The Atlantic in 1865, and from time to time he contributed others, all of them finished and careful bits of work, with traces of the French influence. Four years later, in 1869, he removed again to Europe, and in Europe-chiefly in England - he spent the rest of his life. He was never married, he followed no profession, he held no office, civil or political: he gave himself wholly to literary art which he studied in all its details of technique. He wrote short stories at first, varied by critical studies of literary artists, especially French litterateurs, and later he made longer ventures in fiction-international novels' since they dealt with characters and scenes on both sides of the ocean, and minute studies of character and manners. From the great number of his books one may choose for mention Roderick Hudson, 1875, The American, 1877, Daisy Miller, 1878. The Portrait of a Lady, 1881, and What Maisie Knew, 1897. James approached fiction from the standpoint of the scientist. His realism was founded on the taking of many notes, on close observation of actual characters in their social relations, on skilful ability to note little peculiarities and tell-tale trifles. He evolves his plot slowly, so slowly indeed that the reader sometimes is in doubt if there be a plot at all. Character is analyzed with scientific thoroughness. Actions and reactions are explained, and motives are dissected with minute care. The characters reveal themselves in endless conversations. his later novels he grew more and more individual in his style and treatment until many who had enjoyed his early work ceased to read him. A lifetime of analysis, of introspection, of self-conscious concentration, of eternal contemplation of manners, led to over refinement, to mannerism, to eccentricities. One may safely say that the later James is delightful only to the few. In ALPHONSE DAUDET1 I branch of literature mentioned by M. Taine has no longer, in the soil of our English-speaking genius, so strong a vitality. The French may bear the palm 5 to-day in the representation of manners by the aid of fiction. Formerly, it was possible to oppose Balzac and Madame Sand to Dickens and Thackeray; but at present we have no one, either in England 'The novel of manners grows thick in England, and there are many reasons for it. In the first place it was born there, and a plant always flourishes in its own country.' So wrote M. Taine, the French critic, many years ago. But those were the years of Dickens and Thackeray (as 10 or in America, to oppose to Alphonse a prelude to the study of the latter of whom the remark was made); and the 1 Reprinted from Partial Portraits by arrangement with the Macmillan Company, holders of the copyright. Daudet. The appearance of a new novel by this admirable genius is to my mind the most delightful literary event that can occur just now; in other words Alphonse 15 Daudet is at the head of his profession. 5 15 I say of his profession advisedly, for he to care much for the horrid little heroine belongs to our modern class of trained herself, carefully as she is studied. She men of letters; he is not an occasional or has been pursued, but she has not been a desultory poet; he is a novelist to his caught, for she is not interesting (even finger-tips-a soldier in the great army for a coquine), not even human. She is of constant producers. But such as he is, a mechanical doll, with nothing for the he is master of his art, and I may as well imagination to take hold of. She is one say definitely that if I attempt to sketch more proof of the fact that it is difficult in a few pages his literary countenance, it to give the air of consistency to vanity will be found that the portrait is from the and depravity, though the portraiture of hand of an admirer. We most of us feel the vicious side of life would seem, from that among the artists of our day certain the pictorial point of view, to offer such talents have more to say to us and others attractions. The reader's quarrel with less; we have our favorites, and we have Sidonie Chèbe is not that she is bad, but our objects of indifference. The writer that she is not felt, as the aesthetic people of these remarks has always had a sym- say. In Jack the hollow spot, as I have pathy for the author of the Lettres de called it, is the episode of Doctor Rivals mon Moulin; he began to read his novels and his daughter Cécile, which reminds with a prejudice in their favor. This us of the more genial parts of Dickens. prejudice sprang from the Letters afore- 20 It is perhaps because to us readers of Engsaid, which do not constitute a novel, but lish speech the figure of the young girl, in a volume of the lightest and briefest a French novel, is almost always wanting tales. They had, to my mind, an extraor- in reality seems to be thin and convendinary charm; they put me quite on the tional; in any case poor Jack's love-affair, side of Alphonse Daudet, whatever he 25 at the end of the book, does not produce might do in the future. One of the first the illusion of the rest of his touching things he did do was to publish the history history. In Le Nabab this artificial eleof Fromont Jeune et Risler Aîné. It is ment is very considerable; it centers about true that this work did not give me the the figure of Paul de Géry and embraces pleasure that some of its successors have 30 the whole group of M. Joyeuse and his done, and though it has been crowned by blooming daughters, with their pretty attithe French Academy, I still think it is tudes-taking in also the very shadowy weaker than Les Rois en Exil and Numa André Maranne, so touchingly re-united Roumestan. But I liked it better on a to his mother, who had lived for ten years second reading than on a first; it contains 35 with an Irish doctor to whom she was not some delightful things. After that came married. In Les Rois en Exil, Tom Lévis Jack and Le Nabab, and the two novels I and the diabolical Séphora seem to me have just mentioned, and that curious and purely fanciful creations, without any reinteresting tale of L'Evangéliste, which lation to reality; they are the inferior part appeared a few months since, and which 40 of the book. They are composed by a proves that the author's genius, though on master of composition, and the comedian the whole he has pressed it hard, is still Tom is described with immense spirit, an nervous, fresh, and young. Each of these art which speaks volumes as to a certain things has been better than the last, with sort of Parisian initiation. But if this the exception, perhaps, of L'Evangéliste, 45 artistic and malignant couple are very which, to my taste, is not superior to clever water-color, they are not really huNuma Roumestan. Numa Roumestan is manity. Ruffians and rascals have a cera masterpiece; it is really a perfect work; tain moral nature, as well as the betterit has no weakness, no roughness; it is a behaved; but in the case I have mentioned compact and harmonious whole. Daudet's 50 M. Daudet fails to put his finger upon it. other works have had their inequalities, The same with Madame Autheman, the their infirmities, certain places where, if evil genius of poor Eline Ebsen, in the you tapped them, they sounded hollow. L'Evangéliste. She is to me terribly, alHis danger has always been a perceptible most grotesquely, void. She is an elabtendency to the factitious; sometimes he 55 orate portrait of a fanatic of Protestanthas fallen into the trap laid for him by a ism, a bigot to the point of monstrosity, taste for superficial effects. In Fromont cold-blooded, implacable, cruel. The figJeune, for instance, it seems to me difficult ure is painted with Alphonse Daudet's inimitable. art; no one that handles the pen to-day is such a pictorial artist as he. But Madame Autheman strikes me as quite automatic; psychologically she is a blank. One does not see the operation of her character. She must have had a soul, and a very curious one. It was a great opportunity for a piece of spiritual portraiture; but we know nothing about Madame Autheman's inner springs, and I 10 complete humiliation to poor Hortense assurance of her devotion; and this innocent missive, falling soon into the hands of his rapacious and exasperated sister (a wonderful figure, one of the most liv5 ing that has ever come from Daudet's pen), becomes a source of infinite alarm to the family of Mademoiselle Le Quesnoy, who see her compromised, calumniated and black-mailed, and finally of think we fail to believe in her. I should herself, now fallen into a rapid consumption, and cured of her foolish infatuation by a nearer view of the vain and ignorant Valmajour. An agent of the family recovers the photograph (with the aid of ten thousand francs), and the young girl, with the bitter taste of her disappointment still in her soul, dies in her flower. This little story, as I say, is very shocking to M. Zola, who cites it as an example of the folly of a departure from consistent realism. What is observed, says M. Zola, on the whole very justly, is strong; what is invented is always weak, especially what is invented to please the ladies. See in this case,' he writes, all the misery of invented episodes. This love of Hortense, with which the author has doubtless wished to give the impression of something touching, produces a discomfort, as if it were a violation of nature. It is therefore the pages written for the ladies' that are repulsive even to a man accustomed to the saddest dissections of the human corpse.' I am not of M. Zola's opinion-delightful as it would be to be of that opinion when M. Zola's sense of propriety is ruffled. The incident of Hortense and Valmajour is not (to my sense) a blot upon Numa Roumestan; on the contrary, it is perfectly conceivable, and is treated with admirable delicacy. This romantic stuff,' says M. Zola, elsewhere, is as painful as a pollution. That a young girl should lose her head over a tenor, that may be explained, for she loves the operatic personage in the interpreter. She has before her a young man sharpened and refined by life, elegant, having at least certain appearances of talent and intelligence. But this tambourinist, with his drum and penny-whistle, this village dandy, a poor devil who does n't even know how to speak! No, life has not such cruelties as that, I protest, I who certainly, as a general thing, am not accustomed to give ground before human aberrations! This objection was 5 the dignity of a critic. If we were talking French, nothing would be simpler than to say that Alphonse Daudet is adorable, and have done with it. But this resource is denied me, and I must arrive at my meaning by a series of circumlocutions. I am not able even to say that he is very 'personal' that epithet. so valuable in the vocabulary of French literary criticism, has, when applied to the talent of an artist, a meaning different from the sense in which we use it. A novelist so personal and so penetrating,' says Emile Zola, speaking of the author of Numa Roumestan. That phrase, in English, means nothing in particular; so that I must add to it that the charm of Daudet's talent comes from its being charged to an extraordinary degree with his tempera worth making; but I should look at the regard as one of those, of all Daudet's II 35 qualities. This, of course, is a charm, in a style, only when nature has been generous. To Alphonse Daudet she has been exceptionally so; she has placed in his hands an instrument of many chords. A delicate, nervous organization, active and indefatigable in spite of its delicacy, and familiar with emotion of almost every kind, equally acquainted with pleasure and with pain; a light, quick, joyous, yet reflective, imagination, a faculty of seeing images, making images, at every turn, of conceiving everything in the visible form, in the plastic spirit; an extraordinary sensibility to all the impressions of life and a faculty of language which is in perfect harmony with his wonderful fineness of perception - these are some of the qualities of which he is the happy pos40 sessor, and which make his equipment for the work he has undertaken exceedingly rich. There are others besides; but enumerations are ponderous, and we should avoid that danger in speaking of a genius. whose lightness of touch never belies itself. His elder brother, who has not his talent, has written a little book about him in which the word modernité perpetually occurs. M. Ernest Daudet, in Mon Frère et Moi, insists upon his possession of the qualities expressed by this barbarous substantive, which is so indispensable to the new school. Alphonse Daudet is, in truth, very modern: he has all the newlydeveloped, the newly-invented, perceptions. Nothing speaks so much to his imagination as the latest and most composite things, the refinements of current As I say, however, these are details, and I have touched them prematurely. Alphonse Daudet is a charmer, and the effect of his brilliant, friendly, indefinable 45 genius is to make it difficult, in speaking of him, to take things in their order or follow a plan. In writing of him some time ago, in another place, I so far lost my head as to remark, with levity, that he 50 was a great little novelist.' The diminutive epithet then, I must now say, was nothing more than a term of endearment, the result of an irresistible impulse to express a sense of personal fondness. This, kind of feeling is difficult to utter in English, and the utterance of it, so far as this is possible, is not thought consistent with. civilization, the most delicate shades of the actual. It is scarcely too much to say that (especially in the Parisian race), modern manners, modern nerves, modern wealth, and modern improvements, have engendered a new sense, a sense not easily named nor classified, but recognizable in all the most characteristic productions of contemporary art. It is partly physical, We proceed usually from the former to the latter, while the French reverse the process. Except in politics, they are uncomfortable in the presence of abstrac5 tions, and lose no time in reducing them to the concrete. But even the concrete, for them, is a field for poetry, which brings us to the fact that the delightful thing in Daudet's talent is the inveterate poetical 20 him from the other lights of the realistic school-modifies so completely in his case the hardness of consistent realism. There is something very hard, very dry, in Flaubert, in Edmond de Goncourt, in the robust Zola; but there is something very soft in Alphonse Daudet. 'Benevolent nature,' says Zola, ' has placed him at that exquisite point where poetry ends and reality begins.' That is happily said; Daudet's great characteristic is this mixture of the sense of the real with the sense of the beautiful. His imagination is constantly at play with his theme; it has a horror of the literal, the limited; it sees an object in all its intermingled relations - on its sentimental, its pathetic, its comical, its pictorial side. Flaubert, in whom Alphonse Daudet would probably recognize to a certain degree a literary paternity, is far from being a simple realist; but he was destitute of this sense of the beautiful, destitue of facility and grace. He had, to take its place, a sense of the strange, the grotesque, to which Salambo, La Tentation de Saint-Antoine, his indescribable posthumous novel of Bouvard et Pecuchet, abundantly testify. The talent of the brothers Goncourt strikes us as a talent that was associated originally with a sense of beauty; but we receive an impression that this feeling has been perverted and warped. It has ceased to be natural and free; it has become morbid and peevish, it has turned mainly to curiosity and mannerism. And these two authors are capable, during a whole book (as in Germinic Lacerteux or La Fille Elisa), of escaping from its influence altogether. No one would probably ever think of accusing Emile Zola of having a perception of the beautiful. He has an illimitable, and at times a very valuable, sense of the ugly, of the unclean; but when he addresses himself to the poetic aspect of things, as in La Faute de l'Abbé Mouret, he is apt to have terrible misadventures. partly moral, and the shortest way to de- 10 touch. This is what mainly distinguishes scribe it is to say that it is a more analytic consideration of appearances. It is known by its tendency to resolve its discoveries into pictorial form. It sees the connection between feelings and external 15 conditions, and it expresses such relations as they have not been expressed hitherto. It deserves to win victories, because it has opened its eyes well to the fact that the magic of the arts of representation lies in their appeal to the associations awakened by things. It traces these associations into the most unlighted corners of our being, into the most devious paths of experience. The appearance of things is 25 constantly more complicated as the world grows older, and it needs a more and more patient art, a closer notation, to divide it into its parts. Of this art Alphonse Daudet has a wonderfully large allowance, 30 and that is why I say that he is peculiarly modern. It is very true that his manner is not the manner of patience - though he must always have had a great deal of that virtue in the preparation of his work. 35 The new school of fiction in France is based very much on the taking of notes; the library of the great Flaubert, of the brothers de Goncourt, of Emile Zola, and of the writer of whom I speak, must have 40 been in a large measure a library of memorandum-books. This of course only puts the patience back a stage or two. In composition Daudet proceeds by quick, instantaneous vision, by the happiest divina- 45 tion, by catching the idea as it suddenly springs up before him with a whirr of wings. What he mainly sees is the great surface of life and the parts that lie near the surface. But life is, immensely, a 50 matter of surface, and if our emotions in general are interesting, the form of those emotions has the merit of being the most definite thing about them. Like most French imaginative writers (judged, at 55 least, from the English standpoint), he is much less concerned with the moral, the metaphysical world, than with the sensible. |