There have been few men so persecuted by Fortune as to lead lives of
unhappiness, lighted only by transient gleams of the sun, who are yet
pursued beyond the grave by outcries and misfortune, but this was
undoubtedly the case with Maitland. Of course he always had notable
ill luck, as men might say and indeed do say, but his ill luck sprang
from his nature as well as from the nature of things. When a man
puts himself into circumstances to which he is equal he may have
misfortunes, or sometimes disasters, but he has not perpetual
adversity. Maitland's nature was for ever thrusting him into
positions to which he was not equal. His disposition, his very
heredity, seems to have invited trouble. So out of his first great
disaster sprang all the rest. He had not been equal to the stress
laid upon him, and in later life he was never equal to the stress he
laid upon himself. This is what ill luck is. It is an instinctive
lack of wisdom. I think I said some chapters ago that I had not
entirely disposed of the question of his health. I return to the
subject with some reluctance. Nevertheless I think what I have to
say should be said. It at any rate curiously links the last days of
Maitland's life to the earlier times of his trouble, or so it will
seem to physicians. I shall do no more than quote a few lines from a
letter which he wrote to Lake. He says: "You remember that patch of
skin disease on my forehead? Nothing would touch it; it had lasted
for more than two years, and was steadily extending itself. At last
a fortnight ago I was advised to try iodide of potassium.
Result--perfect cure after week's treatment! I had resigned myself
to being disfigured for the rest of my life; the rapidity of the cure
is extraordinary. I am thinking of substituting iodide of potassium
for coffee at breakfast and wine at the other meals. I am also
meditating a poem in its praise--which may perhaps appear in the
_Fortnightly Review_." Dr. Lake replied to these dithyrambs with a
letter which Maitland did not answer. There is no need to comment
upon this more particularly; it will at any rate be clear to those
who are not uninstructed in medicine.
His ill luck began early. It lasted even beyond the grave. Some men
have accounted it a calamity to have a biography written of them.
The first who said so must have been English, for in this country the
absence of biographic art is rendered the more peculiarly dreadful by
the existence in our language of one or two masterpieces. In some
ways I would very willingly cease to speak now, for I have written
nearly all that I had in my mind, and I know that I have spoken
nothing which would really hurt him. As I have said in the very
first chapter, he had an earnest desire that if anything were written
about him after his death it should be something true. Still there
are some things yet to be put down, especially about "Basil" and its
publication. He left this book unfinished: it still lacked some few
chapters which would have dealt with the final catastrophe. It fell
to the executors to arrange for the publication of the incomplete
book. As Maitland had left no money, certainly not that two thousand
pounds which he vainly hoped for, there were still his children to
consider; and it was thought necessary, for reasons I do not
appreciate, to get a preface written for the book with a view, which
seemed to me idle, of procuring it a great sale.
It appears that Rivers offered to write this preface if it were
wanted. What he wrote was afterwards published. The executors did
not approve it, again for reasons which I do not appreciate, for I
think that it was on the whole a very admirable piece of work. Yet I
do not believe Rivers was sincere in the view he took of "Basil" as a
work of art. In later years he acknowledged as much to me, but he
thought it was his duty to say everything that could possibly be said
with a view of imposing it on a reluctant public. The passage in
this article mainly objected to was that which speaks obscurely of
his early life at Moorhampton College and refers as obscurely to his
initial great disaster. The reference was needed, and could hardly
be avoided. Rivers said nothing openly but referred to "an abrupt
incongruous reaction and collapse." This no doubt excited certain
curiosities in certain people, but seeing that so many already knew
the truth, I cannot perceive what was to be gained by entire silence.
However, this preface was rejected and Mr. Harold Edgeworth was asked
to write another. This he did, but it was a frigid performance. The
writer acknowledged his ignorance of much that Maitland had written,
and avowed his want of sympathy with most of it.
Naturally enough, the trouble growing out of this dispute gave rise
to considerable comment. As some theological buzzards had dropped
out of a murky sky upon Maitland's corpse, so some literary kites now
found a subject to gloat upon. Nevertheless the matter presently
passed. "Basil," unhappily, was no success; and if one must speak
the truth, it was rightly a failure. It is curious and bitter to
think of that when he was dealing at the last in some kind of peace
and quiet with his one chosen subject, that he had thought of for so
many years and prepared for so carefully, it should by no means have
proved what he believed it. There is, indeed, no such proof as
"Basil" in the whole history of letters that the writer was not doing
the work that his nature called for. Who that knows "Magna Graecia,"
and who, indeed, that ever spoke with him, will not feel that if he
had visited one by one all the places that he mentions in the book,
and had written about them and about the historical characters that
he hoped to realise, the book might have been as great or even
greater than the shining pages of "Magna Graecia"? It was in the
consideration of these things, while reviving the aspects of the past
that he felt so deeply and loved so much, that his native and natural
genius came out. In fiction it was only when rage and anger and
disgust inspired him that he could hope to equal anything of the
passion which he felt about his temperamental and proper work. Those
books in which he let himself go perfectly naturally, and those books
which came out of him as a terrible protest against modern
civilisation, are alone great. Yet it is hard to speak without
emotion and without pain of "Basil." He believed in it so greatly,
and yet believed in it no more than any writer must while he is at
work. The artist's own illusion of a book's strength and beauty is
necessary to any accomplishment. He must believe with faith or do
nothing. Maitland failed because it was not his real work.
In one sense the great books of his middle period were what writers
and artists know as "pot-boilers." They were, indeed, written for an
actual living, for bread and for cheese and occasionally a very
little butter. But they had to be written. He was obliged to do
something, and did these best; he could do no other. He was always
in exile. That was the point in my mind when I wrote one long
article about him in a promising but passing magazine which preened
its wings in Bond Street and died before the end of its first month.
This article I called "The Exile of Henry Maitland." There is
something of the same feeling in much that has been written of him by
men perhaps qualified in many ways better than myself had they known
him as well as I did. I have, I believe, spoken of the able
criticism Thomas Sackville wrote of him in the foreword of the book
of short stories which was published after Maitland's death. In the
_Fortnightly Review_ Edwin Warren wrote a feeling and sympathetic
article about him. Jacob Levy wrote not without discernment of the
man. And of one thing all these men seemed tolerably sure, that in
himself Maitland stood alone. But he only stood alone, I think, in
the best work of his middle period. And even that work was alien
from his native mind.
In an early article written about him while he yet lived I said that
he stood in a high and solitary place, because he belonged to no
school, and most certainly not to any English school. No one could
imitate, and no one could truly even caricature him. The essence of
his best work was that it was founded on deep and accurate knowledge
and keen observation. Its power lay in a bent, in a mood of mind,
not by any means in any subject, even though his satiric discussion
of what he called the "ignobly decent" showed his strength, and
indirectly his inner character. His very repugnance to his early
subjects led him to choose them. He showed what he wished the world
to be by declaring and proving that it possessed every conceivable
opposite to his desires. I pointed out some time ago, but should
like to insist upon it again, that in one sense he showed an
instinctive affinity for the lucid and subtle Tourgeniev. There is
no more intensely depressing book in the entire English language than
"Isabel." The hero's desires reached to the stars, but he was not
able to steal or take so much as a farthing rushlight. Not even
Demetri Roudine, that futile essence of futility, equals this,
Maitland's literary child of bitter, unable ambitions. These
Russians indeed were the writers with whom Maitland had most
sympathy. They moved what Zola had never been able to stir in him,
for he was never a Zolaist, either in mind or method. No man without
a style could really influence him for more than a moment. Even his
beloved Balzac, fecund and insatiable, had no lasting hold upon him,
much as he admired the man's ambitions, his unparalleled industry,
his mighty construction. For Balzac was truly architectonic, even if
barbarous, and though these constructions of his are often imaginary
and his perspectives a mystery. But great construction is obviously
alien from Maitland. He wanted no elaborate architecture to do his
thinking in. He would have been contented in a porch, or preferably
in a cloister.
I have declared that his greatest book is "The Exile"--I mean his
greatest book among his novels. To say it is a masterpiece is for
once not to abuse the word; for it is intense, deeply psychological,
moving, true. "_L'anatomia presuppone il cadavere_," says Gabriele
D'Annunzio, but "The Exile" is intolerable and wonderful vivisection.
Yet men do bleed and live, and the protagonist in this book--in much,
in very much, Henry Maitland--bleeds but will not die. He was born
out of the leisured classes and resented it with an incredible
bitterness, with a bitterness unparalleled in literature. I know
that on one occasion Maitland spoke to me with a certain joy of
somebody who had written to him about his books and had selected "The
Exile" as the greatest of them. I think he knew it was great. It
was, of course, an ineffable failure from the commercial point of
view.
On more than one occasion, as it was known that I was acquainted with
Maitland, men asked me to write about him. I never did so without
asking his permission to do it. This happened once in 1895. He
answered me: "What objection could I possibly have, unless it were
that I should not like to hear you reviled for log-rolling? But it
seems to me that you might well write an article which would incur no
such charge; and indeed, by so doing, you would render me a very
great service. For I have in mind at present a careful and
well-written attack in the current _Spectator_. Have you seen it?
Now I will tell you what my feelings are about this frequent attitude
in my critics."
Maitland's views upon critics and reviewing were often somewhat
astounding. He resented their folly very bitterly. Naturally
enough, we often spoke of reviewers, for both of us, in a sense, had
some grievances. Mine, however, were not bitter. Luckily for me, I
sometimes did work which appealed more to the general, while his
appeal was always to the particular. Apropos of a review of one of
Rivers' books he says: "I have also, unfortunately, seen the ----.
Now, can you tell me (in moments of extreme idleness one wishes to
know such things) who the people are who review fiction for the ----?
Are they women, soured by celibacy, and by ineffectual attempts to
succeed as authors? Even as they treat you this time they have
consistently treated me--one continuous snarl and sneer. They are
beastly creatures--I can think of no other term."
It was unfortunate that he took these things so seriously, for nobody
knows so well as the reviewers that their work is not serious. Yet,
according to them the general effect of Maitland's books, especially
"Jubilee," was false, misleading, and libellous; and was in essence
caricature. One particular critic spoke of "the brutish stupefaction
of his men and women," and said, "his realism inheres only in his
rendering of detail." Now Maitland declared that the writer
exhibited a twofold ignorance--first of the life he depicted, and
again of the books in which he depicted it. Maitland went on to say:
"He--the critic--speaks specially of 'Jubilee,' so for the moment we
will stick to that. I have selected from the great mass of lower
middle-class life a group of people who represent certain of its
grossnesses, weaknesses, &c., peculiar to our day. Now in the first
place, this group of people, on its worst side, represents a
degradation of which the critic has obviously no idea. In the second
place, my book, if properly read, contains abundant evidence of good
feeling and right thinking in those members of the group who are not
hopelessly base. Pass to instances: 'The seniors live a ... life
unglorified by a single fine emotion or elevating instinct.' Indeed?
What about Mr. Ward, who is there precisely to show that there can
be, and are, these emotions and instincts in individuals? Of the
young people (to say not a word about Nancy, at heart an admirable
woman), how is it possible to miss the notes of fine character in
poor Halley? Is not the passionate love of one's child an 'elevating
instinct'? nor yet a fine emotion? Why, even Nancy's brother shows
at the end that favourable circumstances could bring out in him
gentleness and goodness."
There indeed spoke Maitland. He felt that everything was
circumstance, and that for nine hundred and ninety-nine out of a
thousand circumstance was truly too much, as it had been for him. It
appears that the critic added that the general effect of the book was
false; and Maitland replied that it would be so to a very rapid
skimmer of the book, precisely as the general effect upon a rapid
observer of the people themselves would be false. He was enraged to
think that though people thought it worth while to write at length
about his books, they would not take the trouble to study them
seriously. He added: "In this section of the lower middle class the
good is not on the surface; neither will it be found on the surface
of my narrative."
In this letter he went on to say something more of his books in
general. Apropos of a paragraph written by Mr. Glass about his work
as a whole, he said: "My books deal with people of many social
strata; there are the vile working class, the aspiring and capable
working class, the vile lower middle, the aspiring and capable lower
middle, and a few representatives of the upper middle class. My
characters range from the vileness of 'Arry Parson to the genial and
cultured respectability of Mr. Comberbatch. There are books as
disparate as 'The Under World' and 'The Unchosen.' But what I desire
to insist upon is this, that the most characteristic, the most
important, part of my work is that which deals with a class of young
men distinctive of our time--well-educated, fairly bred, _but without
money_. It is this fact, as I gather from reviews and conversation,
of the poverty of my people which tells against their recognition as
civilised beings. 'Oh,' said some one to Butler, 'do ask Mr.
Maitland to make his people a little better off.' There you have it."
And there one has also the source of Maitland's fountain of
bitterness. He went on to say: "Now think of some of these young
men, Hendon, Gifford, Medwin, Pick, Early, Hillward, Mallow. Do you
mean to say that books containing such a number of such men deal,
first and foremost, with the commonplace and the sordid? Why, these
fellows are the very reverse of commonplace; most of them are
martyred by the fact of possessing uncommon endowments. Is it not
so? This side of my work, to me the most important, I have never yet
seen recognised. I suppose Glass would class these men as 'at best
genteel, and not so very genteel.' Why, 'ods bodikins! there's
nothing in the world so hateful to them as gentility. But you know
all this, and can you not write of it rather trenchantly? I say
nothing about my women. That is a moot point. But surely there are
some of them who help to give colour to the groups I draw." The end
of the letter was: "I write with a numbed hand. I haven't been warm
for weeks. This weather crushes me. Let me have a line about this
letter."
The sort of poverty which crushed the aspiring is the keynote to the
best work he did. He knew it, and was right in knowing it. He
played all these parts himself. In many protean forms Maitland
himself is discerned under the colour and character of his chosen
names; and so far as he depicted a class hitherto untouched, or
practically untouched, in England, as he declares, he was a great
writer of fiction. But he was not a romantic writer. There were
some books of romance he loved greatly. We often and often spoke of
Murger's "Vie de Bohème." I do not think there was any passage in
that book which so appealed to him as when Rodolphe worked in his
adventitious fur-coat in his windy garret, declaring genially:
"Maintenant le thermomètre va être furieusement vexé." Nevertheless,
as I have said before, he knew, and few knew so well, the very bitter
truth that Murger only vaguely indicated here and there in scattered
passages. In the "Vie de Bohème" these characters "range" themselves
at last; but mostly such men did not. They went under, they died in
the hospital, they poisoned themselves, they blew out their brains,
they sank and became degraded parasites of an uncomprehending
bourgeoisie.
I spoke some time back of the painful hour when Maitland came to me
to declare his considered opinion that I myself could not write
successful fiction. It is an odd thing that I never returned the
compliment in any way, for though I knew he could, and did, write
great fiction, I knew his best work would not have been fiction in
other circumstances. Out of martyrdom may come great things, but not
out of martyrdom spring the natural blossoms of the natural mind.
That he lived in the devil's twilight between the Dan of Camberwell
and the Beersheba of Camden Town, when his natural environment should
have been Italy, and Rome, or Sorrento, is an unfading tragedy. Only
once or twice in his life did a spring or summer come to him in which
he might grow the flowers he loved best and knew to be his natural
destiny. The greatest tragedy of all, to my mind, is that final
tragedy of "Basil" where at last, after long years of toil in fiction
while fiction was yet necessary to his livelihood, he was compelled
by his training to put into the form of a novel a theme not fit for
such treatment save in the hands of a native and easy story-teller.
I have said nothing, or little except by implication, of the man's
style. In many ways it was notable and even noble. To such a
literary intelligence, informed with all the learning of the past
towards which he leant, much of his style was inevitable; it was the
man and his own. For the greater part it is lucid rather than
sparkling, clear, if not cold; yet with a subdued rhythm, the result
of much Latin and more Greek, for the metres of the Greek tragedies
always inspired him with their noble rhythms. Though he was often
cold and bitter, especially in his employment of irony, of which he
is the only complete master in English literature except Samuel
Butler, he could rise to heights of passionate description; and here
and there a sense of luxury tinges his words with Tyrian purple--and
this in spite of all his sense of restraint, which was more marked
than that of almost any living writer.
When I think of it all, and consider his partly wasted years, I even
now wonder how it was he induced himself to deal with the life he
knew so well; but while that commercialism exists which he abhorred
as much as he abhorred the society in which it flourishes, there
seems no other practicable method for a man of letters to attain
speech and yet to live. I often declared that fiction as we wrote it
was truly diagnostic of a disordered and unnecessarily degraded form
of civilisation; and he replied with deep feeling that to him the
idylls of Theocritus, of Moschus, the simple tragedies, the natural
woes and joys of men who ploughed the soil or worked at the
winepress, were the truest and most vivid forms and subjects of Art.
Neither before his death nor after did he attain the artist's true
and great reward of recognition in the full sense that would have
satisfied him even if he had remained poor. Nevertheless there were
some who knew. There are perhaps a few more who know now that he is
gone and cannot hear them. Popularity he never hoped for, and never
will attain, but he has a secure place in the hierarchy of the
literature of England which he loved. But he appeals now, as he
appealed while he lived, not to the idle and the foolish, not to the
fashionable mob, but to the more august tribunal of those who have
the sympathy which comes from understanding.