HALF-SMILES AND GESTURES
=i=
Half-smiles and gestures! There is always a younger generation but it is
not always articulate. The war may not have changed the face of the world,
but it changed the faces of very many young men. Faces of naïve enthusiasm
and an innocent expectancy were not particularly noticeable in the years
1918 to 1922. The sombreness, the abruptness, the savage mood evident in
the writings of such men as Barbusse and Siegfried Sassoon were abandoned.
Confronted with the riddle of life, spared the enigma of death, the young
men have felt nothing more befitting their age and generation than the
personal "gesture."
If you ask me what is a gesture, I can't say that I know. It is something
felt in the attitude of a person to whom one is talking or whose book one
is reading. And the gesture is accompanied, in some of our younger
writers, with an expression that is both serious and smiling. These
half-smiles are, I take it, youth's comment on the riddle of a continued
existence, on the loss of well-lost illusions, on the uncertainty of all
future values. What is there worth trying for? It is not too clear, hence
the gesture. What is there worth the expenditure of emotion? It is
doubtful; and a half-smile is the best.
Such a writer, busily experimenting in several directions, is Aldous
Huxley. This child of 1894, the son of Leonard Huxley (eldest son and
biographer of Prof. T. H. Huxley) and Julia Arnold (niece of Martha Arnold
and sister of Mrs. Humphry Ward), has with three books of prose built up a
considerable and devoted following of American readers. First there was
_Limbo_. Then came _Crome Yellow_, and on the heels of that we had the
five stories--if you like to call them so--composing _Mortal Coils_. I
have seen no comment more penetrating than that of Michael Sadleir,
himself the author of a novel of distinction. Sadleir says:
"Already Huxley is the most readable of his generation. He has the
allurement of his own inconsistency, and the inconsistency of youth is its
questing spirit, and, consequently, its chief claim to respect.
"At present there are several Huxleys--the artificer in words, the amateur
of garbage, pierrot lunaire, the cynic in rag-time, the fastidious
sensualist. For my part, I believe only in the last, taking that to be the
real Huxley and the rest prank, virtuosity, and, most of all,
self-consciousness. As the foal will shy at his own shadow, so Aldous
Huxley, nervous by fits at the poise of his own reality, sidesteps with
graceful violence into the opposite of himself. There is a beautiful
example of this in _Mortal Coils_. Among the stage-directions to his play,
'Permutations Among the Nightingales,' occur the following sentences:
'Sydney Dolphin has a romantic appearance. His two volumes of verse have
been recognised by intelligent critics as remarkable. How far they are
poetry nobody, least of all Dolphin himself, is certain. They may be
merely the ingenious products of a very cultured and elaborate brain.'
"The point is not that these words might be applied to the author himself,
but rather that he knows they might, even hopes they will, and has sought
to lull his too-ready self-criticism by, so to speak, getting there first
and putting down on paper what he imagines others may think or write of
him.
"Huxley is a poet and writer of prose. His varied personalities show
themselves in both. The artificer in words is almost omnipresent, and God
forbid that he ever vanish utterly. The disciple of Laforgue has produced
lovely and skilful things, and one is grateful for the study of the French
symbolists that instigated the translation of 'L'Apres-midi d'un Faune.'
In 'The Walk' the recapture of Laforgue's blend of the exotic and the
everyday is astonishingly complete.
"The cynic is as accomplished as the Pierrot and 'Social Amenities,' parts
of 'Soles Occidere et Redire Possunt,' and, in _Limbo_, 'Richard Greenow'
(first 100 pages) and 'Happy Families' are syncopated actuality, and the
mind jigs an appreciative shoulder, as the body jerks irresistibly to
'Indianola.'
"There remains Huxley the sensualist, a very ardent lover of beauty, but
one that shrinks from the sordid preamble of modern gallantry, one that is
apprehensive of the inevitable disillusionment. As others have done, as
others will do, he finds in imagination the adventure that progress has
decreed unseemly.
"The reader who is shocked by 'slabby-bellies,' 'mucus,' 'Priapulids'; the
reader who is awed by the paraded learning of 'Splendour by Numbers,' by
the deliberate intricacy of 'Beauty,' or the delicate fatigue of 'The
Death of Lully' in _Limbo_--these are no audience for an artist. It
tickles the author's fancy, stretches his wits, flatters his deviltry to
provoke and witness such consternation and such respect. But the process
is waste of time, and a writer of Huxley's quality, whatever his youth,
has never time to waste."
=ii=
Readers who have chuckled over _Guinea Girl_ or have read with the
peculiar delight of discovery _The Pilgrim of a Smile_ are astonished to
learn that its author is, properly speaking, an engineer. Norman Davey,
born in 1888 (Cambridge 1908-10) is the son of Henry Davey, an engineer of
eminence. After taking honours in chemistry and physics, Norman Davey
travelled in America (1911), particularly in Virginia and Carolina. Then
he went to serve as an apprentice in engineering work in the North of
England and to study in the University of Montpellier in France.
His first book was _The Gas Turbine_, published in London and now a
classic on its subject. In the four years preceding the war he contributed
articles on thermodynamics to scientific papers. It is only honest to add
that at the same time he contributed to Punch and Life--chiefly verse.
After the war he had a book of verse published in England and followed it
with _The Pilgrim of a Smile_. He has travelled a good deal in Spain,
Italy, Sweden, and his hobby is book collecting. This is all very well;
and it explains how he could provide the necessary atmosphere for that
laughable story of Monte Carlo, _Guinea Girl_; but one is scarcely
prepared for _The Pilgrim of a Smile_ by those preliminaries in
thermodynamics--or in Punch. The story of the man who did not ask the
Sphinx for love or fame or money but for the reason of her smile is one of
the most intelligible of the gestures characteristic of literature since
the war.
=iii=
The gesture as such is perhaps most definitely recognised in the charming
book by John Dos Passos, _Rosinante to the Road Again_. This, indeed, is
the story of a gesture and a quest for it. The gesture is that of Castile,
defined in the opening chapter in some memorable words exchanged by
Telemachus and his friend Lyæus:
"'It's the gesture that's so overpowering; don't you feel it in your arms?
Something sudden and tremendously muscular.'
"'When Belmonte turned his back suddenly on the bull and walked away
dragging the red cloak on the ground behind him I felt it,' said Lyæus.
"'That gesture, a yellow flame against maroon and purple cadences ... an
instant swagger of defiance in the midst of a litany to death the
all-powerful. That is Spain ... Castile at any rate.'
"'Is "swagger" the right word?'
"'Find a better!'
"'For the gesture a mediæval knight made when he threw his mailed glove at
his enemy's feet or a rose in his lady's window, that a mule-driver makes
when he tosses off a glass of aguardiente, that Pastora Imperio makes
dancing....'"
I do not know whether one should classify _Rosinante_ as a book of travel,
a book of essays, a book of criticisms. It is all three--an integrated
gesture. Certain interspersed chapters purport to relate the wayside
conversations of Telemachus and Lyæus--dual phases of the author's
personality shall we say?--and the people they meet. The other chapters
are acute studies of modern Spain, with rather special attention to modern
Spanish writers. One varies in his admiration between such an essay as
that on Miguel de Unamuno and such an unforgettable picture as the vision
of Jorge Manrique composing his splendid ode to Death:
"It had been raining. Lights rippled red and orange and yellow and green
on the clean paving-stones. A cold wind off the Sierra shrilled through
clattering streets. As they walked the other man was telling how this
Castilian nobleman, courtier, man-at-arms, had shut himself up when his
father, the Master of Santiago, died, and had written this poem, created
this tremendous rhythm of death sweeping like a wind over the world. He
had never written anything else. They thought of him in the court of his
great dust-coloured mansion at Ocaña, where the broad eaves were full of a
cooing of pigeons and the wide halls had dark rafters painted with
arabesques in vermilion, in a suit of black velvet, writing at a table
under a lemon tree. Down the sun-scarred street, in the cathedral that was
building in those days, full of a smell of scaffolding and stone dust,
there must have stood a tremendous catafalque where lay with his arms
around him the Master of Santiago; in the carved seats of the choirs the
stout canons intoned an endless growling litany; at the sacristy door, the
flare of the candles flashing occasionally on the jewels of his mitre, the
bishop fingered his crosier restlessly, asking his favourite choir-boy
from time to time why Don Jorge had not arrived. And messengers must have
come running to Don Jorge, telling him the service was at the point of
beginning, and he must have waved them away with a grave gesture of a long
white hand, while in his mind the distant sound of chanting, the jingle of
the silver bit of his roan horse stamping nervously where he was tied to a
twined Moorish column, memories of cavalcades filing with braying of
trumpets and flutter of crimson damask into conquered towns, of court
ladies dancing and the noise of pigeons in the eaves drew together like
strings plucked in succession on a guitar into a great wave of rhythm in
which his life was sucked away into this one poem in praise of death."
=iv=
The Column is an American institution. What is meant, of course, is that
daily vertical discussion of Things That Have Interested Me by different
individuals attached to different papers and having in common only the
great gift of being interested in what interests everybody else. Perhaps
that is not right, either. Maybe the gift is that of being able to
interest everybody else in the things you are interested in. Of all those
who write a Column, Heywood Broun is possibly the one whose interests are
the most varied. It is precisely this variety which makes his book _Pieces
of Hate: and Other Enthusiasms_ unique as a collection of essays. He will
write on one page about the boxing ring, on the next about the theatre, a
little farther along about books, farther on yet about politics. He makes
excursions into college sports, horse racing and questions of fair play;
and the problems of child-rearing are his constant preoccupation.
Consider some of his topics. We have an opening study of the literary
masterpiece of E. M. Hull, the novel celebrating the adventures of Miss
Diana Mayo and the Sheik Ahmed Ben Hassan. The next chapter deals with
Hans Christian Andersen and literary and dramatic critics. Pretty soon we
are discussing after-dinner speeches, Babe Ruth and Jack Dempsey. If this
is a gesture, all I can say is, it is a pinwheel; and yet Broun writes
only about things he knows about. Lest you think from my description that
_Pieces of Hate_ is a book in a wholly unserious vein, I invite you to
read the little story, "Frankincense and Myrrh."
"Once there were three kings in the East and they were wise men. They read
the heavens and they saw a certain strange star by which they knew that in
a distant land the King of the World was to be born. The star beckoned to
them and they made preparations for a long journey.
"From their palaces they gathered rich gifts, gold and frankincense and
myrrh. Great sacks of precious stuffs were loaded upon the backs of the
camels which were to bear them on their journey. Everything was in
readiness, but one of the wise men seemed perplexed and would not come at
once to join his two companions who were eager and impatient to be on
their way in the direction indicated by the star.
"They were old, these two kings, and the other wise man was young. When
they asked him he could not tell why he waited. He knew that his
treasuries had been ransacked for rich gifts for the King of Kings. It
seemed that there was nothing more which he could give, and yet he was not
content.
"He made no answer to the old men who shouted to him that the time had
come. The camels were impatient and swayed and snarled. The shadows across
the desert grew longer. And still the young king sat and thought deeply.
"At length he smiled, and he ordered his servants to open the great
treasure sack upon the back of the first of his camels. Then he went into
a high chamber to which he had not been since he was a child. He rummaged
about and presently came out and approached the caravan. In his hand he
carried something which glinted in the sun.
"The kings thought that he bore some new gift more rare and precious than
any which they had been able to find in all their treasure rooms. They
bent down to see, and even the camel drivers peered from the backs of the
great beasts to find out what it was which gleamed in the sun. They were
curious about this last gift for which all the caravan had waited.
"And the young king took a toy from his hand and placed it upon the sand.
It was a dog of tin, painted white and speckled with black spots. Great
patches of paint had worn away and left the metal clear, and that was why
the toy shone in the sun as if it had been silver.
"The youngest of the wise men turned a key in the side of the little black
and white dog and then he stepped aside so that the kings and the camel
drivers could see. The dog leaped high in the air and turned a somersault.
He turned another and another and then fell over upon his side and lay
there with a set and painted grin upon his face.
"A child, the son of a camel driver, laughed and clapped his hands, but
the kings were stern. They rebuked the youngest of the wise men and he
paid no attention but called to his chief servant to make the first of all
the camels kneel. Then he picked up the toy of tin and, opening the
treasure sack, placed his last gift with his own hands in the mouth of the
sack so that it rested safely upon the soft bags of incense.
"'What folly has seized you?' cried the eldest of the wise men. 'Is this a
gift to bear to the King of Kings in the far country?'
"And the young man answered and said: 'For the King of Kings there are
gifts of great richness, gold and frankincense and myrrh.
"'But this,' he said, 'is for the child in Bethlehem!'"
=v=
Editor of the London Mercury, J. C. Squire has the light touch of the
columnist but limits himself somewhat more closely to books and the
subjects suggested by them. Very few men living can write about books with
more actual and less apparent erudition than Mr. Squire. Born in 1884,
educated at Cambridge, an editor of the New Statesman, a poet unsurpassed
in the field of parody but a poet who sets more store by his serious
verse, Mr. Squire can best be appreciated by those who have just that
desultory interest in literature which he himself possesses. I have been
looking through his _Books in General_, _Third Series_, for something
quotable, and I declare I cannot lift anything from its setting. It is all
of a piece, from the essay on "If One Were Descended from Shakespeare" to
the remarks about Ben Jonson, Maeterlinck, Ruskin, Cecil Chesterton and
Mr. Kipling's later verse (which I have nowhere seen more sensibly
discussed).
Well, perhaps these observations from the chapter "A Terrifying
Collection" will give the taste! It appears that an anonymous donor had
offered money to the Birmingham Reference Library to pay for the gathering
of a complete collection of the war poetry issued in the British Empire.
After some preliminary comment, Mr. Squire concludes:
"If that donor really means business I shall be prepared to supply him
with one or two rare and special examples myself. I possess tributes to
the English effort written by Portuguese, Japanese and Belgians; and pæans
by Englishmen which excel, as regards both simplicity of sentiment and
illiteracy of construction, any foreign composition. Birmingham is not
noted for very many things. It is, we know, the only large city in the
country which remains solidly Tory in election after election. It
produced, we know, Mr. Joseph and Mr. Austen Chamberlain. It has, we know,
something like a monopoly in the manufacture of the gods in wood and brass
to which (in his blindness) the heathen bows down; and there are all sorts
of cheap lines in which it can give the whole world points and a beating.
But it has not yet got the conspicuous position of Manchester or
Liverpool; and one feels that the enterprise of this anonymous donor may
help to put it on a level with those towns. For, granted that its
librarians take their commission seriously, and its friends give them the
utmost assistance in their power, there seems every reason to suppose that
within the next year the City of Birmingham will be the proud possessor of
the largest mound of villainously bad literature in the English-speaking
world. Pilgrims will go to see it who on no other account would have gone
to Birmingham; historians will refer to it when endeavouring to prove that
their own ages are superior to ours in intelligence; authors will inspect
it when seeking the consoling assurance that far, far worse things than
they have ever done have got into public libraries and been seriously
catalogued. The enterprise, in fact, is likely to be of service to several
classes of our fellow-citizens; and it cannot, as far as I am able to see,
do harm to any. It should therefore be encouraged, and I recommend anyone
who has volumes of war-verse which he wishes to get rid of to send them
off at once to the Chief Librarian of Birmingham."
Oh, yes! _Books in General_, _Third Series_, is by Solomon Eagle. Mr.
Squire explains that the pen name Solomon Eagle has no excuse. The
original bearer of the name was a poor maniac who, during the Great Plague
of London, used to run naked through the streets with a pan of coals of
fire on his head crying, "Repent, repent."
Too late I realise my wrongdoing, for what, after all, is _Books in
General_ as compared to Mr. Squire's _Life and Letters_? As a
divertissement, compared to a tone poem; as a curtain-raiser to a
three-act play. _Life and Letters_, though not lacking in the lighter
touches of Mr. Squire's fancy, contains chapters on Keats, Jane Austen,
Anatole France, Walt Whitman, Pope and Rabelais of that more considered
character one expects from the editor of the London Mercury. This is not
to say that these studies are devoid of humour; and those chapters in the
volume which are in the nature of interludes are among the best Mr. Squire
has written. Unfortunately I have left myself no room to quote the
incomparable panegyric (in the chapter on "Initials") to the name of John.
Read it, if your name is John; you will thank me for bringing it to your
attention.
=vi=
One expects personality in the daughter of Margot Asquith, and the readers
of the first book by Princess Antoine Bibesco (Elizabeth Asquith) were not
disappointed. The same distinction and the same unusual personality will
be found in her new book, _Balloons_. Princess Bibesco's _I Have Only
Myself to Blame_ consisted of sixteen short stories the most nervously
alive and most clearly individualised of feminine gestures. The quality of
Princess Bibesco's work, in so far as purely descriptive passages can
convey it, may be realised from these portraits of a father and mother
which open the story called "Pilgrimage" in _I Have Only Myself to
Blame_:
"My father was one of the most brilliant men I have ever known but as he
refused to choose any of the ordinary paths of mental activity his name
has remained a family name when it should have become more exclusively his
own. If anything, my mother's famous beauty cast far more lustre on it
than his genius--which preferred to bask in the sunshine of intimacy or
recline indolently in the shady backwaters of privacy and leisure. And yet
in a way he was an adventurer--or rather an adventurous scientist. He was
often called cynical but that was not true--he was far too dispassionate,
too little of a sentimentalist to be tempted by inverted sentimentalism.
Above all things he was a collector--a collector of impressions. His
psychological bibelots were not for everyone. Some, indeed, lay open in
the vitime of his everyday conversation but many more lay hidden in
drawers opened only for the elect.
"Undoubtedly, in a way, my mother was one of his masterpieces. Her beauty
seemed to be enhanced by every hour and every season. At forty suddenly
her hair had gone snow white. The primrose, the daffodil, the flame, the
gold, the black, the emerald, the ruby of her youth gave way to grey and
silver, pale jade and faint turquoise, shell pink and dim lavender. Her
loveliness had shifted. The hours of the day conspired to set her. The
hard coat and skirt, the high collar, the small hat, the neat veil of
morning, the caressing charmeuse that followed, the trailing chiffon
mysteries of her tea-gown, the white velvet or the cloth of silver that
launched her triumphantly at night, who was to choose between them? Summer
and winter followed suit. Whether you saw her emerging from crisp organdy
or clinging crepe de chine, stiff grey astrakan or melting chinchilla
always it was the same. This moment you said to yourself, 'She has reached
the climax of her loveliness.'
"My father delighted in perfection. He had discovered it in her and
promptly made it his own. I don't know if he ever regretted the unfillable
quality of her emptiness. Rather I think it amused him to see the violent
passions she inspired, to hear her low thrilling voice weigh down her
meaningless murmurs with significance. To many of her victims the very
incompleteness of her sentences was a form of divine loyalty. One young
poet had described her soul as a fluttering, desperate bird beating its
wings on the bars of her marvellous loveliness. At this her lazy smile
looked very wise. She thought my father an ideal husband. He was always
right about her clothes and after all he was the greatest living expert on
her beauty. Obviously he loved her but--well, he didn't love her
inconveniently."
=vii=
There will be some who remember reading a first novel, published several
years ago, called _Responsibility_. This was a study from a Samuel
Butleresque standpoint of the attitude of a father toward an illegitimate
son. At least, that is what it came to in the end; but there were
leisurely earlier pages dealing with such subjects as the tiresomeness of
Honest Work and the dishonesty of righteous people. Very good they were,
too. James E. Agate was the author of this decidedly interesting piece of
fiction. He was not a particularly young man, being in his early forties;
but he was a youngish man. He was youngish in the sense that Mr. Wells and
Mr. Bennett are youngish, and not in the sense of Sir James Peter Pan
Barrie--incapable of growing up. As dramatic critic for the Saturday
Review, London, Agate has been much happier than in a former experience on
the Cotton Exchange of Manchester, his native city. "Each week," said The
Londoner in The Bookman, recently, "he watches over the theatre with an
enthusiasm for the drama which must constantly be receiving disagreeable
shocks. He is a man full of schemes, so that the title of his new book is
distinctly appropriate." That new book is called _Alarums and
Excursions_.
"Agate is not peaceable," continues our informant. "He carries his full
energy, which is astounding, into each topic that arises. He seizes it.
Woe betide the man who dismisses an idol of his. It is not to be done. He
will submit to no man, however great that man's prestige may be. He is the
bulldog."
Agate is a critic "still vigorous enough and fresh enough to attack and to
destroy shams of every kind. This is what Agate does in _Alarums and
Excursions_."
Bright news is it that Agate is writing a new novel "on the Balzacian
scale of _Responsibility_."
=viii=
It was in 1918, when I was exploring new books for a New York book
section, that there came to hand a volume called _Walking-Stick Papers_.
Therein I found such stuff as this:
"And so the fish reporter enters upon the last lap of his rounds. Through,
perhaps, the narrow, crooked lane of Pine Street he passes, to come out at
length upon a scene set for a sea tale. Here would a lad, heir to vast
estates in Virginia, be kidnapped and smuggled aboard to be sold a slave
in Africa. This is Front Street. A white ship lies at the foot of it.
Cranes rise at her side. Tugs, belching smoke, bob beyond. All about are
ancient warehouses, redolent of the Thames, with steep roofs and sometimes
stairs outside, and with tall shutters, a crescent-shaped hole in each.
There is a dealer in weather-vanes. Other things dealt in hereabout are
these: Chronometers, 'nautical instruments,' wax guns, cordage and twine,
marine paints, cotton wool and waste, turpentine, oils, greases, and
rosin. Queer old taverns, public houses, are here, too. Why do not their
windows rattle with a 'Yo, ho, ho'?
"There is an old, old house whose business has been fish oil within the
memory of men. And here is another. Next, through Water Street, one comes
in search of the last word on salt fish. Now the air is filled with
gorgeous smell of roasting coffee. Tea, coffee, sugar, rice, spices, bags
and bagging here have their home. And there are haughty bonded warehouses
filled with fine liquors. From his white cabin at the top of a venerable
structure comes the dean of the salt-fish business. 'Export trade fair,'
he says; 'good demand from South America.'"
The whole book was like that. I remember saying and printing:
"If this isn't individualised writing, extremely skilful writing and
highly entertaining writing, we would like to know what is."
But what was that in the general chorus of delighted praise that went up
all over the country?--and there were persons of discrimination among the
laudators of Robert Cortes Holliday. People like James Huneker and Simeon
Strunsky, who praised not lightly, were quick to express their admiration
of this new essayist.
Four years have gone adding to Holliday's first book volumes in the same
class and singularly unmistakeable in their authorship. They are the sort
of essays that could not be anonymous once the authorship of one of them
was known. We have, now, _Broome Street Straws_ and the pocket mirror,
_Peeps at People_. We have _Men and Books and Cities_ and we have a score
of pleasant _Turns About Town_.
Holliday shows no sign of failing us. I think the truth is that he is one
of those persons described somewhere by Wilson Follett; I think Follett
was trying to convey the quality of De Morgan. Follett said that with
Dickens and De Morgan it was not a question of separate books, singly
achieved, but a mere matter of cutting off another liberal length of the
rich personality which was Dickens or De Morgan. So, exactly, it seems to
me in the case of Holliday. A new book of Holliday's essays is simply
another few yards of a personality not precisely matched among
contemporary American essayists. Holliday's interests are somewhat
broader, more human and perhaps more humane, more varied and closer to the
normal human spirit and taste and fancy than are the interests of
essayists like Samuel Crothers and Agnes Repplier.
The measure of Holliday as an author is not, of course, bounded by these
collections of essays. There is his penetrating study of Booth Tarkington
and the fine collected edition of Joyce Kilmer, _Joyce Kilmer; Poems,
Essays and Letters With a Memoir by Robert Cortes Holliday_.
=ix=
A gesture can be very graceful, sometimes. A half-smile can be wistful and
worth remembering. That was a pleasant story, almost too slender
structurally to be called a novel, by Gilbert W. Gabriel, published in the
spring of 1922. _Jiminy_ is a tale of the quest of the perfect love story
by Benjamin Benvenuto and Jiminy, maker of small rhymes. The author, music
critic of The Sun, New York, had long been known as a newspaper writer and
a pinch hitter for Don Marquis, conductor of The Sun's famous column, The
Sun Dial, when Don was A. W. O. L.