[_24 Oct. '08_]
I have been reading a new novel by Mr. W.W. Jacobs--"Salthaven" (Methuen,
6s.). It is a long time since I read a book of his. Ministries have fallen
since then, and probably Mr. Jacobs' prices have risen--indeed, much has
happened--but the talent of the author of "Many Cargoes" remains steadfast
where it did. "Salthaven" is a funny book. Captain Trimblett, to excuse
the lateness of a friend for tea, says to the landlady: "He saw a man
nearly run over!" and the landlady replies: "Yes, but how long would that
take him?" If you ask me whether I consider this humorous, I reply that I
do. I also consider humorous this conversational description of an
exemplary boy who took to "Sandford and Merton" "as a duck takes to
water": "By modelling his life on its teaching" (says young Vyner) "he won
a silver medal for never missing an attendance at school. Even the measles
failed to stop him. Day by day, a little more flushed than usual, perhaps,
he sat in his place until the whole school was down with it, and had to be
closed in consequence. Then and not till then did he feel that he had
saved the situation." I care nothing for the outrageous improbability of
any youthful son of a shipowner being able to talk in the brilliant
fashion in which Mr. Jacobs makes Vyner talk. Success excuses it.
"Salthaven" is bathed in humour.
* * * * *
At the same time I am dissatisfied with "Salthaven." And I do not find it
easy to explain why. I suppose the real reason is that it discloses no
signs of any development whatever on the part of the author. Worse, it
discloses no signs of intellectual curiosity on the part of the author.
Mr. Jacobs seems to live apart from the movement of his age. Nothing,
except the particular type of humanity and environment in which he
specializes, seems to interest him. There is no hint of a general idea in
his work. By some of his fellow-artists he is immensely admired. I have
heard him called, seriously, the greatest humorist since Aristophanes. I
admire him myself, and I will not swear that he is not the greatest
humorist since Aristophanes. But I will swear that no genuine humorist
ever resembled Aristophanes less than Mr. Jacobs does. Aristophanes was
passionately interested in everything. He would leave nothing alone.
Whereas Mr. Jacobs will leave nearly everything alone. Kipling's general
ideas are excessively crude, but one does feel in reading him that his
curiosity is boundless, even though his taste in literature must
infallibly be bad. "Q" is not to be compared in creative power with either
of these two men, but one does feel in reading him that he is interested
in other manifestations of his own art, that he cares for literature.
Impossible to gather from Mr. Jacobs' work that he cares for anything
serious at all; impossible to differentiate his intellectual outlook from
that of an average reader of the _Strand Magazine_! I do not bring this as
a reproach against Mr. Jacobs, whose personality it would be difficult not
to esteem and to like. He cannot alter himself. I merely record the
phenomenon as worthy of notice.
* * * * *
Mr. Jacobs is not alone. Among our very successful novelists there are
many like him in what I will roundly term intellectual sluggishness,
though there is, perhaps, none with quite his talent. Have these men
entered into a secret compact not to touch a problem even with a pair of
tongs? Or are they afraid of being confused with Hall Caine, Mrs. Humphry
Ward, and Miss Marie Corelli, who anyhow have the merit of being
interested in the wide aspects of their age? I do not know. But I think we
might expect a little more general activity from some of our authors who
lie tranquil, steeped in success as lizards in sunshine. I speak
delicately, for I am on delicate ground. I do, however, speak as a
creative artist, and not as a critic. Occasionally my correspondents
upbraid me for not writing like a critic. I have never pretended to look
at things from any other standpoint than that of a creative artist.