[_29 Oct. '08_]
I obtained the new book of Anatole France, "L'Ile des Pingouins," the day
after publication, and my copy was marked "eighteenth edition." But in
French publishing the word "edition" may mean anything. There is a sort of
legend among the simple that it means five hundred copies. The better
informed, however, are aware that it often means less. Thus, in the case
of the later novels of Emile Zola, an edition meant two hundred copies.
This was chiefly to save the self-love of his publishers, who did not care
to admit that the idol of a capricious populace had fallen off its
pedestal. The vast fiction was created that Zola sold as well as ever! One
Paris firm, the "Société du Mercure de France," which in the domain of
pure letters has probably issued in the last dozen years more good books
than any other house in the world, has, with astounding courage, adopted
the practice of numbering every copy of a book. Thus my copy of its
"L'Esprit de Barbey d'Aurévilly" (an exceedingly diverting volume) is
numbered 1424. I prefer this to advertisements of "second large edition,"
etc. One knows where one is. But I fear the example of the Mercure de
France is not likely to be honestly imitated.
* * * * *
If Anatole France's "editions" consist of five hundred copies I am glad.
For an immediate sale of nine thousand copies is fairly remarkable when
the article sold consists of nothing more solid than irony. But I am
inclined to think that they do not consist of five hundred copies. There
is less enthusiasm--that is to say, less genuine enthusiasm--for Anatole
France than there used to be. The majority, of course, could never
appreciate him, and would only buy him under the threat of being disdained
by the minority, whose sole weapon is scorn. And the minority has been
seriously thinking about Anatole France, and coming to the conclusion
that, though a genius, he is not the only genius that ever existed.
(Stendhal is at present the god of the minority of the race which the
_Westminister Gazette_ will persist in referring to as "our French
neighbours." In some circles it is now a lapse from taste to read anything
but Stendhal.) Anatole France's last two works of imagination did not
brilliantly impose themselves on the intellect of his country. "L'Histoire
Comique" showed once again his complete inability to construct a novel,
and it appeared to be irresponsibly extravagant in its sensuality. And
"Sur la Pierre Blanche" was inferior Wells. The minority has waited a long
time for something large, original, and arresting; and it has not had it.
The author was under no compulsion to write his history of Joan of Arc,
which bears little relation to his epoch, and which one is justified in
dismissing as the elegant pastime of a savant. If in Anatole France the
savant has not lately flourished to the detriment of the fighting
philosopher, why should he have spent years on the "Joan of Arc" at a
period when Jaurès urgently needed intellectual aid against the
doctrinarianism of the International Congress? Jaurès was beaten, and he
yielded, with the result that Clemenceau, a man far too intelligent not to
be a practical Socialist at heart, has become semi-reactionary for want of
support. This has not much to do with literature. Neither has the history
of Joan of Arc. To return to literature, it is indubitable that Anatole
France is slightly acquiring the reputation of a dilettante.
* * * * *
In "L'Ile des Pingouins" he returns, in a parable, to his epoch. For this
book is the history of France "from the earliest time to the present
day," seen in the mirror of the writer's ironical temperament. It is very
good. It is inimitable. It is sheer genius. One cannot reasonably find
fault with its amazing finesse. But then one is so damnably
_un_reasonable! One had expected--one does not know what one had
expected--but anyhow something with a more soaring flight, something more
passionate, something a little less gently "tired" in its attitude towards
the criminal frailties of mankind! When an A.B. Walkley yawns in print
before the spectacle of the modern English theatre, it really doesn't
matter. But when an Anatole France grows wearily indulgent before the
spectacle of life, one is inclined to wake him by throwing "Leaves of
Grass" or "Ecce Homo" (Nietzsche's) at his head. For my part, I am ready
to hazard that what is wrong with Anatole France is just spiritual anæmia.
Yet only a little while, and he was as great a force for pushing forward
as H.G. Wells himself!