[_28 Jan. '09_]
The great Edgar Allen Poe celebration has passed off, and no one has been
seriously hurt by the terrific display of fireworks. Some of the set
pieces were pretty fair; for example, Mr. G.B. Shaw's in the _Nation_ and
Prof. C.H. Herford's in the _Manchester Guardian_. On the whole, however,
the enthusiasm was too much in the nature of mere good form. If only we
could have a celebration of Omar Khayyám, Tennyson, Gilbert White, or the
inventor of Bridge, the difference between new and manufactured enthusiasm
would be apparent. We have spent several happy weeks in conceitedly
explaining to that barbaric race, the Americans, that in Poe they have
never appreciated their luck. Yet we ourselves have never understood Poe.
And we never shall understand Poe. It is immensely to our credit that,
owing to the admirable obstinacy of Mr. J.H. Ingram, we now admit that Poe
was neither a drunkard, a debauchee, nor a cynical eremite. This is about
as far as we shall get. Poe's philosophy of art, as discovered in his
essays and his creative work, is purely Latin and, as such,
incomprehensible and even naughty to the Saxon mind. To the average
bookish Englishman Poe means "The Pit and the Pendulum," and his finest
poetry means nothing at all. Tell that Englishman that Poe wrote more
beautiful lyrics than Tennyson, and he will blankly put you down as mad.
(So shall I.)
* * * * *
Once, and not many years since, I contemplated editing a complete edition
of Poe, with a brilliant introduction in which I was to show that the
appearance of a temperament like his in the United States in the early
years of the nineteenth century was the most puzzling miracle that can be
found in the whole history of literature. Then, naturally, I intended to
explain the miracle. My plans were placed before a wise and good
publisher, whose reply was to indicate two very respectable complete
editions of Poe which had eminently failed with the public. Further
inquiries satisfied me that the public had no immediate use for anything
elaborate, final, and expensive concerning Poe. My bright desire therefore
paled and flickered out. Since then I have come to the conclusion that I
know practically nothing of the "secret of Poe," and that nobody else
knows much more.
It was inevitable that, apropos of Poe, our customary national nonsense
about the "art of the short story" should have recurred in a painful and
acute form. It is a platitude of "Literary Pages" that Anglo-Saxon writers
cannot possess themselves of the "art of the short story." The only reason
advanced has been that Guy du Maupassant wrote very good short stories,
and he was French! God be thanked! Last week we all admitted that Poe had
understood the "art of the short story." (His name had not occurred to us
before.) Henceforward our platitude will be that no Anglo-Saxon writer can
compass the "art of the short story" unless his name happens to be Poe.
Another platitude is that the short story is mysteriously somehow more
difficult than the long story--the novel. Whenever I meet that phrase,
"art of the short story," in the press I feel as if I had drunk mustard
and water. And I would like here to state that there are as good short
stories in English as in any language, and that the whole theory of the
unsuitability of English soil to that trifling plant the short story is
ridiculous. Nearly every novelist of the nineteenth century, from Scott to
Stevenson, wrote first-class short stories. There are now working in
England to-day at least six writers who can write, and have written,
better short stories than any living writer of their age in France. As for
the greater difficulty of the short story, ask any novelist who has
succeeded equally well in both. Ask Thomas Hardy, ask George Meredith, ask
Joseph Conrad, ask H.G. Wells, ask Murray Gilchrist, ask George Moore, ask
Eden Phillpotts, ask "Q," ask Henry James. Lo! I say to all facile
gabblers about the "art of the short story," as the late "C.-B." said to
Mr. Balfour: "Enough of this foolery!" It is of a piece with the notion
that a fine sonnet is more difficult than a fine epic.