_10 Nov. '10_
After all, the world does move. I never thought to be able to congratulate
the Circulating Libraries on their attitude towards a work of art; and
here in common fairness I, who have so often animadverted upon their
cowardice, am obliged to laud their courage. The instant cause of this is
Mrs. Elinor Glyn's new novel, "His Hour" (Duckworth, 6s.) Everybody who
cares for literature knows, or should know, Mrs. Glyn's fine carelessness
of popular opinion (either here or in the States), and the singleness of
her regard for the art which she practises and which she honours.
Troubling herself about naught but splendour of subject and elevation of
style, she goes on her career indifferent alike to the praise and to the
blame of the mob. (I use the word "mob" in Fielding's sense--as meaning
persons, in no matter what rank of life, capable of "low" feelings.)
Perhaps Mrs. Glyn's latest book is the supreme example of her genius and
of her conscientiousness. In essence it is a short story, handled with a
fullness and a completeness which justify her in calling it a novel. There
are two principal characters, a young half-Cossack Russian prince and an
English widow of good family. The pet name of the former is "Gritzko." The
latter is generally called Tamara. Gritzko is one of those heroic heroes
who can spend their nights in the company of prostitutes, and their days
in the solution of deep military problems. He is very wealthy; he has
every attribute of a hero, including audacity. During their very first
dance together Gritzko kissed Tamara. "They were up in a corner; every
one's back was turned to them happily, for in one second he had bent and
kissed her neck. It was done with such incredible swiftness...." etc. "But
the kiss burnt into Tamara's flesh." ... "'How dare you? How dare you?'
she hissed."
* * * * *
Later, "... 'I hate you!' almost hissed poor Tamara." (Note the realistic
exactitude of that "almost.") "Then his eyes blazed.... He moved nearer to
her, and spoke in a low concentrated voice: 'It is a challenge; good. Now
listen to what I say: In a little short time you shall love me. That
haughty little head shall be here on my breast without a struggle, and I
shall kiss your lips until you cannot breathe.' For the second time in her
life Tamara went dead white...." Then follow scenes revelry, in which
Mrs. Glyn, with a courage as astonishing as her power, exposes all that is
fatuous and vicious in the loftiest regions of Russian fashionable
society. Later, Gritzko did kiss Tamara on the lips, but she objected.
Still later he got the English widow in a lonely hut in a snowstorm, and
this was "his hour." But she had a revolver. "'Touch me and I will shoot,'
she gasped.... He made a step forward, but she lifted the pistol again to
her head ... and thus they glared at one another, the hunter and the
hunted.... He flung himself on the couch and lit a cigarette, and all that
was savage and cruel in him flamed from his eyes. 'My God!... and still I
loved you--madly loved you ... and last night when you defied me, then I
determined you should belong to me by force. No power in heaven or earth
can save you! Ah! If you had been different, how happy we might have been!
But it is too late; the devil has won, and soon I will do what I
please.'... For a long time there was silence.... Then the day-light faded
quite, and the Prince got up and lit a small oil lamp. There was a deadly
silence.... Ah! She must fight against this horrible lethargy.... Her arm
had grown numb.... Strange lights seemed to flash before her
eyes--yes--surely--that was Gritzko coming towards her! She gave a gasping
cry and tried to pull the trigger, but it was stiff.... The pistol dropped
from her nerveless grasp.... She gave one moan.... With a bound Gritzko
leaped up...."
* * * * *
"The light was grey when Tamara awoke. Where was she? What had happened?
Something ghastly, but where? Then she perceived her torn blouse, and with
a terrible pang remembrance came back to her. She started up, and as she
did so realized that she was in her stockinged feet. The awful
certainty.... Gritzko had won--she was utterly disgraced.... She hurriedly
drew off the blouse, then she saw her torn underthings.... She knew that
however she might make even the blouse look to the casual eyes of her
godmother, she could never deceive her maid."... "She was an outcast. She
was no better than Mary Gibson, whom Aunt Clara had with harshness turned
out of the house. She--a lady!--a grand English lady!... She crouched down
in a corner like a cowed dog...." Then he wrote to her formally demanding
her hand. And she replied: "To Prince Milaslavski. Monsieur,--I have no
choice; I consent.--Yours truly, Tamara Loraine." Thus they were married.
Her mood changed. "Oh! What did anything else matter in the world since
after all he loved her! This beautiful fierce lover! Visions of
enchantment presented themselves.... She buried her face in his scarlet
coat...." I must add that Gritzko had not really violated Tamara. He had
only ripped open her corsage to facilitate respiration, and kissed her
"little feet." She honestly thought herself the victim of a satyr; but,
though she was a widow, with several years of marriage behind her, she had
been quite mistaken on this point. You see, she was English.
* * * * *
"His Hour" is a sexual novel. It is magnificently sexual. My quotations,
of course, do less than justice to it, but I think I have made clear the
simple and highly courageous plot. Gritzko desired Tamara with the extreme
of amorous passion, and in order to win her entirely he allowed her to
believe that he had raped her. She, being an English widow, moving in the
most refined circles, naturally regarded the outrage as an imperious
reason for accepting his hand. That is a summary of Mrs. Glyn's novel, of
which, by the way, I must quote the dedication: "With grateful homage and
devotion I dedicate this book to Her Imperial Highness The Grand Duchess
Vladimir of Russia. In memory of the happy evenings spent in her gracious
presence when reading to her these pages, which her sympathetic aid in
facilitating my opportunities for studying the Russian character enabled
me to write. Her kind appreciation of the finished work is a source of the
deepest gratification to me."
* * * * *
The source of the deepest gratification to me is the fact that the
Censorship Committee of the United Circulating Libraries should have
allowed this noble, daring, and masterly work to pass freely over their
counters. What a change from January of this year, when Mary Gaunt's "The
Uncounted Cost," which didn't show the ghost of a rape, could not even be
advertised in the organ of The _Times_ Book Club! After this, who can
complain against a Library Censorship? It is true that while passing "His
Hour," the same censorship puts its ban absolute upon Mr. John Trevena's
new novel "Bracken." It is true that quite a number of people had
considered Mr. Trevena to be a serious and dignified artist of rather
considerable talent. It is true that "Bracken" probably contains nothing
that for sheer brave sexuality can be compared with a score of passages in
"His Hour." What then? The Censorship Committee must justify its existence
somehow. Mr. Trevena ought to have dedicated his wretched provincial novel
to the Queen of Montenegro. He painfully lacks _savoir-vivre_. In the
early part of this year certain mysterious meetings took place, apropos of
the Censorship, between a sub-committee of the Society of Authors and a
sub-committee of the Publishers' Association. But nothing was done. I am
told that the Authors' Society is now about to take the matter up again.
But why?