Mr. Booth Tarkington never will be called the George M. Cohan of
fiction. His novel, _The Turmoil_, is surely an indictment of modern
American urban civilization; of its materialism, its braggadocio, its
contempt for the things of the soul.
It was with the purpose of making this indictment a little clearer than
it could be when it is surrounded by a story, that I asked Mr.
Tarkington a few questions. And his answers are not likely to increase
our national complacencies.
In the first place, I asked Mr. Tarkington if the atmosphere of a young
and energetic nation might not reasonably be expected to be favorable to
literary and artistic expression.
"Yes, it might," said Mr. Tarkington. "There may be spiritual progress
in America as phenomenal as her material progress.
"There is and has been extraordinary progress in the arts. But the
people as a whole are naturally preoccupied with their material
progress. They are much more interested in Mr. Rockefeller than in Mr.
Sargent."
The last two sentences of Mr. Tarkington's reply made me eager for
something a little more specific on that subject.
"What are the forces in America to-day," I asked, "that hinder the
development of art and letters?"
Mr. Tarkington replied: "There are no forces in America to-day that
hinder the development of individuals in art and letters, save in
unimportant cases here and there. But there is a spirit that hinders
general personal decency, knows and cares nothing for beauty, and is
glad to have its body dirty for the sake of what it calls 'prosperity.'
"It 'wouldn't give a nickel' for any kind of art. But it can't and
doesn't hinder artists from producing works of art, though it makes them
swear."
"But do not these conditions in many instances seriously hinder
individual artists?"
Mr. Tarkington smiled. "Nothing stops an artist if he is one," he said.
"But many things may prevent a people or a community from knowing or
caring for art.
"The climate may be unfavorable; we need not expect the Eskimos to be
interested in architecture. In the United States politicians have
usually controlled the public purchase of works of art and the erection
of public buildings. This is bad for the public, naturally."
"I suppose," I said, "that the conditions you describe are distinctively
modern, are they not? At what time in the history of America have
conditions been most favorable to literary expression?"
Mr. Tarkington's reply was not what I expected. "At all times," he said.
"Literary expression does not depend on the times, though the
appreciation of it does, somewhat."
I asked Mr. Tarkington if he agreed with Mr. Gouverneur Morris in
considering the short story a modern development. He did not.
"There are short stories in the Bible," he said, "and in every
mythology; 'folk stories' of all races and tribes. Probably Mr. Morris's
definition of the short story would exclude these. I agree with him that
short stories are better written nowadays."
"But you do not believe," I said, "that American literature in general
is better than it used to be, do you? Why is it that there is now no
group of American writers like the New England group which included
Longfellow, Whittier, Lowell, Emerson, and Thoreau?"
"Why is there," Mr. Tarkington asked in turn, "no group like Homer
(wasn't he a group?) in Greece? There may be, but if there is just such
a modern group it would tend only to repeat the work of the Homeric
group, which wouldn't be interesting to the rest of us.
"The important thing is to find a group unlike Longfellow, Whittier,
Lowell, Emerson, and Thoreau. That is, if one accepts the idea that it
is important to find a group."
Mr. Tarkington's criticisms of the modern American city have been so
severe that I expected him to tell me that all writers should live in
the country. But again he surprised me. In reply to my question as to
which environment was more favorable to the production of literature,
the city or the country, he said:
"It depends upon the nerves of the writer. A writer can be born
anywhere, and he can grow up anywhere."
There has recently been considerable discussion--Professor Edward
Garnet and Gertrude Atherton have taken a considerable share in it--on
the relative merits of contemporary English and American fiction. I
asked Mr. Tarkington if in his opinion the United States had at the
present time novelists equal to those of England.
"That is unanswerable!" he answered. "Writers aren't like baseball
teams. What's the value of my opinion that _The Undiscovered Country_ is
a 'greater' novel than _A Pair of Blue Eyes_? These questions remind me
of school debating societies. Nothing is demonstrated, but everybody has
his own verdict."
Until I asked Mr. Tarkington about it I had heard only two opinions as
to the probable effect on literature of the war. One was that which
William Dean Howells tersely expressed by saying: "War stops
literature," and the other was that the war is purifying and
strengthening all forms of literary expression.
But Mr. Tarkington had something new to say about it. "What effect," I
asked, "is the war likely to have on American literature?"
"None of consequence," he answered. "The poet will find the subject, war
or no war. The sculptor doesn't depend upon epaulets."
Mr. Tarkington is so inveterate a writer of serials, and his work is so
familiar to the readers of the American magazines, that I desired to get
his expert opinion as to whether or not the American magazines, with
their remarkably high prices, had harmed or benefited fiction. His reply
was somewhat non-committal.
"They have induced many people to look upon the production of fiction as
a profitable business," he said. "But those people would merely not have
'tried fiction' at all otherwise. Prices have nothing to do with art."
Mr. Tarkington had some interesting things to say about that venerable
mirage, the Great American Novel. I asked him if that longed-for work
would ever be written; if, for example, there would ever be a work of
fiction reflecting American life as _Vanity Fair_ reflects English life.
He replied:
"If Thackeray had been an American he would not have written a novel
reflecting American life as _Vanity Fair_ reflected the English life of
its time. He would have written of New York; his young men would have
come there after Harvard. The only safe thing to say of the Great
American Novel is that the author will never know he wrote it."
Mr. Charles Belmont Davis had told me that a writer who had some means
of making a living other than writing would do better work than one who
devoted himself exclusively to literature. I asked Mr. Tarkington what
he thought about this.
"I think," he said, "that it would be very well for a writer to have
some means of making a living other than writing. There are likely to be
times in his career when it would give him a sense of security
concerning food. But I doubt if it would much affect his writing, unless
he considered writing to be a business."
Mr. Tarkington's answer to my next question is hereby commended to the
attention of all those feminine revolutionists who believe that they are
engaged in the pleasant task of changing the whole current of modern
thought.
"How has literature been affected," I asked, "by the suffrage movement
and feminism?"
Mr. Tarkington looked up in some surprise. "I haven't heard of any
change," he said.
The author of _The Turmoil_ could never be accused of jingoism. But he
is far from agreeing with those critics who believe that American
literature is merely "a phase of English literature." I asked him if he
believed that there was such a thing as a distinctively American
literature.
"Certainly," he replied. "Is _Huckleberry Finn_ a phase? It's a
monument; not an English one. English happens to be the language largely
used."
The allusion in Mr. Tarkington's last reply suggested--what every reader
of _Penrod_ must know--that this novelist is an enthusiastic admirer of
Mark Twain. So I told him that Mr. T. A. Daly had classed Mark Twain
with Artemus Ward and Q. K. Philander Doesticks, P.B., and had said that
these men wrote nothing of real merit and were "the Charlie Chaplins of
their time."
Mr. Tarkington smiled. "Get Mr. T. A. Daly to talk some more," he said.
"We'd like to hear something about Voltaire and Flo Ziegfeld. Second
thoughts indicate that 'T. A. Daly' is the pen name of Mr. Charlie
Chaplin. Of course! And that makes it all right and natural. I thought
at first that it was a joke."
_ROMANTICISM AND AMERICAN HUMOR_